#Istanbul HES Code

[nicoscheer]

uumutyildirimm Standing next to me 🫂 🤍

[sgiandubh]

Looking for balance

People have been asking for years that she would name McGill in the same sentence as 'husband'. This happened, after almost six years of marital bliss #shitshow, which is (how can I properly put it?) at least peculiar. And yes, I am still perfectly unfazed - because you see, promo also means being as consensual as possible. In this regard, it would seem the lessons of that costly, (in)famous Vanity Fair interview have been learned. But also that her fresh, organic image the veterans of this fandom so much enjoyed is probably gone.

Among all the interviews she so liberally (and rather proportionally with the big budget of The Amateur) offered, the most interesting one was for Io Donna the woman weekly supplement of the big Italian newspaper Corriere della Sera. It was posted across the street and they were unable to read, let alone understand it. They imagine we were as parochial and dumb as they are, so I said 'hold my beer' and translated it for you.

[Source: https://www.iodonna.it/personaggi/star-internazionali/2025/04/08/caitriona-balfe-protagonista-con-rami-malek-in-operazione-vendetta/ - 8 April 2025]

This time, we are talking about a widespread, very prestigious European media outlet. Not a Swiss news portal, bearing also in mind that Switzerland is a market seven times less important, in terms of audience, than Italy.

Anyways, there goes - my own translation, thank you:

Caitriona Balfe, star of 'The Amateur': 'I'm Frustrated by Injustice in the World' A former model and aspiring director, she is best known for her role as Claire Fraser in the television series Outlander. by Michaela K. Bellisario

"They made Rami run around a lot. We shot the escape scene so many times that we ended up joking about it." Caitriona Balfe, 45, actress and supermodel, is one of the two female leads (the other is Rachel Brosnahan) in The Amateur with Rami Malek, an American spy action thriller directed by James Hawes, based on the 1981 novel of the same name by Robert Littell, in theaters starting April 10.

Malek is a CIA code breaker who works in the basement of the Langley headquarters in the United States. His life is turned upside down when his wife is killed in a terrorist attack in London. When his supervisors refuse to act, he embarks on a dangerous journey around the world to track down the real perpetrators of the attack and avenge his wife. Caitriona Balfe is the widow of another agent and helps Malek using her computer skills.

Caitriona Balfe in The Amateur : "I accepted the movie because we were going to shoot in Marseille and Istanbul"

For Caitriona Balfe, originally from Dublin, this is a new role . The actress is best known for her role as Claire Fraser in the TV series Outlander, for which she won a BAFTA Scotland, two People's Choice Awards and two Saturn Awards, and received four consecutive Golden Globe nominations for Best Actress in a Drama Series. In 2021, alongside Jamie Dornan, she starred in the film Belfast, written and directed by Kenneth Branagh.

Caitriona Balfe, what made you take this role? I liked the idea of ​​​​measuring up to a character so different from the others played to date. And then I was attracted by the possibility of working with Rami Malek and the director James Hawes, who I admire for the series Slow Horses. Last but not least, I confess, the fact that it was shot in Istanbul and Marseille. After all those years in Scotland ...

In fact, you basically worked and lived in Scotland for the TV series Outlander. Yes, that's eleven years in total. Intense and beautiful years. But, of course, every now and then changing location doesn't hurt, especially if I think of my colleagues who, instead, shoot for example, I don't know, in exotic locations (laughs).

Caitriona Balfe: "Rami Malek Gave Me So Much Advice" You have long scenes with Rami Malek, the “avenger”, especially those where you run to escape from the “enemies”, can you tell us a behind-the-scenes anecdote? If you mean the escape scene, we repeated it five times, it must have been three in the morning on a cold January night in Marseille. An adventure… Malek is a very generous professional and gave me a lot of advice. I arrived on the set when the shooting was already underway, it always takes a few moments of orientation to fit in and Rami supported me at every moment.

What is the message of this action thriller: revenge or peace? The film seems to be focused on revenge, Rami tries in every possible way to avenge his wife's assassination by occult terrorist forces. But during his long escape around the world, a bit like in a hero's journey, he understands that after all revenge is only the starting point of what he is doing. He understands the only thing that makes sense is to discover the truth and he wants justice to be served.

Food for thought in such a troubled moment of global politics… Exactly. In our world, these two levels, revenge and aspiration towards justice, are often confused. Yours is an interesting question we should all ask ourselves at this moment in time. I liked my character because she chose truth instead of revenge. And she has a positive influence on the character played by Rami Malek.

Caitriona Balfe: "I'm frustrated by injustice"

What makes you call for revenge? Everything! I am a Libra and I am looking for harmony in everything. I am frustrated by the lack of empathy between people, yet we are all interconnected, equal, we should treat each other with love and compassion. The same goes for animals and the environment. Everything would be easier, right? Instead, it seems to be the most difficult thing in the world. I was talking about it with a friend just today. You reach a certain point in life where you understand that the only important thing is love for all sentient beings.

Let's take a step back in time: you were a supermodel in the 90s and then you made your debut in The Devil Wears Prada… As I always say… I didn’t actually act in the film. I was an extra, one of the many girls who sashay in and out of the editorial office. But at least I had the chance to meet Meryl Streep. Even becoming a model was the result of chance. I was eighteen and studying acting in Dublin when I was noticed. I was able to live in Japan, France, Germany… ten years of discoveries.

"I'm interested in nourishing the soul"

You have tried directing on Outlander's set. Yes, I would love to end up behind the camera again, I am interested in exploring storytelling and narratives. Ultimately, thousands of years ago, when we were all cavemen, we told stories around the fire. For an actor, that is perhaps the most interesting side of it, because we are limited in the roles we play. Directing will make me able to tell stories in a much broader way.

How do you balance your private life with your professional life? Since I had a son, everything has become much more complicated. But it's not a problem, he is my priority. For the first three years of his life I worked a lot, now I've decided to take some time for us to be together, also because he will start school and we will have to find a new balance.

What do you do in your free time? I explore my creative side. I try to practice yoga. Nourishing the soul is definitely the most important task we have.'

***

I took the liberty to put in italics the answers I considered way more interesting, and perhaps even honest, than the rest. Her Stans should definitely take a deep look at what she said about empathy (or rather lack thereof), equality and her ultimately feeling that people are interconnected - all things I have particularly found Mordor wanting, especially considering their uncanny brutality and love of insults.

Corriere della Sera is a far more liberal media outlet than FOX, so the message of her points of talk was tailored to align with its values: yoga, compassion, empathy, environment and animal rights, tolerance and connection, injustice of the actual global context (subtly so, always as far as she is concerned). Again, no surprise and a clearly more serious, better adjusted image for the (perhaps more sophisticated) given audience. All you need is love, insomma: there's nothing more consensual than that, there's nothing less encouraging to probe further the real C behind the mask, Oriana Fallaci style.

I was not surprised, then, to see no mention of McGill, whatsoever. This is, at any rate, rarely done in European media of this level and importance, unless the story is compelling. She seems now entirely focused on Blonde Bambino, who (in her own words) has become 'her priority' (but, but...oooh, LOL) . That was the golden opportunity to mention McGill in a very positive, indisputable context, yet she did not take it - I really wonder why. Oh, and in case you wonder, the 'us' in 'I decided to take some time for us' refers, in my humble opinion, exclusively to her and Blonde Bambino. This being reinforced by her mentioning she worked a lot on Outlander and her will to spend more one on one time with him before he'd start school.

The contrast is clear. Different messages for different markets: she is a human being, not a batch of Skyr. However, it is with deep nostalgia (and also a wide grin) that I noticed the website also linked to a July 2016 interview of hers to the same newspaper, for the people who had time to kill and were willing to know more about her story. Lo and behold, here is what I found:

[Source: https://www.iodonna.it/personaggi/interviste-gallery/2016/07/15/caitriona-balfe-sono-uneroina-romantica-ma-non-ho-tempo-per-lamore/]

My translation: 'Caitriona Balfe: I am a romantic heroine, but I don't have time for love. On the TV screen, I have two husbands, but in my own life I've got none', jokes the actress, star of the cult series Outlander. She is talking to us about 'real sensuality', passion and feeling embarrassed. And she tells us why she'll never go to Paris with any fiancé'.

My translation: 'From the Scottish Highlands to the 1750's Paris: how much does the script weigh on the acting?

The Scottish Highlands are wild lands, the intensity of the landscape and the events of that time are encouraging Claire and Jamie's passion. Then, Paris does create strong tensions. I don't know if you have already went to the French capital while being in love: it's such a pressure to love each other, that it always ends in fighting' (laughs).

Of course, the rest is paying lip service to the narrative, but what about the trolls across the street for whom McGill was already the chosen one, by then (as if, heh... as if...)?

Stop lying. You're not doing her any good.

[mariacallous]

Donald Trump’s recent election victory is fueling international speculation over a possible deal to end the war in Ukraine. For now, much of the debate remains centered on what kinds of concessions Ukraine may be willing to make in order to secure a negotiated peace. However, the real question is whether Russian President Vladimir Putin has any interest at all in ending his invasion. The available evidence suggests that he does not. On the contrary, Putin appears to be as committed as ever to his goal of extinguishing Ukrainian statehood entirely.

For many years, Putin has publicly questioned the Ukrainian nation’s right to exist. He has repeatedly stated that he sees today’s independent Ukraine as an artificial state, and regards all those who disagree with this verdict as anti-Russian forces or outright Nazis. For more than a decade, he has sought to turn this toxic vision into reality via an escalating campaign of military aggression.

When Putin embarked on the latest stage of his campaign to destroy Ukraine in February 2022, he declared that the goals of his full-scale invasion were the “demilitarization” and denazification” of the country. During abortive spring 2022 peace negotiations in Istanbul, it became apparent that Russia’s interpretation of demilitarization would have left Ukraine disarmed and defenseless.

Putin’s representatives during the Istanbul talks called for the Ukrainian army to be drastically reduced to a minimal force of just 50,000 troops, with strict limits also placed on the amount of armor and types of missiles Ukraine could possess. Meanwhile, Russia would face no such restrictions. Crucially, the Kremlin demanded complete Ukrainian neutrality and insisted on retaining a veto over any international military aid to Kyiv in the event of renewed hostilities. These punishing terms leave little room for doubt that Putin’s intention was to place Ukraine completely at his mercy and in no position to resist the next stage of Russian aggression.

The implications of “denazification” are even more ominous. Putin has long accused Ukraine of being a “Nazi state,” despite the fact that the country has a popularly elected Jewish president and no far-right politicians in government. In reality, “denazification” is Kremlin code for the complete eradication of a separate Ukrainian national identity. In other words, Putin pretends to be fighting fascism order to legitimize his criminal goal of a Ukraine without Ukrainians.

The grim consequences of Putin’s “denazification” policies are already evident throughout Russian-occupied Ukraine. In regions of the country currently under Kremlin control, all traces of Ukrainian statehood and national identity are being ruthlessly purged. Ukrainian children are forced to study a Kremlin curriculum that demonizes Ukraine while glorifying the invasion of their country. Adults must accept Russian citizenship if they wish to access basic services such as pensions and healthcare.

Anyone regarded as a potential threat to the Russian occupation authorities is at risk of deportation, abduction, torture, or execution. While it is impossible to determine exact figures, it is estimated that thousands of Ukrainian civilians have been detained since February 2022. In most cases, relatives of detainees have no way of knowing if they are still alive. Britain’s The Economist recently described conditions in Russian-occupied Ukraine as a “totalitarian hell.” It is a very specific vision of hell that has been designed to remove all traces of Ukraine and impose an imperial Russian identity.

The most obvious indication of Russia’s genocidal intent in Ukraine has been the mass deportation of Ukrainian children, with thousands abducted and transferred to a system of camps where they are subjected to indoctrination in order to rob them of their Ukrainian heritage and turn them into loyal Kremlin subjects. In March 2023, the International Criminal Court in The Hague issued an arrest warrant for Vladimir Putin in relation to these abductions. The UN’s 1948 Genocide Convention recognizes “forcibly transferring children of the group to another group” as an act of genocide.

Russia’s own actions since February 2022 have made a mockery of the arguments used by the Kremlin to justify the war. At the start of the full-scale invasion, Putin claimed to be defending the rights of Russian-speaking Ukrainians in the east of the country. However, the Russian army has since killed tens of thousands of predominantly Russian-speakers in eastern Ukraine, while reducing dozens of towns and cities across the region to rubble.

Likewise, Russia’s attempts to justify the attack on Ukraine by painting it as a response to NATO enlargement have been largely debunked by Putin himself. When neighboring Finland and Sweden responded to Russia’s invasion by announcing plans in spring 2022 to abandon decades of neutrality and join NATO, Putin was quick to declare that Russia had “no problem” with the move. This indifference was particularly striking as Finnish accession more than doubled Russia’s NATO border, while Swedish membership transformed the strategically vital Baltic Sea into a NATO lake.

Putin has since gone even further, withdrawing the bulk of Russian troops from the Finnish border and leaving it largely undefended. Based on Putin’s remarkably relaxed response to NATO’s recent Nordic enlargement, it seems safe to conclude that he does not in fact view the NATO alliance as a security threat to Russia itself, and has merely exploited the issue as a smokescreen for his own imperial ambitions in Ukraine.

As Donald Trump attempts to implement his campaign promise and end the war in Ukraine, he is likely to discover that his famed deal-making skills are no match for Putin’s single-minded obsession with the destruction of Ukraine. In words and deeds, Putin has repeatedly demonstrated his commitment to wiping Ukraine off the map. In such circumstances, any talk of a compromise settlement is dangerously delusional. Until Putin is forced to recognize Ukraine’s right to exist, any peace deals will be temporary and the threat of further Russian aggression will remain.

[libraryofloveletters]

Nothing Without You

John Stones x Fem!Reader

Warnings: best friends in love but also in denial, everyone can see it but them, lots of softness, alcohol and the consumption of (lots of it), drunk jack grealish (thats a warning in itself), swearing, it’s so family coded between the players and kids and wags, baby fever from john’s end, friendly teasing from the other players, horrible singing, drunken posting, Sasha and reader are lowkey besties, hangovers for dayssssss 

Word Count: 3.6k

Author’s Note: you can blame the great miss whitney houston for this. every song she has is so john coded and in honour of the treble win, I had to do this. 

--

Attached at the hip since you two were 20, it’s been that way since the first day you met; John was the drunk guy singing off key to Whitney Houston and you were the girl dancing next to him. 

Inseparable since. 

Istanbul had you all on the edge of your seat, fingers crossed and your heart pounding out of your chest as you watched Inter kick the ball towards the net. Ederson swatted the ball away and they managed to kick it from the net just as the final whistle blew. 

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

The match was over and you could breathe again; you can’t imagine how the boys must be feeling. Everyone goes running onto the field, the boys collapsing and hugging each other, screaming and shouting as the entire stadium cheers. 

“They did it!!” You turned to the woman shouting next to you. 

You pulled Sasha into a hug, “they did it!!” You shouted back. The two of you stood together as you watched the trophy ceremony, and the boys received their metals. The blue and white confetti covered the green grass and the fireworks covered the black night sky. 

“C’mon!” You grabbed her hand as you made your way down to the field to see the boys. 

John spots you before you spot him. The man in blue comes running to you, arms open before he reaches you. “Johnny!!!” You screamed, jumping on your best friend. He grinned, wrapping his arms around you as he pressed a fat kiss to your cheek, dangerously close to your lips. 

The player swings you around before putting you down. Your hands squished his face, “Johnny!! I'm soooo proud of you. You’re a fucking champion!”

“Fucking champions!!” He laughs, kissing your temple as he puts his arm over your shoulder. 

You two walked around the pitch, John stopping every two seconds to talk to his teammates and the Man City staff.  You had wandered off, spotting Riyad’s fiancé, Taylor and their daughter, Mila. “Hi baby girl,” you smiled, tickling her side. “You wanna hold her?” Taylor asks and you smile, nodding. 

She hands the little girl over to you and you kiss her cheek, fixing her little Man City jersey. You felt someone grab your leg and you look down to see none other than Ronnie. “Hi buddy!” You kneel down, moving to sit on the ground with Mila. 

“Hi y/n! Hi Mila!” He holds her little hand, the two of them giggling over something. You weren’t really paying attention to what he was telling her but it was making her laugh. 

John patted his friend’s back, the two of them turning their attention to you on the floor with the kids. Riyad doesn’t miss the way John’s eyes light up when he looks at you or how his smile brightens. You covered Mila’s eyes before Ronnie made a silly face at her. The three of you giggling like the best of friends. The big number 5 on your back and the sight of kids in your arms only made John’s heart skip a beat. 

“She's good with them, huh?” He says, getting John’s attention. 

“What?” He asks, confused. 

Riyad nods towards you with the kids. “Y/n... she's good with the kids.” 

“Oh,” John nods, smiling. “Yeah. She’s great.” 

The man shakes his head, nudging his friend with his shoulder. Riyad laughs, “you just don’t get it.” 

He picks up Mila, rubbing Ronnie’s head as he passes by with the little girl. John wanders over to you, a hand stretched out to help you up. 

“Shall we take a picture?” He held your hand, walking over to Erling and his girlfriend who currently had the trophy. 

You smiled watching as Erling stood up and handed the massive silver trophy over to his teammate. You and Isabel were whispering something to each other when John replaced Erling on the random chair in the middle of the pitch, the trophy balanced on his right leg. 

“Babe,” the word rolled off his tongue, a common name amongst the many nicknames he had for you. “C’mere.” He pats his free thigh. 

You walked over and sat yourself down on his leg, an arm over his shoulder to balance yourself. John wraps an arm around your waist, a hand on your hip with the other holding the trophy. Your arm was still over his shoulder and the other was holding the other side of the trophy. 

One of the photographers shouts, “Smile!” John ignores him, letting you hold up the weight of the trophy for a minute, taking the medal around his neck off. He slings it around your neck, straightening it before holding the trophy again. 

“Okay, ready now.” He tells no one in particular, the two of you smiling at the various cameras. 

You giggled as John pinched your hip, getting you to smile brighter; the way he liked. 

You were about to take the medal off but he stopped you, “keep it. It looks better on you,” he smiled as he passed the trophy off to Jack when you two got up. 

--- 

There’s shouting, music and laughter coming from the other side of your hotel door. The boys were in full party mode but all decided to take a quick minute to freshen up before heading out again. 

All of them except for the one you were certain was banging on your room door. 

“Y/n!!” He sang along with the music, knocking again. “C’mon! I know you’re in there!!” He shouts as you open the door. 

Jack stood there in his kit, medal over his neck as he dragged the big speaker behind him. He looks at you like you were an alien; lipstick in one hand, your drink in the other with the curlers pinned in your hair so you can freshen it up.

“You’re not ready?!” He shouts as if you were down the hallway. 

You laughed, shaking your head. “What are you even doing up here? I thought you went straight to the club.” 

"I came looking for- Oh! Here!” He turns around and grabs something, handing you a shot glass filled with some gold liquid when he turns back around. You look at the man like he's insane.

You brought the glass up to your face, the heavy scent of tequila caused you to wrinkle your nose. “Where'd you even get this?”

Jack’s got his own shot in hand, tapping his glass to yours. “We're fucking champions of Europe, baby! Cheers!” he shouted, the two of you giggling as you downed your shots in the doorway like teenagers getting drunk off cheap booze before a party. The tequila burns on the way down but Jack turns, the half empty bottle of 1942 in hand when he spins around again and he refills the shot glasses.

 You tap your glass to his and drink this shot too, thinking you can finally get rid of him, allowing yourself to finish getting ready in peace but Jack starts singing and refilling the shot glasses once again. 

“John, John, Johnny Stonesssss!” He held the note, “where are you, my Johnny Stones?!” 

And as if he was summoned, John stepped out of the bathroom with just a towel wrapped around his waist. You won’t lie and say your best friend wasn’t attractive because he was but you couldn't look at him like that; despite looking at him like that right now. Your eyes fixed on the man, watching the way the water dripped down his chest, following the little drops all the way down to the towel that stopped them from going further. 

Even with him being drunk, Jack noticed the way you looked at his teammate. He wiggled his eyebrows as he tapped his glass to yours. The two of you downed what you hoped was the final set of shots before he left. 

He wiggled his eyebrows, John wasn’t paying attention to Jack at the moment. “Don’t fuck! Come down so we can get fucked upppppp.” 

“Fuck off,” you laughed, smacking his arm lightly. Jack waved to you, finally walking away to the elevator. 

John looks at you as he puts on his pants, “why is your face red?” 

“Had a few shots with Jack,” you held up the empty shot glass, finally putting your lipstick on. John nods, humming as he finishes getting dressed. You were  glad Jack stopped in because what else would you blame your red cheeks on? The fact that you were gawking at your shirtless best friend? 

Insane. 

He comes over to you, his hand on your hip as he watches you pull the last curler from your hair. 

“Ready?” His eyes meet yours in the mirror. 

You nod, smiling. “Ready.” 

The club was five minutes from the hotel, you bumped into Phil and Becca on your way to the lobby, the four of you deciding to head there together. From the moment you stepped inside, John and Phil were instantly pulled into hugs, conversations and promises of dances, not to mention all the drinks all of you were being handed before you even made it to the bar. 

The four of you got separated, you and Becca found a few of the other girls who had lost their other halves and were sorta dancing and chatting at the same time  - it was more of a shout over the music but you were all too many shots in to care.

At some point, you decided you needed another drink that wasn’t in a shot glass. “I’m gonna get a drink!” You shouted to Becca and she gave you a thumbs up. “Do you want anything?” 

“No! I’m good babe!” She smiles, letting you walk off to the bar. 

You navigate your way through the crowd and eventually find the bar. The bartender was busy and you waited, not wanting to be one of those people at shouts at the bartenders who were clearly busy. A few minutes later, he found his way to you so you could order and just as you do, you feel a set of hands on your hips.

“I was looking for you!” The person shouts to you, a chin on your shoulder before you turn around. 

You find John holding onto you, a big goofy grin on his face and you could smell the liquor on him; now if he split something on himself or if he had one too many shots, it was unclear but one thing was, that he was having a good time. 

“I was looking for you too!” You shouted back to him, smiling at him. 

Just as you turn around to get your drink, the opening notes of I Have Nothing by Whitney Houston come on; an odd choice for a club you think to yourself but John doesn’t follow the same train of thought. The man grabs your hand, the drink spilling as he pulls, practically yanked, you to the dance floor.

“This!” He shouts, “is my fucking song!” 

You giggled, letting him pull you to him before you two started singing. 

“Take my love, I’ll never ask for too much. Just all that you are and everything that you do.” You sang to John, arms over his shoulders and your hand resting on the back of his neck. 

The man’s hand reached for your hips, pulling you a few inches closer. “I don't really need to look very much further. I don't wanna have to go, where you don't follow.”

“I won't hold it back again, this passion inside. Can't run from myself. There's nowhere to hide.” You sang the next part. 

John spun you around, your back to his chest, his arms wrapped around you and held you close to him. You can feel his chin on your shoulder, the stubble on his jaw rubbed against yours as he pressed his face to yours. 

“Don't make me close one more door. I don't wanna hurt anymore. Stay in my arms if you dare or must I imagine you there. Don't walk away from me.” He sang horribly off key. 

You giggled as you two sang the last part together; “I have nothing, nothing, nothing if I don't have you, you, you, you, you, you.” 

John lets go of you, your hand still on his shoulder as you two danced to the other song. You take a sip from your drink only to find the ice hitting your lips. “I need another one!” You tell him, wandering off to the bar again. 

From the corner of your eye, you could see Jack and Erling giggling. 

“What?” You shouted to them and Jack ran over. “You and John are so cute, it makes me wanna puke!” He laughs, a hand on your arm.

Erling slings his arm over your shoulder, “yeah! Get a room!” 

“Fuck off, both of you!” You laughed, ignoring them. 

You left them at the bar, a drink in hand as you walked off to find John again. The man was with Kyle and Ruben, the 3 of them pouring a round of shots. 

“Want one?” Kyle held a glass out to you and you nod, taking it from him. John’s arm slings over your shoulder, pulling you into his side before the 4 of you holding up your shots. 

“To us! To the treble! To the champions of Europe!” Kyle shouts over the music, the clear liquid slipping over the rim of the glass, all of you downing your shots. 

Kyle pulls Ruben to dance, the two of them amongst the last set of people on the dance floor. It was nearly 5am, the sun was peeking through the clouds over the city and all of you had been up for nearly 24 hours straight. There was a flight back to Manchester in 5 hours and you figured you two could sneak in a few hours of sleep. 

John had the same thought, “ready to go?” He whispers to you, lips pressed to your ear. You nod, holding his hand as you two walk out. He shouted to his friends as you two walked out of the club, his fingers interlocked with yours when you got into the cab back to the hotel. 

The walk up to the room was no better, his hands on your hips, the two of you giggling as you tried to undo the lock on the door, the keycard not buzzing. John’s face buried in your neck, the stubble on his chin tickling at your skin, you shrugging him off and finally got into the room. 

He went to the bathroom to change and you were on the bed, taking a moment to gather yourself before you tried to get your shoes off. Eventually you managed to undo the strap and kicked them off, letting them land somewhere. 

“Fuck,” you heard from groan from the bathroom, you slowly got up and walked over. 

You could see the man in the reflection of the mirror, his fingers tugging at the buttons on his shirt but he wasn’t getting them undone. “Need help?” you asked, pushing the door open. 

John dropped his hands, “please.” 

Your hands slowly made its way down, undoing the buttons for him. The medal around his neck slung as he moved and he finally got the hint after you pushed it away like 4 times. John took it off, you assumed he’d set it down somewhere but instead he slung it around your neck, the heavy gold pendent hitting your sternum when he let go. 

“Perfect,” he smiled to himself as he watched you undo the last button. 

You picked up the medal. “What’s this for?” 

“Just ‘cause and you’re the coolest ever,” he hugs you from behind, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “And because I love you sooooooo much,” he smiled, kissing your jaw when he leaned down. 

Your cheeks are bright red, swatting the man’s hands when he pinches your side. 

The phone on the counter catches your eye and you pick it up, manage to unlock it and open the camera. “Smile,” you told him, leaning back on him. John’s arm wrapped around you, over your shoulder as you two smiled at each other in the mirror. 

There’s a series of drunken photos being taken; his arms around you, the two of  you making silly faces, laughing and giggling. Somehow you’re leaning over the counter and he’s got the phone now, you’re still laughing. There’s one of you hugging him, you kiss his cheek and in the next one, he kisses yours. Somehow you got your signals crossed, both of you turning to kiss each other on the cheek and ended up actually kissing. Your hand on his cheek as you giggled against his lips. 

“We should try to sleep,” you tell him as you hopped up onto the counter. 

John leaned on you and was clicking away from his phone. “Uh huh,” he finally put the phone down, wrapping his arms around you before he picked you up.“Let’s go then,” he carried you back to the bedroom, you giggled as you held onto him, the man dropping you on the bed before joining you. 

--- 

The airport was noisy, your head pounding and you were still refusing to open your eyes. John’s arm was around you and you were cuddled into his side, trying to get a few more seconds of peace before the team headed out for this flight back to Manchester. The rest of you would all be on your own flights home later in the day. 

Kevin was passing by, a smile on his face as he looked at this teammate. “Good  man, Johnny.” He pats the man’s shoulder. John gives him a puzzled smile, watching Kevin walk away. 

You open your eyes slightly, looking at your friend. “What is Kev on about?” 

“Not a clue,” John rubbed your arm, letting you settle back into his side. 

Gundo walked by, a big smile on his face as he looked between the two of you. John was beyond confused as to why all his teammates were in a good mood, patting his shoulders and telling him good job. 

Either he was delusional and stuck in an alternate reality or they were all still drunk.  

“YOU GUYS FINALLY DID IT!!!!” Jack shouts, jumping in front of you both. “Oh god, make him shut up.” You grumbled in John’s arm, making him chuckle. 

Sasha shushed the man, pulling him back a bit. “Jack!” She scolded him, “be quiet.

“Okay, I’m confused. What is going on?” John asked. Jack’s looking at you two like you’re mad, “you- what do you mean what’s going on?” He reaches for his phone to show you something but the screen won’t turn on. 

Sasha ignores her boyfriend for a moment, showing you both what Jack was trying to show you on her phone. There it is, the reason everyone has been looking at you two funny; a series of photos from the series of photos you took last night, you and John in the bathroom with the medal around your neck, kissing and John’s shirt undone. 

Quite the scandal. 

“Oh my god.” You looked at the phone, and then John, and then back to the phone and back to John again. Sasha nodded, “it's out there now.. but based on that look on your face, I’m guessing those weren’t meant to be posted?” 

“Yeah,” you nodded, John was already reaching for his phone. “I’ll delete them.” 

Your hand rested on his, stopping him. “Don’t.. it's already out there. It's fine.” 

John looked at you, “you’re sure?” 

“100%” 

He smiles at you just as the announcement plays over the speaker. “All Manchester City players and staff, please report to gate 3B for departure.” 

You and Sasha walked them to the gate. The couple next to you were all wrapped up, whispering something to each other like it's the last time they’d see each other - they’d be reunited in a few hours. 

John’s hand rests on your lower back, “I’ll see you at home?” 

You nodded, a smile on your face. “I’ll see you at home.” He pulled you against him, your hand on his cheek when you kissed him. Foreheads pressed to each other’s, giggling like teenagers in love. 

“Can you let go of her for a second?” Jack interrupted, “let me say bye to my friend?” 

John rolls his eyes playfully, letting you go. You and Jack hugged goodbye for now, John and Sasha doing the same. “We’ll see you at home,” she called to them, the two of them waving from the tunnel. 

You were about to walk away but John dropped his bag, running back to you. “What are you doing-” The man cuts you off with a kiss; very hallmark-esque of him. 

“You’re gonna miss your flight,” you whispered to him. 

“They won’t leave without me.” He smiles, giving you another kiss. You gave him a little push, sending him on his way. 

You jogged to catch up with Sasha, the two of you heading off to get a coffee. The woman nudged you with her shoulder as you two stood in line. You look over at her and nod, waiting for her to say something.

“I’m glad you two finally came to your senses.” She smiled and you laughed. 

“Yeah, me too.” 

-- 

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[sorentymn]

The Istanbul incident.

A highly volatile piece of technology had been stolen from an MI6 courier. Suspected involvement with highly trained counterintelligence warrants the presence of 007 and the recently appointed Quartermaster himself.

───────────────────────────────

Content: Multi-chapters, 18+, mentions of violence and probably smut down the line. :p

A/N: I recently rewatched James Bond again, and the love I have for this ship is beyond unhealthy so here's a treat for fellow 00Q fanatics. 

This is set sometime after Skyfall.  

In which Bond has the fattest crush ever, honestly.

───────────────────────────────

CHAPTER I.

Mallory’s den is often regarded by many MI6 underlings as Tartarus, not only because of the sheer dread permeating its air but because it is also where the king of the underworld (Yes, Gareth Mallory himself) presides guarded by Cerberus (Moneypenny), who instead of sporting three gnashing heads possesses the same deadly aura with just one and many would argue that going up against her might just be worse. 

However, today it seemed to be too early for Cerberus, her usual colourful self was absent when she led Bond through the door to Mallory’s vacant office occupied only by a mop of chocolate curls whom he recognized instantly without the young man having to turn.

“Morning," said Bond. Q only blinked up at him tiredly from his seat, evidence of his disregard for reasonable work hours. He only managed a quick nod before returning to the screen in his hand, busying himself with what appeared to be several lines of code. 

Up to this point Bond and the Quartermaster hadn’t had the chance to get closer acquainted. Since their initial meeting at the National Gallery and after the painful blur that was Skyfall, Bond got dispatched less frequently as ordained by psych (those wretched banshees in medical gowns). So, outside of the rare occasion that Bond gets summoned to test Q-branch’s latest inventions or to give professional input (which is also typically to Q’s underlings), the pair rarely interacts with one another. 

Despite this, the younger man had been steadily climbing Bond’s list. What list you ask? The very much appropriate and not at all scandalous list of co-workers he’d like to shag of course. This revelation initially came as a shock to Bond, not because of Q’s maleness (He’s very much comfortably bisexual despite his womanising reputation and dating history) but more the person that he is. 

Commander James Bond in his youth had tumblings with his mates with various striking qualities, now with age, he liked to think that he’s got his taste in men down to its minute details. He likes them athletic, brunette, easy smiles and not much to say. Now, Q could not be more different. 

The minute they met, the two had a sparring, breakfast Earl Greys, triggers needed pulling, all that. Casual impudence isn’t something he encounters frequently (outside of his exercise of it on everyone else of course). He never imagined he’d be fed his own brand of medicine and end up liking it. The young Quartermaster wasn’t afraid to put Bond in his place and there’s the stillness in the face of Bond’s icy countenance that struck something wonderful.

Bond chalked this up as fascination over something new, an irrational bout of excitement he sometimes gets when he sees a particularly gorgeous sports car, but this compulsion to stop and stare never went away. He’s a lithe and intelligent apparition in hideous sweaters and glasses and for the life of him, Bond cannot solve this puzzle. It gnawed at him every time they’d pass one another at the office when Q would guide him in that deliciously eloquent voice, that one time during a staff party he unabashedly watched as Q danced with his disproportionately drunk colleagues. The list goes on. 

“Apologies gents, It’s armageddon out there.” Mallory finally arrived a little more dishevelled than he’d normally allow himself at a reasonable hour. His coat still had droplets on it letting the men in on the appalling weather outside their bunker. As he made his way around the large desk, Q only straightened slightly with the look of a sleep-deprived teenager somehow on a man Bond assumes is in his thirties.

“Any reason you summoned us here while half of London is still asleep?” Bond started with a tone as he checked his watch not so much to discern the time but to give Mallory a rise. 

“I am aware of the hour, Bond, if this wasn’t urgent I would have left you to whatever you get up to while half of London sleeps.” Mallory retorts with a brief look, something like pity flashes behind his eyes as he notes Bond’s misaligned tie, this would be a good time to mention Bond isn’t exactly sober at the moment and the tie is a rare mistake.

“There’s been an incident of a time-sensitive nature that needs to be addressed immediately.” 

“M if I may-” Q interrupts gingerly as he adjusts his glasses like the gesture might trick his brain to spark some alertness into his being. It didn’t. 

“I’m not sure why I’m being included in this briefing, I’ve received an e-mail regarding this mission. I think I'd better start preparing 007’s kit wh-” 

“Will it kill you both to let me finish?” Mallory sighed, effectively ending Q’s line of questioning. 

“After some deliberation, I’ve decided that you will accompany 007 on the field. We’ve been informed that our initial intel on the briefcase’s contents is unreliable. Now, I’m aware that this is beneath you, but with the volatile nature of it all, I think it’s only appropriate to put our best on it.”

The young man’s lips parted slightly as if he were computing the directive. He spared 007 a glance and only noticed the agent’s signature smirk like this was all funny and not very much inconvenient for Q. 

Sidelining Q's reaction entirely, Mallory launches back into the details of the mission. Two days ago, MI6 received intel regarding a certain cargo, believed to be either a chemical weapon or a new range of explosives engineered by the Russians. A conflict broke out during an exchange between the engineers and an unidentified party, landing the briefcase in the hands of an MI6 operative based in Southeast Asia. A courier was sent from London to retrieve the package, but was intercepted during the last leg of the journey. The case was stolen in Istanbul, where luckily the tracker is still embedded and active, the courier, however, washed up that same evening beneath the Galata Bridge. 

“So, I suggest you return home, pack your essentials, and your flight will be leaving at 16:00. Your travel documents have been arranged. Moneypenny will see you out.” As if summoned by her name uttered in the wind alone, Moneypenny appears with envelopes in hand and a flat smile that usually means they’d best move along. Bond and Q did not miss this signal naturally; they both rose to their feet, Bond buttoning his blazer and Q rubbing his temple as they went.

“Here you go, boys.” Moneypenny managed as they left Tartarus for the endless corridors once more. She handed them their files over her shoulders and pressed the button for the lift. As they waited, Q willed himself to speak again. 

“Eve-” It almost sounded like a whine. 

“No, darling if it were for just about anything else I would’ve flown across the world for you but some of us aren’t an evil genius” 

“But I can’t-” Q looked utterly wrecked, and Bond was endlessly entertained at somehow being completely ignored by MI6’s infamous ‘besties’ as Tanner once referred to them before looking appalled by his own word choice. The two bickered for several minutes, forgetting Bond's existence entirely before he decided to chime in.

“So it’s true” Bond intercepted finally. 

“What’s true?” The two turned to him questioningly, after a short moment Eve smiled in a sort of pitying way. 

“Yes, Q is actually afraid of flying. You self-important bastard did you really think I made that up so I could play messenger to you in Macao?” outraged Eve smacked Bond’s bad shoulder which only made Bond shrug. Q is currently wishing the floor would swallow him, nothing good ever comes from leaving his subterranean lair. As they bickered the lift finally arrived and Q unceremoniously pushed and wedged himself between the two to get into the lift too exhausted at the moment to engage in anything that required more than a sigh. 

“Take care of my best friend you old dog.” Eve left off warmly with enough firmness to imply her underlying sentiment. To this, Bond pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek before joining Q in the lift. 

 ───────────────────────────────

“Do you always drink this much during flights?” Bond blinked at the sudden resurfacing of his flight companion. Q had been silent throughout the journey since their commute from MI6 and through the airport up to boarding. 

“It lives” 

“Sorry, I took some medication for-” Q trailed off his eyes flitting in different directions examining the cabin as the last boarding travellers made their way down the aisle. Despite what Q reported, his anxiety is still more obvious than ever painting the young man a sickly grey unlike his usual ivory glazed in pink. Bond could sympathise on some level, but expressing it would be ridiculous for someone who regularly treats his mortality like it's got a respawn cycle. 

“Is it working?” Bond’s gaze follows the swirling motion of the chilled sphere in his whisky. 

“Don’t think it’s kicked in just yet” 

“Keen to try an alternative?” He tried to offer putting the glass on the leaning aisle between them but Q gently nudged the glass back in his direction. 

“No, thank you, I doubt it's wise to mix” 

“Some would call that a party” 

“Or a touch suicidal”

Bond stared at him, amused, but kept his lips sealed. After the plane lifted off, Bond slid his glass back between them and then turned away for a brief shut-eye. When he woke again, the glass was empty and his Quartermaster was sound asleep. 

  ──────────────────────────────

They landed in Istanbul in the early evening and were escorted downtown to a lavish hotel that overlooked just about most of the interesting sites noted on any popular travelling websites. There would be time to properly appreciate this view, for now, something else is more pressing. 

“I don’t see the necessity for this arrangement” Q voiced dryly as he examined the room, dim lights, beautiful ethnic ornaments, so spacious it could house a large family rather than two exhausted secret service agents; there were elaborate floral arrangements poised throughout the room. All this to say that it’s nauseatingly romantic for a work trip. 

“A suite?” Bond responded with a clueless look already too amused by it all. 

“A honeymoon suite” Q dropped his backpack onto the floor inelegantly along with his last syllable. It’s theatrical and boyish, Bond had to keep from outright chuckling at the face he was making. 

“That would mean we’d be sharing a bed Q, there’s a separate room just there” Bond who already found a Champagne glass pointed to the room with the tip of the glass. The revelation didn’t ease the knot between the Quartermaster’s brows. 

“....” 

“Not that I mind the company of course” To this, Q squinted at him from his place in the middle of the room. 

“R, that conniving little-” So that’s who Bond will be needing to send a souvenir to. He kept that thought to himself as he poured some of the Dom Perignon so thoughtfully chilled in an ice bath in anticipation of a-

‘Mr Arlington & Mr Ellis Beech' He pocketed the card of course like a cheeky little boy and not at all a man in his 40s whose occupation is to expire people semi-regularly.  

Bond saunters over to Q passing a glass to the exasperated young man with a look of pure bliss. 

“Perhaps if we’re better acquainted you might feel more comfortable?” All that charm from the agent and Q barely suppressed a snort. 

“Oh-  007 spare me the routine” Q waved his hand about as he brisked past the agent towards the small dining table close by. He took a sip of the Champagne before setting it down, his arms firmly folded over his chest. 

“What routine?” Bond’s eyes trailed after his every move, intrigued by his complete dismissal of his approach. 

“I’m not a terrorist’s trophy wife, you don’t need to woo me for us to co-exist 007”  

“That you’re not” Bond observed quietly recalibrating his approach. That’s right, he is after all unlike the sweet brunettes he usually favours. This was a new puzzle, a bratty one with all the smarts to justify it. 

“But I don’t discriminate” This exasperated Q. 

“Do you now,” Q’s lips pursed briefly like he was weighing on his next course of action, and it came. 

“Look, 007, I’m sure this is very entertaining for you, but I’ve got a mortgage and two cats to feed. I’d like us to carry on as smoothly as possible and that means keeping this strictly professional.”

But as the Quartermaster was drawing a line in the sand between them, his eyes betrayed his resolve. Bond noticed his eyes drift downwards to his lips and fixed on them before they drew back up again. Checkmate. Bond schooled his expression back into something almost professional before he approached Q once again, taking the half-drunk Champagne out of his hand and pouring the remainder of it down, his eyes not once diverted from Q, who couldn’t keep from staring at Bond’s bobbing throat. 

“Loud and clear. I’ll behave, for the sake of the cats” Bond then pivoted escaping the scene of the crime towards his bedroom with an air of victory. It seems his fascination isn’t one-sided after all. 

  ──────────────────────────────

Memories of his last traumatic visit to this city finally surfaced during his reading. The men got comfortable after their little sparring on arrival. Q unable to forego his routine for too long built a small Q-branch right on the dinner table surrounded by thin stacks of paper fencing him in like a fortress. While Q busied himself, Bond brought his book to a lovely lounge chair on the balcony overlooking the city and it was heavenly for a while until it wasn’t. 

The pleasant dullness he sustained from that Champagne he finished hours ago finally waned and he’s left with the kind of clarity that’s infinitely useful in the field but not so much while he’s idle. His concentration officially gone, Bond does his best to recall the less ugly parts of his time in this city. 

Istanbul is one of the cities he’s truly fallen in love with had always found himself yearning to be back in it each time he leaves. There’s something about the spirit in the streets, the way the lights come alive dotting the Bosporus, the beautiful chorus from various mosques throughout the city, the spice-rich delicacies and the people naturally. He had delayed his debrief back in cold wet Britain in favour of the men and women of this city almost every single visit. 

He wondered if this trip would end in the same pleasures. 

Bond tried to recall the couple he’d last fallen into bed with on the trip before Moneypenny’s marring on that train and the scenes came to him easily. He was busy between her thighs, drunk on the sheer sight of her writhing beneath as his accomplice, her husband, tended to the parts Bond couldn’t lavish. But then something happened, her olive complexion began to pale, her hips narrowed and contracted into a flat and wiry body; her plump breasts now a flat expanse leading up to a long elegant neck. A neck he remembers very well. Q looks back at him with dark eyes and- 

"007, I've managed to set up everything, shall we begin?" Bond’s eyes squeeze shut at the interruption. Q is hovering above him, his laptop held sturdy in one hand as if the gadget is a part of his limb. He’s got a blank look about him that could not be more different than the Q of his imagination and for a moment Bond’s mind attempted to pair up the faces.

“Hello, earth to Bond?” the agent nodded solemnly before following Q to his ‘fortress’. Wait, did he refer to him as Bond just now? 

“You do love your clutter,” Bond remarked cooly as he eyed the various files and loose documents, before he could reach for them though, Q glided the paper right from beneath his hand like a primary school teacher fending unmarked homework from grubby hands. 

“It’s not clutter 007, it helps me think, have a seat” He waited for Bond to get comfortable before he swivelled his sticker-bombed laptop towards Bond. Before him, a handful of windows popped up overlapping one another. It was a jumbled mess, and this isn’t due to his age by any means rather the screen looked as if it had gained a life of its own, mimicking the no doubt chaotic mind of its owner. 

“Am I supposed to understand any of this?” Bond turned to him blankly and Q rolled his eyes—little shit. 

"So, the results came through a while ago. This is the forensics report retrieved directly from our courier. They've managed to get a hair sample from whoever stole the case. The operation must've been organized in a rush given several missteps, they're running the DNA sample through our internal archives and requesting additional profiles from our embedded sources offshore right now to see if it is somebody we've dealt with but it's taking some time."

"What's M's theory?" Bond listened intently, but also noted the speed at which the Quartermaster was typing. He must truly be losing his mind. When did being electronically inclined become something attractive to him? 

"He's positive it's counterintelligence, he won't disclose why, but he's chosen not to contact the high commands for these profiles, as I've mentioned it's all through MI6 undercover channels under his direct authority of course.” 

"That's vexing" 

"Quite" They made eye contact briefly to comment on a pattern. Mallory in his position does not need to answer to anyone naturally, but withholding information directly related to his suspicions does leave those doing leg work in an uneasy position. It gnawed at the both of them. 

Q continued to go through several extra documents with him detailing additional developments, but in conclusion, the two will effectively be in limbo until they can either find a match or additional investigating will have to proceed on Bond’s end. With any luck the case will still be somewhere in Istanbul and not halfway across the world extending their chase. 

At this conclusion, Q sags into his seat staring blankly at the screen. Bond could see the cogwheels turning behind his eyes like he was recounting all the intel to see if he’d missed anything. 

“That’s about everything” He turned to Bond after some minutes with an assuring smile. His glasses were then removed to be cleaned and Bond was treated to yet another rare sight. He’d never seen Q without those spectacles before and he’s reminded the frames aren’t a part of him. It’s baffling how differently people could look without a certain accessory. It felt all too intimate actually, like he got a glimpse of the man behind the single moniker. For a moment he felt an urge to reach out to him, to twirl his fingers around those curls that’s got a life of its own. 

Realising he’s sat there vulnerable to his sensations suddenly, Bond does what he does best. Board it back up. 

“Drink?” 

“I swear it’s like you’ve got only that one word programmed into you, and they say spies are meant to be unpredictable” Q made to get up like the invitation alone was enough for him to flee. 

“Is that a no?” Bond crossed his legs and decided to look directly into his moss greens, a sort of ‘puppy eyes’ but in the agent’s own more unnerving and piercing way. The tension he’s created seemed to chafe at Q a bit. 

“Yes, it's a no-” Q clocked the contradicting turn of phrase he’d just done and frowned, let’s have another go.

“It’s a no, 007 have you been sober for more than an hour today?” 

“Depends on what exactly you mean by sober” Bond smiled and it was disgustingly self-assured. To that, the Quartermaster was rendered speechless. His old title as the debate team captain took a hit, but to be fair it’s not easy going up against James Bond. Bond decided to break the stalemate. 

“Come, let’s just say I’m taking you for a walk we just might stumble into a bar along the way” 

“Tsk- alright, this is only because we probably won’t have time to sightsee at all the minute they stumble on something.”

“Good lad” Q's nose crinkled at that and Bond had to suppress yet another smile. 

“Cheeky bastard”

════════════════════════════════════════════

♫ Crushed Velvet - Molly Lewis 

Bond delivers as promised. The two meandered along scenic routes by the water, stopping to admire the occasional sculptures that lived amongst its vibrant people, discussing the stunning architecture that never failed to fascinate Q at every turn and of course, stopped to pet every single cat. Bond can’t say he shared the sentiment when it came to felines preferring the unwavering honesty of dogs but when he expressed this, he was immediately scolded by Q. Apparently Bond is shallow for preferring the easy enthusiasm of dogs and is willingly ignorant to a cat’s more complexed form of affection. Why did he sense a comparison here? 

Despite the hour, there was still a steady stream of people making their way towards their haunts for the night. Bond had always felt uncomfortable around crowds, it always made him nervous that something apocalyptic might be underfoot, but his well-placed cynicism aside it’s always lovely to see many happy faces off to chase a memorable night. It reminds him that not everything is always careening towards destruction. Even Q, who was usually weighed down by the burden of national security seemed feather-light on his feet thousands of miles away from grim old London.  

“We’re here” Bond announced before Q had the chance to bump right into him with how distracted he was. Q followed Bond’s eye line landing on a cosy bar that looked as if it predates the 20th century.  The sign reads ‘Menekşe’ which translates to violet and like its name the place is decorated with subtle violet ornaments along with beautiful vintage lamps and furniture inviting its patrons to travel back in time with each visit. 

Q turned to Bond baffled. “This is unexpected,” 

“See, I can be both” Q suppressed a small smile at that callback. 

“What will those posh hens at your usual haunts say when they find out you take young ‘impressionable’ men out to dark bars” Bond quirked his brows in amusement at ‘impressionable’ Q could not be further from it. 

“What makes you think they’d disapprove?” 

The pair strolled inside opting for a quiet corner by the window, the table is small the only reasonable capacity being one person and one person only but this meant the men’s legs were almost tangled beneath. Bond would never admit this was premeditated of course. 

Q remained silent as they settled in, still captivated by the liveliness of the crowd just outside the window. 

“Fancy the view?”

“An understatement, how many times have you been here?” As he asked it seemed as if Q had abandoned the ‘Q’ everyone knew. All the pronounced edge of intelligence softened into something more pliable, kind, and explorative. 

“Several times after missions”

“I can see why you take your sweet time getting back to London” 

“Well, this amongst other things” Bond in some ways is very much still boyish especially when there is an opportunity to turn something suggestive. As if queued, an outrageously beautiful waitress approaches them with a menu. She eyed the two men without any intention to conceal her interest, lingering especially on Bond before turning back behind the bar. At this comical turn of events, Bond flashed a grin, the full unrestrained kind that highlighted the many pronounced wrinkles on his face. 

 “I feel like I'm trapped in a rubbish sitcom” Q groaned. 

“Not rubbish surely, you seem to be entertained” 

“Not as much as you I don’t think, you double-00s” 

“What about us?” Bond asked genuinely and that curiosity is left to brew as Q is suddenly very interested in the menu, the smirk on the edge of his lips, despite the lack of eye contact, is the only indication he’s still willing to engage in this topic. 

He left Bond like that for some time before raising his hand to catch the same waitress’s attention and pointing to a picture of a beverage on the menu he held up with his other hand so she wouldn’t need to make her way over to them. Two he mouthed. Only then did Q graciously revert to Bond, hands folded over his lap. This was enough to prompt Bond to speak first. 

“Our promiscuity serves a purpose it’s not just indulgence” 

“Even off the clock?” 

“Yes, even off” It’s hard to tell whether Q is convinced, there’s an attempt to seem agreeable but those eyes have a mischievous glint to them that's unmissable. 

“Go on then, make your case” 

“As you know, we don’t tend to last very long” Q suppressed a chuckle immediately which prompted an exasperated eye roll from Bond, he continues. 

“Fewer reasons to be suppressed” He finished off with his glass raised and the two enjoyed a hefty drink between their banter. The unique blend of spice and alcohol prompted an endearingly skewed expression from Q which somehow made him seem even younger, or maybe it’s Bond’s hyperawareness.   

“Not bullshit as justifications go” 

“You disagree?” 

“I don’t disagree, I just think it looks a lot like a vice” 

“Sex is not my vice” They were suspended again briefly, at first the two were stone-faced but then they began to crack into a smile in unison like they’d just made a filthy inside joke and in a sense it was considering the handful of times Q has had to be a fly in his earwig during these encounters. 

“Sure about that are you?” Q took another sip of his drink still very much suspicious. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Go on” 

“What exactly have they been saying about me at the office?” Bond delivered this with complete coolness despite the gnawing curiosity inside, he did his best not to seem eager. This inquiry in itself is an odd thing on his end, he never did care what stories were spun in his wake but recently he found himself wondering about the details. Couldn’t possibly have anything to do with a certain new head of the Q branch, could it? 

“Oh- wouldn’t you like to know 007” 

“One should stay informed-” 

"Helene from medical has been quite vocal about your past trysts and terrible bedside manner, namely the disappearing acts.” 

"That's not very nice"

"The disappearing isn't very nice, 007" Q said with a sternness that was meant to land as a joke but Bond received it differently. 

"I don't always do that" Bond is feeling exposed suddenly, he’s not completely ashamed of the ways he has to cope with his own complex emotions when it comes to intimacy but with Q being someone he’s actively attracted to, it was beginning to feel like being stripped open in the middle of a crowd. If the place were any brighter Q might be able to spot the red flush at his ears. He allowed himself a moment before deciding on the offensive. 

“If you won’t take my word for it I’m happy to show you?” Classic Bond deflection. This bluntness usually earns him a prominent flush from whoever he directed this to, but Q’s face seemed more puzzled than enticed. 

“What do you get out of this 007?” Bond only cocked his head, confused. Q continues. 

“This- flirting I know it’s your second nature but are you not straight?” It is mostly curiosity but Bond’s years in espionage also detected a hint of frustration, to his credit Q barely slipped up. 

“What makes you think I am?” 

“I live in your earpiece, I know where you like to be” 

“Where do I like to be?” Bond’s voice drops an octave naturally and Q feels tension curl up in his feet. 

“Inside beautiful widows and discontented wives,” Their eye contact that felt almost comfortable minutes ago now feels as if it’s attempting to burn one another in its intensity. 

“Sometimes husbands too” Bond’s bottom lip lingered on the edge of his glass at that confession, the unabated coyness of it made Q shift in his seat. 

“You’re serious?” 

“Yes” 

After a period of deliberation, Q withdraws from the staring contest, he’s a fool for trying. Nothing dims the intensity of Bond’s ice-blue gaze it seems, not even the darkness of this bar. 

“I believe I owe you an apology” 

“That you do,” Says Bond with a smile, atoning for this will mean something fun he decided. 

════════════════════════════════════════════

Bond’s relationship with the concept of good sleep is rocky at best, the culprit being his choice of occupation. But, now and then the planets align and a dreamless sleep visits him. This is one of those nights, despite his conditioning, his biology won over for the best. It’s a shame should-

His bedroom door was thrown open and the banging of the precious wood against the door stop brutally yanked Bond from his sleep. His body reacted first, grabbing the Walther beneath his pillow, safety off and aiming directly at the intruder. The intruder in question did not even bother looking up to notice the threat of course.

“007 they’ve just got a hit, best get read-” He finally bothered to lift his head from the screen, after adjusting his glasses he jerked backwards slightly at the very much aggressive and ready-to-pounce stance Bond was in.

“Christ Q” Bond lowered his gun onto the bed with a frustrated huff, and Q cleared his throat nervously. Yes, of course, the ‘no shocking any field agents awake’ because they could very easily kill you where you stand.

“Sorry about that, " but that would not be the only shock to the Quartermaster’s processing this morning.

The drowsiness left Bond’s body so quickly that one would not be able to tell he’d been deep asleep just moments ago. As he pushed off the thick duvet, Q was given the full view of Bond’s pyjamas (in the loosest sense), the black underwear was so thin it left nothing to the imagination as he dragged himself towards the edge of the king bed. The dark colour is such a hard contrast against Bond’s golden tan that Q’s eyes focused there first (or that’s what he’s telling himself anyway), but then his gaze drifts to the very much erect shape obscured by the fabric, and it made his breath hitch. Fuck he’s big. The sight made his mouth dry and it was so instantaneous his body reminded him it had been months since he last bothered to put himself out there for a good fuck.

He’s spiralling now, any reservations about looking suddenly quieted as he mapped Bond’s pronounced abs, the rich gold hairs sparsely spread out across his chest reflecting soft gold by the stream of sunlight through the curtain. The way he’s perched on the edge made him look ridiculous, the way those sculpted models appear in expensive perfume advertisements. It’s completely absurd. Time had stopped, and Q committed every curve, every bend, every…bulge to memory.

It was only when Bond cleared his throat did Q snap from his trance. He had the same expression as a cookie burglar caught red-handed. His cheeks were flushed and there was a tightness building below his waistband, this is promptly remedied by inching the folders in his one hand to cover it hoping Bond did not notice.

“At least buy me dinner first”, Bond sighed with a nauseatingly seductive look as he slowly rose to his feet. His short-cropped hair is longer than they’re usually allowed to be and he noticed a patch of it out of its usual pattern, telling of how Bond slept the night before and it was all too intimate. Q felt an itch in the tips of his fingers like they were imagining what it might be like to touch.

“I-I’m sorry that was inappropriate-” Will you look at that, what a stunning overhead lamp.

Bond stalked over wordlessly and every second he took felt agonising for Q who was glued at the threshold holding his file and laptop all wrong suddenly. That big old lion came to a stop close to Q.

“I’ve never been one for proper”

“Oh- Bond” It’s Bond again, the agent noted and delightfully catalogued it. His arms come up to rest against the door frame, serving his body up on a platter and to this Q immediately took another half step back.

“What did you need to tell me so urgently you had to barge in on me?” Oh for fuck- there was a point to this Q remembered but now that the files were effectively covering the evidence of his deviancy, he opted for a rushed-

“They found the agent responsible for the missing case you should get dressed. I will tell you everything along the way. I’m currently tracking their location”

Bond nodded but did not shift from his ‘pose’ by the doorframe, to this Q quickly swivelled around back to his room wishing his entire body would implode just then to save himself from this embarrassment.

“They're called clothes, Bond-” he mumbled. Bond did not miss it.

“I think you're just wearing too many”, Bond laughed and shut the door.

Bond 1, Q 0.

→ Chapter II.

════════════════════════════════════════════

[chadillacboseman]

This is the OC fairy 🧚 Use this ask to infodump about your OCs and send to 10 other blogs whose characters you'd like to know more about! ❇️

Alex Demir (Mortal Kombat) Alex is Turkish, raised in Istanbul and emigrated to the USA with his parents when he was 13. He's a certified college drop-out, but borders on being a chemical engineering prodigy. He can tell you the periodic table by heart, but may or may not believe that his friend Kate can talk to pigeons.

Alex is the resident Black Dragon explosives expert since No Face blew himself to hell. He practices extra care when it comes to civilian lives, but may hit the detonator a little too soon if you're the type of merc who isn't as careful as he is.

Alex has a heart of gold that refuses to harden despite his working conditions. After enduring a long period of near suicidal desperation, Alex persevered and now has a support system of friends inside the Black Dragon that keep him sane. He still calls his mother once a week, and his lie that he's working as a government contractor has held up so far.

--

Jeremiah "JJ" Mitchell (Mortal Kombat) JJ is former US Marine turned private military contractor and Earthrealm defender. An only child raised in Birmingham, Alabama, he joined up with the military at age 19 and served in several tours overseas. Unfortunately, luck was not in his favor when his transport hit an IED and he lost his leg below the knee while the rest of his squad was killed. Sent home with a medal and a prosthetic leg, JJ knew he could make more of a difference with his own command.

Thus was born Falcon Company.

An old friend, Jason Geller, offered him friendly competition in the form of Red Claw Mercenary Group, until greed reared its ugly head. There is no honor among thieves, and there is no code among mercs. When contracts started to get poached and Falcon Company's men began running into deliberate setups and bloodbaths, JJ took matters into his own hands.

Jason Geller died with a bullet in his heart and JJ wiped the slate clean.

Or so he thought.

--

Jesse Geller (Mortal Kombat) Jesse is the younger brother of Jason Geller, former commander of RCMG. Upon his death, the position of leadership was thrust onto him, as was the undying need for revenge.

Jesse is a certified sociopath. There is no jilted lover who broke his heart, there is no father who beat him or mother who neglected him. There is only a minuscule piece of metal embedded in his prefrontal cortex rammed through his skull when he was ejected from a vehicle in a rollover crash.

A strict regimen of anti-psychotics kept him in check for a long time until the death of his brother, which sent him into an uncontrolled spiral. Jesse is obsessed with prolonging his life for as long as possible, and is painfully aware of his flaws and shortcomings. As a result, he utilizes the Malleus Mark V armored exoskeleton, which greatly enhances his strength, speed, and aim. Without the suit, he is physically weak, a fact he that infuriates him.

As the new commander of Red Claw, Jesse uses his position to satisfy his bloodthirsty and ruthless desires, often choosing to be on the frontline, where he can be up to his elbows in blood and viscera.

[phightinghottakes]

while Blackrock’s probably meant ti be russia-coded if i was held at gunpoint and had to assign phighters real life ethnicities medkit will always be from istanbul to me idc He is istanbul born and raised Subspace is from izmir by virtue of being my favourite phighter

— ‼️

what is Istanbul I’ve never heard of that place in my life

[marigoldbaker]

upside-down-y

“What do I do?” said Willow. She sounded so little in that moment. Suddenly, Jenny wasn’t imagining that woman in a clean-cut black suit and heels, but the little girl in striped sweaters and white tights. “If there’s no—word—for it? I like being a lesbian, or I thought I did, but I can’t call myself that if I like Oz. And I think I do.” “You don’t need a word for it,” said Jenny simply. “I need a word for it,” said Willow, a stress on the pronoun. “Maybe people in general don’t, but I do.” “Maybe there isn’t one.” “I need—” Willow’s breath hiccupped. “I need the words, a-and the rules. To make sure I don’t—” Abruptly, Jenny knew who Willow needed to be talking to.

decided that, in lieu of tonight's blogging, now might be a nice time to post a tumblr-only exclusive that i've not yet figured out how to work into the canon of what you make! i would like to write a larger fic about willow's adventures at some point, & also figure out when this development will happen within the timeline, and once i do, i think i'll understand better how to work this thing in. (but it is definitely what happens.)

this requires no knowledge of my sprawling fic 'verse except for: it's an everybody lives/nobody dies au, jenny and giles are together with their eight-year-old son, this is a few years post-series.

read for -- giles and willow having frank and very loving discussions about sexuality, jenny calling willow "baby" because she's now a mom who does that kinda thing, briefest sleepiest calendiles child cameo!!!

~~~~~

Willow called at some godawful hour, late enough for it to be edging towards early-morning and for Jenny to be too tired to check the time. She happened to have been pulling an accidental all-nighter that had spun out from a few lines of code that just would not cooperate, so she managed to catch the phone before the second ring, hoping that it hadn’t woken up anyone upstairs. The shrill tone felt impossibly loud to her tired ears. “’lo?” she mumbled, rubbing at her eyes with her sleeve.

Anxiously, Willow said, “Jenny!” and then didn’t say anything else, her breathing nervous and rapid on the other end of the line.

“Willow.” Jenny was too sleepy to think. “You. Need something?”

“I don’t know! I just! Something happened and I can’t tell Buffy about it, and I can’t tell my mom, because she’ll think—well—she keeps saying she approves of the political implications of my lesbianism, so I feel like this is going to go over like a lead balloon, but I don’t know—I mean, I don’t think I’m straight again! It hasn’t—”

Jenny felt very much like this was a conversation that required her to be more awake than she was. Shuffling over to the kitchen table, she took a long sip of coffee. “The political implications?” she repeated skeptically.

“It’s just—we—” Willow took a wobbly breath in, then, in an exhaled confession: “I kissed Oz!”

For one bizarre, sleep-deprived moment, Jenny was convinced that she’d somehow been thrown back in time to 1997. “Oz?” she repeated. “Like, Oz, Oz?”

“Like Oz Oz!” Willow confirmed tearfully.

“Like your high school boyfriend Oz?”

“He was in Istanbul for some—thing—I don’t remember—and I wish I could say that we got drunk or high or something, but I was really only a little buzzed, and he was completely sober, and we were talking about everything we’ve been up to—he was the road manager for this really cool Eastern European band, and, and he’s been doing some networking with other werewolves, and oh, that’s part of why we met! We were talking about all of the complexities of connecting werewolves to resources that will help, and the stigma, and he’s really—well—he never really did much in high school, which I used to have such a complex about because I felt like he could do more than he was doing, but I guess I’ve changed because I just felt, I was so happy to see him doing things that mattered to him! And then that they also have a positive impact! And he’s still got that, that smile where when he looks at you, you sorta feel like you’re the only girl in the entire world! He still looks at me like I’m just the same, and I thought at first, you know, maybe that was why I felt all fuzzy and warm around him, because I’m a horrible person who gets off on validation, but then I started looking at him too and seeing that boy and—and—remembering—”

Jenny had absolutely no idea why any of this was a problem, but her ability to assertively interrupt the Willow-babble was significantly impaired when she was inches away from nodding off in between sentences. “Isn’t that good?” she tried, but Willow had not at all stopped talking.

“—and then we kissed and we actually did a little more than kissed, like, there was some over-the-clothes action and some grinding, except then when we stopped all of that, he walked me to my hotel! Like a gentleman! And he kissed me on the cheek and said he was really happy to share this moment with me, and who even does that??? What do I do now???? What if I’ve just—but I loved Tara so much! I still love Tara! I mean, I have NC-17 dreams about Tara, those wouldn’t happen if I’m straight! And I haven’t been with a guy since Oz, and I haven’t wanted to be with a guy since Oz, but now I want to—to call up Oz and be with him! Which, hello, so clingy, it was just one really nice month and then a whole bunch of kissing—”

“—wait, you’ve been spending a month with Oz in Istanbul and it’s only now become romantic?”

“WE WERE AT A CONFERENCE,” said Willow, as though this explained anything at all.

Jenny sat down at the kitchen table. “Willow—” God, she wanted to be asleep. “People can be bisexual,” she managed.

“But I’m not!”

“So you’re not into men?”

“But I am!”

She was going about this all wrong. “Baby. Are you into men or are you into Oz?”

A long silence. Then, timidly, “There’s not a difference, though, is there? You can’t be a real lesbian if—”

“Please God don’t turn into one of those witches,” said Jenny, who did not have the energy to be tactful. “Willow, there’s no way to be a real lesbian. There’s no manual. We define ourselves with the words that feel best for us, that’s what the queer community is about. What’s the word that feels best for you, right now?”

Another long silence. “I don’t know if the word is lesbian,” said Willow uncomfortably. “I don’t—I didn’t—really—question it? When it happened. It was Tara, first, and then Kennedy, and then a whole bunch of other girls, y’know, on account of the traveling, and then nobody at all for a little while, so I just—I wanted to kiss girls and I stopped looking at guys, and the only guy I ever noticed before Oz was Xander, and Xander, I didn’t know he was everything. They don’t tell you in high school what to do with someone who’s everything, they just say you should marry him if he’s a guy, but I don’t—I’ve never really wanted to marry Xander. We’re not like that. So I figured, Oz, he was just a fluke! Especially because of how everything with Tara happened, and I never thought any guy was pretty like I think girls are pretty, but—I don’t know. Oz is different. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Jenny leaned back against the wall, listening.

“I don’t know if the word is lesbian,” Willow repeated. “But—it doesn’t feel right to say that the word is bisexual, either. I’ve dated more girls than guys, now. I’ve built my life around imagining a girl there.”

“But Oz is different,” Jenny prompted.She was met with a tiny sigh in response. “Is that bad?”

“What do I do?” said Willow. She sounded so little in that moment. Suddenly, Jenny wasn’t imagining that woman in a clean-cut black suit and heels, but the little girl in striped sweaters and white tights. “If there’s no—word—for it? I like being a lesbian, or I thought I did, but I can’t call myself that if I like Oz. And I think I do.”

“You don’t need a word for it,” said Jenny simply.

“I need a word for it,” said Willow, a stress on the pronoun. “Maybe people in general don’t, but I do.”

“Maybe there isn’t one.”

“I need—” Willow’s breath hiccupped. “I need the words, a-and the rules. To make sure I don’t—”

Abruptly, Jenny knew who Willow needed to be talking to. “Baby, can you just stay on the line?” she asked gently. “Just for a second, I gotta—” and she set down the phone, stepping quietly out of the kitchen and into the unlit hallway, halfway up the stairs to the little landing between the first and second floor, where the bedroom door was still ajar.

Her baby was asleep in the middle of the bed, curled against Rupert like a little puppy; his dozing father’s arm was round his shoulders. Jenny leaned over the bed, carefully untangling a drowsy Art from Rupert. Art, always cuddly in slumber, whined; she ran her fingers through his hair, and he settled. “Rupert,” she murmured, shaking her guy awake. “Rupert.”

“Mmh?” Rupert stirred.

“Rupert, it’s Willow.”

Rupert’s eyes flew open. She saw the panic and gave his shoulders a reassuring squeeze, pressing her forehead briefly to his. “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay. She’s okay. Nothing bad. She just needs to talk to you.”

~~~~~

Willow waited on the line, listening to the crackly static, trying not to breathe too loudly for fear it would tumble into crying before Jenny came back. She heard rustling on the other end and held her breath, waiting, until Giles, his voice all rough and sleepy like it got during those old early morning research sessions, said, “Hello, Willow.”

“Giles,” Willow all but sobbed, feeling a rush of relief. “Did—did Jenny—tell you?”

“Some of it,” said Giles. “Just the loose pencil sketch, really. But I’d like to hear it from you.”

Maybe the Oz stuff wasn’t really why Willow had called Giles. “How do you know when to stop playing by the roles you made up when you were twenty-two and trying not to be the kind of asshole who destroys the universe?” she said, all in one breath. “I, I didn’t decide I was a lesbian because of the magics, but I decided it while I was in the magics, and I wanted to be good at being a lesbian, but now I’m worried that I’m not, if, if I kissed Oz and I liked it. I don’t know what the word is for that.”

“Bisexual?” said Giles.

“That’s what Jenny said but it isn’t that!” said Willow tearfully. “And lesbian doesn’t feel like it’s right either, even though it did for years before this!I don’t know what it is! I like girls and I like Oz, but I don’t like—I don’t want—I don’t think I want, but I don’t know—I wasn’t trying to look, after Tara, because I thought it was simple as—”

“Does there need to be a word for it?”

“That’s what Jenny said!”

A soft, tender laugh, the likes of which Willow hadn’t heard since she was in high school. She loved that laugh so much. It always meant that Giles knew the answer, and really, the problem wasn’t anything to be that afraid of, and five minutes from now, the world would feel okay again. “Willow,” said Giles. “Nothing in a person’s heart is ever finite. We are always—always—growing and changing past the words we used to describe ourselves five, ten, fifteen years ago.”

“But what if I—” Willow swallowed. “What if I change wrong?”

Giles didn’t answer for a couple of the worst seconds of Willow’s life. Finally, gently, he said, “Then you right yourself, if you can. Lean on others, if you can’t. We’re all muddling through. There’s no certainty that I can give you, as much as I wish that I could, but I can—” Now it was his turn to pause. A heavy one. “I can tell you that I love you,” he said, finally.

She had never heard him say that to her before. Not that directly, anyway. “I love you too, Giles,” Willow whispered. The whole thing felt faintly unreal: that she could say those words, and not snatch them back. Not watch his face contort uncomfortably as he tried to wriggle out of genuine emotional expression. “I just don’t wanna do what I did to everyone. And I don’t—if I was wrong, if I’m not—”

“I don’t think that you were wrong,” Giles countered. “You used the words that made sense to you at the time. Those words might not make sense with who you are now. Who you’re growing into. This is good, Willow. You questioning this is good, and healthy. I think…you need to become comfortable with the notion of not having that neat answer, or that label, if the notion of a label has become…restrictive.”

“I don’t want to not be a lesbian,” said Willow unsteadily. “It made everything make sense, when I found out about that word—”

“Does it help you now?”

Willow exhaled. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know. I don’t want to not kiss Oz. It feels like I got turned all upside-down-y again.”

Giles was quiet again. Then he said, “When I was in my twenties, my group, it was all men, save one. Diedre. It hadn’t been intended, her being a part of the group. We’d all wanted a place to…to be ourselves, free of societal expectations.”

Willow’s heart flipped over. This was not something Giles had ever talked about. She’d known, of course—pieced it together through Ethan, and what she’d learned, later, about the kind of magic Giles got up to, but to hear it from him was completely different. She wanted to say something, affirm that she was there on the other end of the line, but she was halfway afraid that he would change his mind if he remembered that she was listening. She held her breath.

“I…didn’t mind the notion of including women within our group, even then.” Giles laughed softly. “It wasn’t something I talked about with the rest, but I wasn’t—I’ve never really—it’s always been about the person, for me, you see. Ethan and the rest, though, they…it wasn’t usual for them to, ah, prefer the company of a woman. They abhorred the very notion. But that was simply how special Diedre was. To, to all of us.”

Something tight and knotted in Willow’s chest was beginning to loosen. She sat down on the hotel bed, curling her fingers around the phone, listening like her life depended on it.

“You, you don’t need to have the right words for it, Willow,” said Giles gently. “Lord knows we didn’t know any of them. And I’d never—endorse—the other sort of things I got up to back then, but I, I think I’ve spent a lot of time refusing to engage with the parts of my life that have been…joyful. All because I was ashamed of the person that I was then.”

Willow wasn’t ashamed of high school Willow, exactly. It was just that sometimes it was hard to reconcile Willow-then with Willow-now, and that wasn’t even getting into the Willow-in-between. “So, for them, it was…guys plus the one exception,” she said uncertainly.

“Do you need to know what it was?” Giles’s tone was mildly pointed. Instructive.

“If I don’t—”

“What if you don’t?”

“I mean, that’s why I’ve been traveling,” said Willow, halfway timid. “To learn stuff.”

“And what have you learned?”

Willow closed her eyes, half-afraid of the answer. Oz had smiled at her in the light of the full moon, unencumbered, gentle. He’d listened to stories about Tara and Kennedy and everyone with thoughtful patience. He hadn’t made a single move. The kissing had happened by accident, and because she’d initiated it, and the nice thing about Oz was that he didn’t question that. He didn’t have a whole bunch of things to say about whoa, hold on, didn’t you go gay and change your mind about me? He just smiled at her, like he saw her, saw right down into her bones, and like what he saw was good.

And she’d missed him so much. The pinwheeling way he talked about things had baffled her when she was in high school, but now, after years of traveling, it was nice to be with someone who had just as many strange questions and quiet observations as she’d been collecting herself. She liked hearing him tell his stories. She liked him. She liked the person he’d become, and the person that she was with him. The people that they could maybe be together.

“I think I’ve learned that I wanna kiss Oz again,” she said, barely a whisper.

She could hear the smile in Giles’s voice. “That’s lovely, Willow,” he said. “I’m very happy for the both of you.”

~~~~~

Giles went back to bed. Jenny and Art had taken up just about all of it, making it nigh impossible for him to lie down comfortably. An attempt to nudge Art a bit further towards the middle was met by an unhappy, half-awake whine that positively tore at his heart, so he resigned himself to sitting uncomfortably on the edge of the bed for three minutes before Jenny, half awake, said, “Honey. Are you being stupid again?” and pulled Art against her like a teddy bear, clearing space for him in the middle.

“Don’t solve all of my problems for me,” said Giles, lying down and reaching to squeeze her shoulder. Their arms encircled Art, who turned his head towards his mother, soft dark curls against her sweater.

[averagejoesolomon]

WELCOME TO THE KIDS. God, we are not ready for this installment, I'm so serious. Matt and Rachel are going to kill us all. To say nothing of the upcoming spycraft and general ass-kickery. Thank you for reading this with me. If you're new here, you can read Full Circle in full on Ao3. Enjoy!

Chapter Two

Before Matt boards a plane to New York, he pastes an OTS-issued mustache to his upper lip and switches the passports in his backpack.

There are no direct flights from Washington DC to Moscow. The reasons for this span far and wide, but the most significant factor also happens to be the simplest—sheer distance. At nearly five-thousand miles as the crow flies, there ain’t a whole lot of civilian aircraft that can make the flight in one go, to say nothing of the fact that neither country is especially amicable to the idea of direct contact. As part of a global effort to reduce the friction between two nuclear superpowers, Morocco offers up its services as the geographical and political buffer between the two destinations, its liminal and atmospheric nightlife acting as the ideal backdrop for the world’s transfers, layovers, and delays.

The trip usually takes eighteen hours if flown straight through, but the gin joints can eat into a full day if given the chance. For his part, Matt’s latest trip takes thirty-seven hours.

But he can’t blame the bars this time around because he doesn’t stop in Morocco, and hasn’t since he picked up a Soviet tail in the CMN terminal last spring. For every US intelligence agent flying through Casablanca, there are five Russian officers waiting on the ground with direct orders to identify and apprehend incoming westerners. The behavior has become too predictable. The Soviets have become too prominent. As Joe puts it: an agent in Morocco is an agent in the grave.

So Matt begins with a trip to New York, then London, then Istanbul, where he switches passports again to fly to Dubai, so he can finally make his way up to Moscow. He survives off of complimentary peanuts and ginger ale, stopping only at the occasional newsstand for the latest local headlines and a fresh packet of M&Ms—one of the few candies sold consistently across international borders. Vigilant airport hours are balanced with the relative safety of the sky, and his only sleep happens alongside the low, rattling drone of jet engines in his ear.

By the time he lands in the Soviet Union, he’s already added a goatee and traded his honey blond hair for a bleached wig that more closely resembles his newly assumed Slavic heritage. After deboarding, he identifies the nearest bathroom to the gate and enters the last stall on the left. As instructed by his CO, he runs his fingers along the wall until he finds a ridge in the tile. He carefully peels back a damn near invisible panel, revealing the compartment Langley promised him. There’s a change of clothes. A pair of contacts. A note written on evapopaper: E ibvltn aely ldrm oor we uti I. The key to this particular skip code was already given to him in New York, which helps him decipher the message that a driver will meet him in Lot 2. Thank God he doesn’t need to hail a taxi.

He drops the note into the toilet bowl and watches it melt from the edges inward. After changing into the provided outfit, he silently shreds his old travel clothes to be discarded in various trash cans on his way to the parking lot. Finally, he pops both contacts in, replaces the panel, and flushes the toilet in case anyone is listening. When he approaches the sink to wash his hands, unfamiliar blue eyes blink back at him from where his own brown eyes ought to be.

Between the sporadic sleep and the changing time zones, he has no idea what the local time is, but the dark sky narrows his possibilities to either very late or very early. The weight of travel saturates every muscle, every joint, every step, but he can’t afford to turn off his senses and slip lazily into the night—not in Moscow. Never in Moscow. After five consecutive flights in less than two days, the hard part has only just begun.

The Soviet Union has always been dangerous to western agents, but the capital has only gotten more hostile in Matt’s time as an operative. Last summer alone, ten US informants were executed in the city, including two of Matt’s most reliable contacts. In the following winter, a handful of Russian specialists left Langley for a field mission and didn’t come home. The last time Matt was here, he met with a Circle informant named Omar who offered to talk in exchange for medication not available in Russia, but easily acquired at a US pharmacy with a forged prescription. Omar is dead now, too, and Matt suspects an assassin finished him off before the illness did. These days, Moscow is a loaded spring trap ready to snap at the slightest tick in the wrong direction, deadly enough that even a skilled Pavement Artist stands to don a disguise or two.

Despite the ocean between them, Joe’s voice rings through Matt’s head. It’s always strongest in Moscow, imploring him to pay attention. Notice things. This is the sort of place where it’s best to lean into strengths, so Matt jumps in with the rest of the red-eyed passengers as the mob progresses through customs, down to baggage claim, and toward ground transportation. From his pace to his posture, he strives to put on a seamless Soviet appearance.

When he reaches the lot, he identifies a license plate number he was instructed to memorize, then enters the backseat of the boxy beige Lada. The driver doesn’t look back when he says, “Nice weather we’re having, yes?” in the sort of thick, Russian dialect that only natives can pull off.

Matt replies in his own practiced Russian. “I hear rain is imminent,” he says. “But I seem to have forgotten my umbrella at home.”

Satisfied with the exchange, the driver shifts gears and squeezes out of his parking spot, working his way toward the main city. By now, Matt knows the streets of Moscow as well as he knows the streets of Hay Springs, so he pays close attention to the route, just in case the driver has been compromised in the past forty-eight hours. The two of them do not speak, wary of bugs. They do not exchange glances, wary of pinprick cameras sewn into buttons. Instead, they embrace their existence as total strangers, not eager to leave any impression of an alliance.

This suits Matt just fine. That is, until seventeen minutes later, when the driver takes a right-hand turn away from the city center, then another.

In this business, in this part of the world, two right turns are a surefire signal to any veteran agent that something significant is about to happen, though it’s impossible to predict whether he’s looking at a positive or negative outcome until the moment actually passes. That’s probably why Joe’s voice is in Matt’s head again, anticipating the worst and providing Matt with escape plans. 

The sidewalks look reasonably empty, easy enough to run.

The rear doors appear to be unlocked from the inside. 

If the doors are jammed shut from the outside, Matt’s shoe has an iron wedge embedded in the rubber heel, which will help him kick through the window.

The driver isn’t armed, but if he makes a move for the glove box, Matt’s best option is to choke him from behind.

The little Lada pulls up to an alleyway tucked between high-rise apartments and a seemingly abandoned liquor store. There are no streetlights. No witnesses. The driver shifts the car into park and says, “You exit now.”

Risk assessment is a key component of any covert decision and, in that moment, Matt senses some serious risk waiting for him at the other end of that alleyway. At the same time, he also senses an even greater risk if he overstays his welcome with this native Russian driver who, by the way, has about a hundred extra pounds on him. Matt doesn’t need to be told twice. Hands up, he slowly exits the vehicle and prepares himself for the next piece of this rapidly evolving Moscow puzzle.

The instant Matt kicks the door shut and slings his bag back onto his shoulder, the Lada’s engine grinds into full gear with a squeal of the tires. He has officially run out of CIA instructions, but the good news is that he doesn’t have any time to doubt himself before his next priority makes itself apparent. The bad news is that his next priority should probably be to get away from the knife that was just pressed against his side.

The pointed end of the blade pokes along the muscle just above his hip. It hasn’t cut through his shirt yet, but one wrong move could change that and much more. “This is a nice surprise,” Matt says, sticking with Russian in a rushed attempt to keep his cover intact. “Where are we going?”

The answering Russian is good—excellent, even—but it has the subtle lilt of someone who learned it as a secondary language. “Is that all it takes to best you? One knife to the ribs and you roll over completely?” It’s a woman’s voice, and one of the few commonalities between the CIA and the KGB is the rarity of female agents among their ranks. Plus, the hold on the knife is petite and graceful, belonging to someone who was taught to fence before she was taught to fight. Matt decides he’s not up against a Soviet agent, but this ain’t a friend either. Not yet.

Joe’s voice is telling him to fight, but Matt’s curious enough to say, “In my experience, the person with the knife usually gets to make all the rules.” He continues with Russian, hoping that the woman will respond in kind and give him a chance to identify the accent layered below. “And, by the way, if you’re aiming for my ribs, you’re about two inches too low.”

She doesn’t disappoint. British accent, maybe. Or Australian. It really is impressively subtle. “Bold thing to say to someone with a knife to your side,” she says. “Remarks like that could get you killed.”

Matt huffs. “Maybe one day, but not today.”

She twists the knife a little deeper, pricking a hole in his shirt. “And what makes you so certain?”

“Because if you were going to kill me, ma’am,” he says, “I’d already be dead.”

This is a bit of a risky gamble. Few things make one human want to kill another more than spite, and Matt’s gone ahead and welcomed it with open arms. His mama always did say he had a real way about him, when it came to tempting fate. Thankfully, this particular bet seems to pay off as the knife finally falls away from his torso. The woman grabs him by the back of his collar instead, pulling him deeper into the alleyway. “You’ve taken all the fun out of it,” she says with a sigh. “Come with me. And don’t ever call me ma’am—that much will get you killed.”

This is a joke. He thinks. And jokes are awfully promising in a place like Moscow. 

At the end of the alleyway, another car sits idling. No headlights. No plate lights. Matt can’t know for sure, but he reckons the brake lights are probably cut, too. In the presence of a car designed for a perfect covert getaway, Matt recognizes this moment for what it is—not an attack, but an escape. A high-tech game of keepaway.

In this particular instance, Matt is not an agent. Rather, he’s an asset in need of transportation, and he’s just met his new driver. When this stranger opens the rear door and shoves him inside, Matt knows that she’s putting on a show for potential onlookers. When she says, “Stay down,” he understands that his silhouette can’t be seen driving through the city. It is not enough to blend in—not when he could have a tail leftover from travel, not when the customs office could have bugged his backpack, not when a patrolman might recognize him from another visit into the city and assign a car to follow close behind. Agents have been known to disappear between an airport and a safe house, which means Matt is only safe if he becomes completely invisible. It’s the sort of thing that can only be accomplished with careful timing, meticulous planning, and an appreciation for redundancy, after redundancy, after redundancy.

In other words, this plan has Rachel Cameron written all over it.

He’s managed to avoid the thought for the past thirty-seven hours—and, frankly, for the entire two years before that—but the idea of being in the same city as Rachel after such a long time away has him wishing for a knife to his side instead. Knife wounds, at least, are an isolated pain with one clear source. They can be cleaned and stitched up. Bandaged and healed. This business with Rachel pings around all of his insides, taking turns with his stomach, his heart, his throat, his lungs. Rancid regret rots his brain and radiates down to every last muscle. Laying alone in the back of a stranger’s car, staring up at the velvet interior, Matt gets caught in a loop of all the things he wishes he’d said sooner.

He didn’t expect it to all stop.

He never should have made her cry.

He didn’t think it would last this long.

He lies, sometimes. He’s sorry he has to lie.

He’s doing good, good, good as often as he can.

Matt has always meant to say these things to her, but the longer they went without, the harder it got to call. Now it feels like too much time has passed to say any of it—like apologizing will only serve as a bitter reminder of just how deeply they tore into one another. Like acknowledging it will only reopen scars that have only just started to heal over.

The longer they drive, the more Rachel’s proximity presses down on his chest, squeezing him into the seat. He knows he ought to count the seconds. Track the turns. Try to get some sense of where they’re headed. But Rachel Cameron fills every last available space in his thoughts and, God almighty, she would lecture him straight to high heaven if she knew how distracted he was.

Once he’s fully worked himself up into a tightly wound ball of unspoken mistakes, the tires hit a gravel drive. The car takes an awfully long route over bumpy back roads and heavily forested hills, which is especially impressive given the lack of headlights, before it finally slows to a stop. His driver turns to the backseat, moonlight catching on the curve of her cheek, an icy white steak against smooth dark skin. “Congratulations on surviving your trip,” she says, and Matt thinks it might be an American southern drawl hiding beneath her Russian, with the way her vowels drawl. “You may leave. Your bag, however, must stay until morning.”

Matt sits upright, his silhouette visible to the night once more. “Sure thing,” he answers. “It’s like I said—the lady with the knife gets to make the rules.”

This earns him a subtle tick of the stranger’s lips. Matt latches onto the near smile and vows to turn into a broad, toothy grin sooner rather than later. But in the meantime, he’ll settle for the semi-charmed side-eye she casts his way, just before she opens the driver door. “Bloody Hell,” she says as she exits, finally switching to English. “She was right about you.”

British. Damn. Matt should have trusted his gut.

Wait. 

He bolts out of the backseat and jogs to catch up. “Right about me?” he echoes, falling back into his own American English. “Who was right about me—right about what?”

The Brit’s stride is incredibly long, and would probably be better suited to a runway than barely-used backwoods paths overgrown with weeds. Matt has to quicken his own pace just to keep up with her. “Never you mind,” she says. “This way.”

“Doesn’t seem right,” he tries, “that you get inside info on me when I don’t even know your name—”

“This way,” she says again. “Surely I don’t have to remind you, of all people, that Moscow’s trees have ears.”

Matt has spent a significant portion of his career listening to conversations picked up by precisely placed bugs exactly like the ones she speaks of now. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her the surrounding trees probably aren’t bugged—at least not in the way she expects. The Soviets wouldn’t go to the trouble of tagging each individual tree, only to have an opposing agent uncover them within an hour of arrival. The birds, foxes, and deer, however, are worth a second glance. 

Either way, she’s right. The forest is no place for introductions. Instead, he follows as she hikes toward a tiny cabin tucked between one hillside and another. It appears perfectly plain on the outside, built from cedar logs and a tin roof. Shrubs and pines surround the perimeter, and Matt knows from experience that these are probably prickly and unpleasant, making it difficult for any unwelcome guests to get too close. The curtains are drawn. The chimney is without smoke. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say no one was home. 

They cover their tracks as they go, wordless right up until they reach the door. Mind split in the dozens of different directions demanded by good countersurveillance, Matt forgets to be nervous until the last minute, when the Brit knocks in a unique, four-rap pattern, then opens the door. The cabin’s light flashes into the nighttime forest, so they waste no time stepping inside. 

A new voice greets them. Then again, this voice ain’t really new. Not to him. He’d know this particular voice anywhere, even if he spent years, decades, centuries away. “Grace?”

Rachel Cameron waits for them just inside, seated at a small dining table at the center of a small kitchen. Rachel Cameron has lists, and blueprints, and notes scattered all across the tabletop, the chairs, the linoleum, splayed across kitchen countertops, and taped to cabinets, and stuck to the refrigerator with little black magnets. Rachel Cameron scans one stack of papers with the pencil in her right hand, then another with a highlighter in her left. Rachel Cameron looks up. Rachel Cameron meets his gaze. Rachel Cameron sighs.

Genius. He’s always known the word applied to her, though it strikes him anew. Rachel’s brilliance is better experienced in small doses, when he can slowly acclimate himself to the raw appreciation of it. The last two years have robbed him of his resilience and it’s like he’s seeing her for the very first time all over again.

Except it only takes a single moment for all of their history to come rushing back, filling the room from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, until there’s no more space for words, or gestures, or glances. Rachel looks away first, eyes falling back to a set of blueprints, and Matt follows her lead.

Thankfully, their companion cuts through the silence without a trace of discomfort. “Found your boy,” she says, kicking off her shoes. “He’s cheeky, this one.”

Matt starts to protest with “Oh, I ain’t—” at the same time Rachel says, “He’s not my—”

They both stop, and wait, and wait some more. Neither of them meet the other’s eyes. When enough excruciating seconds have passed, Rachel starts again, and Matt lets her. “Thank you for picking him up,” she says. “I know you were eager to stay in tonight, but—”

“But we aren’t taking any chances with this op,” the Brit finishes. “Understood. Really, Rachel. Though I will say, I was a bit surprised at how easily this one came along with a complete stranger.”

It is as if all of Rachel’s years of etiquette training hit her at once. She brings her fingers to her forehead, suddenly remembering. “Ah, yes, sorry. You haven’t been introduced yet.”

“Not unless you count my putting a knife into his side,” she says.

Matt clears his throat, finally finding his words. “In this business, that’s sometimes the only introduction we get.”

The Brit smiles again. It’s still not the full grin he’s looking for, but it’s closer. “Quite right.”

Rachel studies the pair of them, analyzing something Matt can’t see. She squints back and forth between them, her face twisting into something sour, as though she’s not sure she likes what she’s looking at. “Right,” she says, slowly. Then, clears her throat. “Right, well, anyway. Grace, this is Matthew Morgan. Matthew, this is Grace Harris—”

“Baxter,” Grace cuts in.

“Right,” says Rachel, squeezing her eyes shut, remembering again. Matt’s not sure he’s ever seen Rachel forget anything, and he takes note of the fact that she’s gone and forgotten twice in a sixty-second span. A data point he’ll save for later. “Grace Baxter.”

Grace Baxter holds out her hand to shake, meeting Matt with a far firmer grip than he’s expecting. He feels a couple of knuckles pop in his own hand, and resists the urge to call out. “It’s so great to finally meet you,” she says. 

That’s an awfully interesting choice of words. “Finally?” says Matt.

Grace does not elaborate. “My husband is around as well, but he’s being a good little agent and sleeping off his jet lag while it’s still dark.”

Matt, who hasn’t had more than two hours of consecutive sleep since DC, can’t quite hide the longing in his reply. “Smart man.”

“Outrageously so. It’s infuriating, really,” Grace agrees. “You’ll see him at breakfast tomorrow, but in the meantime we should all probably join him. The last thing we need is four exhausted agents trying to run an op in Moscow.”

Matt has about a million more questions for Grace Baxter, but none of them form quite right in his head. A fog fills his brain, clouding all of his better thoughts, and he reckons Grace is probably right. He’s useless to Rachel like this, and she’ll be the first to call him on it. “Sounds like a plan to me,” he says. “Do you think we ought to run it by the boss, first?”

Grace risks a glance toward Rachel, who has already returned to one of her blueprints. With Rachel’s attention occupied, Matt steals this chance to take her in. Her clothes are worn with travel and her shoulders slump with a need for sleep. Some of her curls have escaped the denim scrunchie holding back the bulk of her hair, falling into her face, and Matt remembers all at once that Rachel never did know how to stop, once she got started.

“Good luck,” Grace scoffs. “I’ve been trying to get her to sleep for hours. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. She’s been planning since the moment she walked in.”

Matt ain’t got any sense that Rachel doesn’t already have ten times over, and he doesn’t dare pretend otherwise. Thankfully, Rachel recognizes this and provides an answer of her own. “I’ve been planning for the past three months,” she corrects, just as she circles something on the page. “I just wanted to get some last-minute changes down before bed.”

Grace turns back to Matt. “You see? Hopeless,” she says. “You two may do what you please, but I intend to get some sleep. Pulling off a fake kidnapping at the edge of Moscow is exhausting work, you know.”

With this, she sends a playful jab into Matt’s side. Only problem is, Grace’s idea of a playful jab is most people’s idea of a full-on elbow to the ribs, and Matt has to catch his breath afterward. It takes all of his might not to let out an unmanly yelp in front of these two women. “Right,” he gasps. “See you in the morning.”

“Thanks again, Grace,” Rachel calls, not looking up from her writing.

With a wave of her fingers, Grace disappears behind one of the two available doors and shuts it with a twist of the lock. Matt realizes too late that her absence leaves just him and Rachel. Alone. Together.

This silence just won’t do.

“Flights good?” he asks.

“Yes,” she answers, scribbling away.

“Abby okay?”

Scribble, scribble. “Yes.”

“You okay?”

Scribble, scribble. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason.” This is worse than the silence, actually. Out of questions and energy stores depleted, Matt decides that his only remaining move is one that has been employed by desperate agents for centuries—a retreat. “Listen, I think I might join the others and try to get some sleep. Unless you need me?”

Scribble, scribble. “Not yet.”

“Great,” he says. “Just point me to my bed and I’ll be on my way.”

Rachel’s pencil freezes mid-sentence. This is Matt’s first clue that something is horribly wrong, followed by the fact that her eyes finally meet his and this time, she doesn’t look away. “No.”

“Um.” Retreat, retreat, retreat. “Okay? I guess I can find it—”

But Rachel is already up, dashing through the sliver of a living room that hosts a single chair, a coffee table, and a throw blanket. When she reaches the second available door in the cabin, blood drains from her already pale face, turning it to an alarming, ashen white. Her voice is hollow and distant when she squeaks out a soft, “No, no, no.”

When it comes to Rachel, Matt is woefully out of practice, but it doesn’t take an expert to see the panic, and Rachel’s panic ain’t built the same way everyone else’s is. The sight of Rachel out of sorts is enough to get Matt’s heart really, truly racing. “Rachel, what are you—?”

She flicks on the light, and when Matt steps up behind her, he’s met with an instant understanding of the situation. “There’s only one other bed,” she says, spinning to face him as she explains. “Abby and I usually share. I booked the safe house when it was going to be the two of us, but between the hospital, and the flights, and coordinating our assets…” Sometimes Matt wonders how loud the inside of her head must be. He suspects she doesn’t realize when her words dissolve between inner and outer monologue. It takes some deciphering to understand her complete thoughts from start to finish. “I forgot. I’m so sorry, I forgot to account for the beds when I switched agents, I’ll take the couch.”

By couch, he supposes she means the ancient loveseat tucked away at the end of the bed. The leather cushions are scratched and cracked, and the silver shine of a spring peeks out from beneath the quilt laid across its back. A grease stain rests along the arm where agents have laid their heads for years and years before. Throughout his travels, Matt has seen more than his fair share of uncomfortable furniture and this one has serious potential to rank among the worst, but this is Rachel’s third strike at forgetfulness when she’s usually a home run hitter. She needs to sleep, and sleep well, and it simply won’t do, for her to sleep on that old thing. “I’ll take the couch.”

“No it’s my mistake, I should—”

“Rachel,” he says, and his hands fall to her shoulders out of habit. Out of familiarity. “I’m sorry, but there just ain’t no way I’m letting you take the couch.” She’s looking up at him with big, brown eyes. They’re glassy, and tired, and he spares Rachel her dignity by ignoring the twinge of tears sneaking into either corner. “She may be all the way in Nebraska now, but there’s no quicker way to get Joy Morgan to Moscow than if I let you sleep on that couch.”

She shakes her head. “Matthew—”

“I’m telling you,” he tries again. “My mama can sense that sorta thing, and believe me when I say she’ll shake down the entire agency to find this cabin and knock me six ways from Sunday, right upside my head.”

“You’re worried that your mother will intimidate CIA agents into disclosing the location of one of their most heavily protected safe houses?”

“You’ve never seen my mama when there’s a matter of chivalry at stake.”

“Matthew, I—” she interrupts herself, this time, freezing when she meets his gaze. “Your eyes,” she says, studying the intimate features of his face. “Your eyes are blue.”

This is outright nonsense, and even more proof that she needs to sleep. That is, until he remembers the light blue contacts. He blinks, as though he might be able to get rid of the color, because everything artificial seems so ridiculous now that he’s in the presence of someone who knows him to his core. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sorry.”

With that, she studies him more deeply, and he notices the faint lines that have started to form where her eyebrows always furrow, the freckles she’s accumulated along her cheekbones with years of missions spent in the sun, the ease with which her lips fall into a tight, even line. Her eyes bounce between each of his, debating her next words before she finally says, “Why are you apologizing?”

Matt’s breath catches, and he knows this is it. The opening he’s been waiting for. But it’s late, and they’re tired, and they both smell like planes, and airports, and taxis. So despite the desperate words trying to crawl from his heart to his mouth, he settles on something softer. “I think we both know I’ve got plenty to apologize for,” he says, finally letting his hands fall. “But I think we both know this ain’t the time to do it.”

Genius. She’s always been smarter than him in more ways than he can count, and this moment is no exception. She’s smart enough to know that they both need clearer heads. That they both need a moment of quiet. That morning will come and they’ll both be better for it, and that tonight is no place for their usual fights. “I’m sorry I didn’t think about the bed,” she says, barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t—”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“I know you aren’t.”

“I’m so tired.”

She has this way of taking small words and making them feel big. Of making them span years, when they shouldn’t last more than a second or two. Rachel isn’t tired, so much as she’s exhausted, and burned out, and lonely, and weighed down—and she manages to convey all of this by simply shaking her head, and folding her face into her hands, and standing in front of him with all of the humility in the world.

He has this way of feeling her when she most needs it, in a way that no one else seems to be able to. Of hearing those great big words tied up in all of her small ones, and trying his best to say the right thing in response. “Let’s get some sleep, then,” he says, as though it’s the simplest thing in the world. “We’ll get some sleep, and when you wake up, you can tell me exactly what all of those crazy kitchen plans mean.”

Despite herself, she laughs. It's a pitiful, mangled thing, but it still counts. “They’re not as crazy as they look.”

And Matt can’t hold back a smile. “Well thank God for that, because they look…” he tries to find a word, but this is much like everything else Rachel does, in that it defies explanation. “I mean, seriously, Rachel, you’ve gone full Doc Brown in there.”

She shoves him, gently, and Matt makes a show of clasping at his chest in faux hurt. “They’ll make more sense in the morning,” she tells him.

“Everything will make more sense in the morning,” he assures her.

And she believes him. “Okay,” she says.

“Okay,” he says.

That’s enough for them, for tonight, for now. It’s all they need. And maybe tomorrow will be bitter and hard at the center of Moscow, working an op that Rachel has given her whole heart to, but right now is easy and safe. Right now, they’re old friends who need each other more than they knew. 

Rachel finds his eyes again, and sighs something that sounds like relief and regret mixed together. “At least let me ease some of my guilt by hunting down a truly outrageous number of blankets on your behalf.”

Matt looks back to the loveseat and knows in his gut that there will not be enough room for more than one blanket. There is barely enough room for Matt, as is. Even so, he smiles at her. “Rachel Cameron,” he says. “I’ll always take any blanket you hand me.”

[ottomanladies]

Hello,sorry for bothering you,I have question there is version according to Sakaoglu(in Bu mulkun Sultanlari) and Alderson that Ahmed I had daughter Zeynep Sultan who had died after 1617 and had died young not in early childhood or in infancy like Esma Sultan,Zahide Sultan,Hatice Sultan and possibly Kosem Sultan(?) In Sicil i Osmani,it's also mention that she had died young and was burried in her father's mausoleum,also there is possible theory that she could be daughter of Mahfiruze,because Osman II had daughter too named Zeynep Sultan and from those names for sultanas doesn't appear later untill Ahmed III.Do you think could be possible that Osman's daughter was named after Ahmed's daughter Zeynep who may have been Osman's full sister? There is also version that Turhan Sultan could have possible 1 or maybe 2 sons who had died in infancy. Some mention that Turhan Sultan had second son Şehzade Ahmed who had died shortly after his birth,it's according to Öztuna based on Turkish Wikipedia(but I don't what excact book)and others mention (Turkish men,Ottoman Women:Popular Turkish historians and the writing of Ottoman women's history,page 206-Ruth Barzail Lumbrosso). Do you know more about it or if it's mentioned that indeed? According to some there is also possibile theory for Turhan Sultan to have anither son,as there is infant sarcophagus of Şehzade Mehmed Sultan Ibrahim'in oglu in the mausoleum of Ahmed I buried next to Şehzade Bayezid also son of Ibrahim I.

Hi! Well, Zeynep has a religious meaning:

Zaynab is the name of a daughter and a granddaughter of the Islamic prophet Muhammad and two of his wives: Zaynab bint Jahsh and Zaynab bint Khuzayma.

Öztuna says Zeynep Sultan died “very little” and was one of Ahmed I’s last children. If he’s right, then he couldn’t have been Mahfiruze’s, as rumours of her death had begun in 1610.

If Öztuna is not right, and she was born earlier, then maybe she was Osman’s younger full sister. What you said about the names is very interesting and could have happened, but as of now we cannot confirm it.

I have checked Turhan’s Wikipedia page and the source to that claim is “Öztuna, Yılmaz, Hürrem Sultan, Ötüken Yayınevi, İstanbul, 1978. (isbn=9754371415)”. The ISBN code corresponds to “Büyük Osmanlı Tarihi Osmanlı Devleti'nin Siyasi Medeni Kültür Teşkilat ve San'at Tarihi (10 Cilt)”, which is not a work I own. I do have several books of Öztuna, though, and this claim wasn’t reiterated in them. According to him, Turhan was the mother of Mehmed IV and Beyhan Sultan.

Still per Öztuna, these are Ibrahim’s children who died in infancy:

Şehzade Murad (22.3.1643-16.1.1644), buried in Ahmed I’s mausoleum

Şehzade Osman (8.1644-1646), buried in Ahmed I’s mausoleum

Şehzade Bayezid (1.5.1646-8.1647), buried in Ibrahim’s mausoleum

Şehzade Cihangir (14.12.1646-1.2.1648), buried in the mosque of Ahmed I

Şehzade Orhan (10.1648-1.1650)

Şehzade Süleyman, buried in Ahmed I’s mausoleum

Şehzade Ahmed, born and dead in 1642, buried in Ahmed I’s mausoleum

Şehzade Ahmed (2), born and dead in 1642, buried in Ahmed I’s mausoleum

Safiye Sultan, buried in Ahmed I’s mausoleum

Hatice Sultan

I don’t know how accurate this list is.

As for Barzilai-Lumbroso's dissertation, on page 206 there's nothing about a Şehzade Ahmed born to Turhan:

Turhan Sultan's transformation from a 14 year old Russian captive, presented to Kosem Sultan who had been the Valide Sultan at the time, to a powerful valide herself. Kosem was concerned that Sultan Ibrahim (1640-1648), who was considered mentally unstable, was the last male descendent of the dynasty, and "began to introduce a slave girl to the sultan every day for the purpose of producing a son. She gave Turhan to Sultan Ibrahim after a short training [period]. Turhan was a very beautiful attractive girl. Tall and well developed, her body was white, her eyes blue, her hair was reddish yellow... Turhan tied herself to sultan Ibrahim with her intelligence and coquetry…" Turhan, however, soon lost her favorite position, as Ibrahim became addicted to women. Feeling the Sultan neglected her and her son Mehmed she "attempted to argue with her husband.. .at the head of the pond. But the sultan's daughter took Turhan's child from her arms and threw him to the pond. The heir to the throne, Mehmet, almost drowned and died. Turhan Sultan saved her child with difficulty [and] withdrew from public life and began to live quietly." She returned to the historical scene, we are told, upon becoming Valide Sultan with her son's ascendance to the throne in 1648, only to find Kosem unwilling to give up her powers. The bitter struggle that ensued between these two women ended with the strangling of Kosem, usually attributed to Turhan, who then acquired absolute rule of the harem.

The only Şehzade Ahmed mentioned throughout the dissertation is Gülnuş's son.

[ahopkins1965]



The 10 Largest Religions in the World

After millennia of passing down knowledge through rich oral and written traditions, each of the world’s major religions has carried ambitious philosophies through countless eras. Woven throughout these mystical theologies are the epic sagas of humanity’s ancestors, who fought every day to uncover their purpose in life, just the same as us. Different approaches often utilize the same foundational myths, such as Eastern religions and the concept of the Dao, or the Abrahamic faith’s shared understanding of monotheism. Worth remembering is that humankind has been infatuated with religion for at least as long as people have pursued agriculture, approximately 10 thousand years. By studying these 10 ongoing faiths, one glimpses into an ancient history involving forefathers who gambled their souls on what they believed.



Read MoreSacred Texts Of Major World Religions

Christianity

 Holy Mass in the Church Our Lady of Queen in Poland



At well over 30% of the global population, Christianity is a religion that resonates with over 2 billion believers. The core of the belief, despite the glaring differences between Protestants, Catholics, and Orthodox, revolves around the 1st-century figure that is Jesus of Nazareth. As an Abrahamic religion, Christians claim a belief in a singular god, who represents himself through three identities: Jesus, the Holy Spirit, and God the Father.

A Christian Cross on a wooden platform



Another essential aspect is the death and resurrection of Jesus, in which humanity is allowed to repent of all misdeeds, and eventually spend the afterlife with their beloved deity. The philosophical values and codes of Christianity have been influential enough to form the backbone of Western institutions, despite a growing acceptance of secularism.

Read MoreWhat Is The Difference Between Catholic And Christian?

Islam

The Blue Mosque of Istanbul or Sultan Ahmet Mosque, Turkey



Most active towards the end of the 6th century, the Prophet Muhammed is celebrated by Muslims today for founding the religion of Islam. Roughly 1.8 billion followers populate the world, the majority of which are spread between northern Africa, west Asia, and Indonesia. The prophet desired to repair the Abrahamic religions, which he believed to be corrupted.

Silhouette of a woman against the background of traditional Iranian architecture



Islam is marked by its adherence to discipline, in which abstinence from worldly behaviors as well as observance of daily rites is rigorously demanded. Notable historic discoveries have come from Islamic institutions, in fields such as algebra, surgery, architecture, and even coffee. The two main branches of Islam that cohabitate the Muslim world are Sunni and Shia, which are said to have been divided 14 hundred years ago over an issue of succession.

Read MoreIslam: History, Beliefs, And Modern Significance

Hinduism

A statue of Vishnu, a god in Hinduism



The origin of Hinduism, a religion with 1.1 billion followers, is difficult to pin down because it began as an amalgamation of different beliefs. Officially formed between 2300 B.C. and 1500 B.C., the Indus Valley near modern-day Pakistan is the location in which it first blossomed. Typically thought of as the 'religion with 33 million gods,’ the majority of Hindus worship one god alone, albeit they accept the existence of other gods.

Hindu people worshipping Goddess Durga under holy smoke, which is a Durga Puja festival ritual



Core values are ones such as Karma and Samsara. Karma dictates that the moral sum of the deeds we produce will be returned to us eventually, through consequence or reward. Samsara is a model for the cyclical nature of life, a symptom of which is reincarnation. Historical contributions to the world include mathematics as well as astronomy and yoga.

Read MoreCountries With The Largest Hindu Populations

Buddhism

A Rock statue of Buddha





A prince who renounced his wealth to pursue wisdom, the Buddha is an eclectic figure from the 5th century B.C. who brought together many different beliefs in order to develop a revolutionary philosophy on human identity and purpose. The goal is to achieve an enlightenment called Nirvana, through meditation, kindness, and hard work. Values revolve around the absence of an ‘essential self,’ impermanence, and the reality that life is suffering. Therefore, a primary aim for mankind is the elimination of suffering in all its forms.

A young Buddhist monk



The orange tunic, that the monks famously adorn, represents a fire that burns away impurities. Two different sects exist, the Theravada Buddhists and the East Asian Buddhists, which differ in their selection of texts. At 500 million followers, Buddhism has been lauded for its effective use of an egalitarian philosophy that has worked to dismantle caste systems worldwide.

Read MoreBuddhism

Shinto

The Kumano Hongu Taisha, one of the three grand shrines of Kumano, in traditional shinto architecture in Tanabe, Wakayama, Japan



Shinto, the ever-nebulous religion of Japan, has no settled doctrine or origin story. At its simplest, Shinto beliefs gravitate towards a fluid idea of kami. Kami are the personified concepts of wind, rivers, trees, and other natural elements. Due to the influence of Christianity, the concept of an afterlife was introduced, and some followers believe humans become kami after death.

Lion-dog, or komainu, at Miumajinja shinto shrine, Kanazawa, Japan. These traditional statues are seen in pairs in most shrines and are intended to ward off evil spirits.



The religion became more concrete in the events surrounding WWII, wherein the Japanese government instituted it as a state religion that aimed to venerate the emperor as a living, human, kami. Otherwise, Shinto beliefs have developed since the 6th century as a nature-focused series of scattered beliefs, that merged and then split with Buddhism as well as Confucianism. With 104 million followers and a focus on ancestry and nature, the belief can be understood through indulging in Japanese storytelling; wherein, the horror of 20th-century industry threatens the magic of the world around us.

Read MoreWhere Is The Shinto Religion From?

Sikhism

A Sikh person praying while in the lotus position

In 1469, the first Guru of Sikhism was born. Guru Nanak, a northeast Pakistan native, migrated to India and began to record and teach his revelations during journeys around the Islamic and Hindu world throughout the early 1500s. These revelations are few but substantial: Share with others, earn an honest living, meditate on God’s name and resist negative behaviors.

Sunset at Golden Temple (the preeminent spiritual site of Sikhism) in Amritsar, Punjab, India

Currently, the 25 million followers organize to promote universal egalitarian principles and believe that all faiths ultimately worship a singular divine being. A well-known example of this mindset is the tendency for Sikh temples to have a community kitchen dedicated to serving meals to anyone, for free. Sadly, Sikh history is marked by political difficulty and deadly rebellion against intolerant regimes. Several of the original Gurus, leaders that carry on Nanak’s spiritual empowerment, were executed by the state authority of their time.

Read MoreSikhism

Judaism

The Hebrew handwritten Torah, on a synagogue alter, with Kippah and Talith

The original Abrahamic faith, Judaism has been practiced for over 3500 years. Archaeological evidence confirms the existence of two adjacent Jewish kingdoms between 900 and 700 B.C., and the religious texts assume a confederacy of 12 tribes united in faith before that. Each tribe, and subsequent kingdom, claim descent from Abraham.

A Jewish person praying at a Synagogue

The faith is monotheistic, in contrast to the ancient Levant’s polytheistic history. The devotion to their god, “Yahweh,” comes from his commitment to them as a chosen people, while constantly being urged by him to return to pious behaviors. Unlike Christianity and Islam, there is no detailed assumption of the afterlife other than a deep sleep called “Sheol.” Roughly 14 million Jews continue to practice the faith today, despite extreme persecution during World War II.

Read MoreJudaism

Taoism

Laojun Mountain, Luoyang, Chinese Taoist Holy Land

A ‘one-size-fits-all’ belief, Taoism is a series of principles and axioms that attempts to guide followers towards balance. Two ‘persons’ sit at the heart of Taoism; the Tao itself, and Laozi, a 6th-century contemporary of Confucius. Laozi and his school decreed that the Tao is undefinable, and only engaged through lived experience. It is a powerful force that runs throughout the universe and encourages “De,” which is adherence to the Tao.

The Taoism Book of Harmony, with the Taoism Symbol on the Book Cover

The Tao is the natural order of the universe and is not worshipped as a god, and it is believed that humans merge with the Tao upon death. By adhering to the lifestyle of De, the 12 million followers of Taoism trust that they will experience less suffering. Inaction and a passive effort to synchronize with this balance is the key differentiation from the more intentional Confucianism.

Read MoreTaoism

Confucianism

A statue of Confucius, located in Harbin Confucian Temple, Heilongjiang, China

Despite dancing around spirituality, leading many to consider Confucianism as a philosophy only, the religion establishes a theological understanding of the Universe, albeit an impersonal one. In it, the priority of humankind is to strive to synchronize with the order of the universe in order to achieve oneness with heaven for the tranquility of community and self. This order is defined by “Tiān,” a non-speaking ‘God of Heaven’ which can be best translated as “the way things are.”

Confucian rite (Incense burning ceremony) held at the Jeonju Confucian Temple in Jeonju-si, South Korea

Moreover, Confucianism argues that the way humankind should act is a way that conforms to the most evident morals: charity, obedience to mentors, humility, and compassion. All people are inherently good and must work to realign themselves with that nature. Since its establishment by Confucius and his writings in 500 B.C., the faith currently hosts over 6 million followers.

Read MoreWhat Are The Holy Sites Of Confucianism?

Caodaism

Traditional funerals of people Cao Dai religion, in Ho Chi Minh city - Tay Ninh province, Vietnam

A melting pot of many of the world’s largest faiths, Caodaism is a recent creation originating in 1921 when a vision came to an assembled group of mediums located in Vietnam. Nearly 4.4 million believers align themselves with the core tenets that teach harmony, unity with a monotheistic deity, reincarnation, and anti-materialism.  Besides the association with Buddhism, Confucianism, and Taoism, Caodaism asserts the existence of several creator spirits as well as devils led by a being resemblant of Satan; this is a dynamic similar to Abrahamic faiths.

The Gate and Tower In Tay Ninh Holy See (Cao Dai Great Temple) in Tay Ninh City, South of Vietnam

Naturally, to achieve heaven, a soul must evolve its spirit through good behavior during successive reincarnations. The belief was influential in Vietnam during the 1930s, not only because of its quick spread, but also due to the anti-colonialist sentiment that it cultivated against the French occupation. In 1997, after being banned for 22 years, the practice of the religion was permitted in Vietnam once again.

Read MoreCaodaism

The shocking reality about each faith, side to side, is that they tend to possess more similarities than differences. For instance, students of each belief spend years honing their self-control and ability to grow through introspection. Countless tales can be heard of disciples who swear by the fact that these faiths transformed them into proud and more joyful members of society. Furthermore, the scholars of each belief are happy to borrow from each other when the opportunity presents itself. For example, famed Christian theologian C.S. Lewis cleverly integrated the concept of Tao into his own writings. After examining the history and core values of each faith, it is evident that the secret to how they might morph and evolve further is buried in the future.

RankReligionNumber of Followers1Christianity2.38 billion2Islam1.90 billion3Hinduism1.16 billion4Buddhism506 million5Shinto104 million6Sikhism25 million7Judaism14 million8Taoism12 million9Confucianism6 million10Caodaism4.4 million

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Cory Price November 21 2022 in Society

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[adorablediscoveries]

Turkish Artist Meticulously Recreates Iconic Movie Scenes Using Hundreds of Thousands of Tiny Dots

At first glance, Çağatay Odabaş' artworks resemble large-scale printed movie posters. But step closer, and you’ll discover an astonishing detail—each piece is meticulously crafted from hundreds of thousands of tiny hand-drawn circles.

The 37-year-old Turkish artist attributes his unique artistic style to two childhood passions: playing with LEGO and watching movies. He meticulously selects iconic film stills from his vast collection, which he considers his personal research library. From there, he deconstructs each image into a mosaic of tiny circles, assigning a specific code to each one to guide the coloring process. The result is an intricate visual puzzle that comes together like a complex LEGO model, revealing an ultra-realistic masterpiece of pointillism.

“I think this is similar to the LEGO sets I played with obsessively as a child,” Odabaş told Based Istanbul. “When you buy a LEGO set, the final image is on the box, and you piece it together knowing what it will become. That’s exactly how I approach my paintings.”

But assembling these cinematic mosaics is far from child’s play. Each painting consists of 150,000 to 200,000 hand-drawn circles, all individually assigned and colored following a detailed coding system. Given the complexity and time commitment, Odabaş works with a team of assistants, yet each piece still takes two to three months to complete, with the artist sometimes working 18-hour days and spending days on end in his studio.

“We operate like a film production company,” he explains. “Just like a movie studio has different departments—screenwriting, casting, set design, costumes, lighting, and logistics—each member of my atelier has a specific role in bringing the artwork to life.”

On the topic of digitalization in art, Odabaş embraces technology when it enhances an artist’s craft but resists when it overshadows the human touch.

“One of the things that fascinates people about my work is the surprise effect,” he says. “From afar, it looks like a digital print, but when you step closer, you see the thousands of hand-painted circles, each one unique, like DNA.”

His works have been widely shared on social media, sparking curiosity and amazement. For Odabaş, the greatest reward is seeing people ask the question: ‘How did he do this?’

[mariacallous]

Croatian Women's Network staged protests all over the country on Monday in solidarity with women in Bosnia who - shocked by a particularly brutal recent murder – are demanding more effective protection against male violence.

In the action titled "Women's Safety is the Responsibility of the State," women's organizations in Croatia submitted requests to the Ministry of Justice on Monday, advocating for enhanced protection for women against violence.

"Violence against women is a systemic issue that requires appropriate sanctions. The state must finally take a proactive stance on this problem and enact legislation that aligns with the Istanbul Convention and is not gender-neutral," emphasized Sanja Juras, coordinator of the Women's Network of Croatia.

About 50 women gathered for a protest in front of the Ministry of Justice in Zagreb on Monday, holding a sign bearing the message: “Women’s Safety is the Responsibility of the State”.

The protest briefly blocked a section of the city’s Vukovarska Street. The stopped cars honked their horns, responding to the call from their posters to “honk that the minister hear”.

The protest aimed to commemorate Nizama Hecimovic, the victim of a brutal murder earlier this month in Gradacac, Bosnia and Herzegovina.

Nermin Sulejmanovic shockingly livestreamed his wife’s murder over Instagram, after which he killed two more people and wounded another three. Nizama’s murder has again underscored the inadequacies of state systems designed to safeguard women from violence.

On behalf of nearly 40 women’s organizations and initiatives, they called on the Ministry of Justice to improve women’s safety across Croatia and establish a working group dedicated to formulating legal solutions to address femicide.

They also want femicide defined as a distinct crime within the penal code, with comprehensive legislation that covers all forms of violence against women.

They also demanded the adoption of a national strategy encompassing all forms of violence against women, in accordance with the so-called Istanbul Convention – the Council of Europe’s 2011 Convention on Preventing and Combating Violence Against Women and Domestic Violence – along with the allocation of funds for its implementation in the state budget.

Throughout the day, protests took place in 18 Croatian towns and cities, including Zagreb, Split, Rijeka, Osijek, Pakrac, Mali Lošinj, Beli Manastir, Vukovar, Virovitica, Krizevci, Korenica, Sibenik, Karlovac, Zadar, Trogir, Korcula, Dubrovnik and Glina.

Women from all over Croatia were encouraged to halt their activities on Monday at 4 pm for 15 minutes, symbolically supporting the motto: “If Women Stop, Everything Stops.”

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Kemal Ataturk, who strides the Turkish landscape like a colossus — significantly a bronze statue of him in a dinner-jacket (with the trousers cuffed) commands the Golden Horn — is in the position of a man with no more worlds to conquer. His reforms have been so drastic and so comprehensive that in cultural and social fields at least there is very little left to do. He abolished the fez, turned the mosques into granaries, Latinized the language. He ended polygamy, installed new legal codes, and experimented with a (paying) casino in the sultan’s palace. He compulsorily disinfected all the buildings in Istanbul, adopted the Gregorian calendar and metric system, and took the first census in Turkish history. He cut political holidays down to three, demanded physical examination of those about to marry, and built a new capital, Ankara, in the Anatolian highlands, replacing proud Constantinople. He limits most business activity to Turkish nationals and Turkish firms, abolished books of magic, and gave every Turk a new last name. He emancipated the women (more or less), tossed the priests into the discard, and superintended the writing of a new history of the world proving that Turkey is the source of all civilization.

Kemal Ataturk, a somewhat Bacchic character, the full record of whose personal life makes you blink, is the dictator-type carried to its ultimate extreme, the embodiment of totalitarian rule by character. This man, in personality and accomplishments, resembles no one so much as Peter the Great, who also westernized his country at frightful cost. Kemal Ataturk is the roughneck of dictators. Beside him. Hitler is a milksop, Mussolini a perfumed dandy, and Goemboes a creature of the drawing-room. At one of his own receptions Kemal, slightly exhilarated, publicly slapped the Egyptian minister when he observed the hapless diplomat wearing the forbidden fez.

No man has ever betrayed more masters, and always from motives of his own view of patriotism. In 1918, a staff officer, he was chosen to accompany Vahydu’d-Din, the Crown Prince, to Berlin, and there assist him in consultations with Hindenburg, Ludendorff, and the German high command. Three years later Kemal booted him, as Sultan VI, out of Turkey.

After the Armistice Kemal was sent by the authorities as inspector-general of the eastern vilayets to investigate a nationalist insurrection in Kurdistan. He was ordered to find and quell these rebels. He found them all right. But instead of crushing the movement he took charge of it! Within two years he brought victory in all of Turkey to the very organization his superiors had sent him to suppress.

In 1926, following a not very professional attempt on his life, he hanged what amounted to the entire leadership of the opposition. Among those he allowed to be sentenced to death and executed were Colonel Arif, who had been his comrade-at-arms in the Greek campaign, and Djavid Bey, the best financial mind in Turkey. Kemal had a champagne party in his lonely farm-house at Chankaya, near Ankara, to celebrate the occasion, and invited all the diplomats. Returning home at dawn, they saw the corpses hanging in the town square.

(In 1930 Kemal decided that totalitarian rule to the extremity which he carried it was a bore, and, uniquely among dictators, he proceeded to create an opposition, naming various men to be its leaders. Somewhat timidly, they accepted. Kemal wanted to see if Western democratic methods would work; he wanted an opposition bench to argue with in parliament. The system didn’t work. The Turks, with the memory of 1926 in mind, didn’t seem to understand. . . .)

...

Kemal’s early life was that of a rebel and above all of a hater. He wrote revolutionary pamphlets and even poems. He was sentenced to jail in Constantinople, but his skill as an officer made him valuable, and be was released. Although a “Young Turk,’’ his position was that of a suppressed oppositionist; he detested the Young Turk triumvirs, Talaat, Mavtr, and Djemal, a feeling they warmly reciprocated. But his reputation as a soldier was invincible, after service on the most remote, dangerous and hopeless fronts, and the way to his career was open.

That career is without parallel in modem times. Kemal engineered the congresses of Erzenun and Sivas and organized the nationalist movement, leading it to victory. Other people have created nations. Kemal’s job was harder. He took a nation that was centuries deep in rot, pulled it to its feet, wiped its face, reclothed it, transformed it, made it work. In 1919 Turkey was so crushed and broken that it would have welcomed renunciation of sovereignty and a British mandate. In 1922 Turkey was the one enemy state so strong that it practically dictated its own peace terms.

Kemal alone, it may be said, does not deserve credit for all this. The general program of westernization was planned by the Young Turks and he simply appropriated it The Greeks were destroyed by the duplicity of Lloyd George and the treason of the allies, also by their own incapacity, not by Kamal’s armies. Sultan and caliph were doomed in any case, and it is no tribute to Kemal that he kicked them out The Treaty of Lausanne was won not by Ismet Pasha, but because of jealous squabbles between the Western powers. And so on.

Kemal lives these days in Chankaya, a complete recluse. His model farm is his avocation ; a true megalomaniac, he designed the water reservoir in the shape of the Sea of Marmora! He married a woman named Latiii Hanum in 1923, but divorced her a few years later ; now he lives alone. He is the most inaccessible public character in Europe. King George V himself would not have been more difficult to interview. Unlike all other dictators, he keeps from the foreground; the Turkish papers do not mention his name half a dozen times a month. He has a group of soldier underlings and cronies with whom he plays poker. Rarely, he gambles at cards with foreign diplomats; he usually wins, then insists on returning his winnings. He still likes to drink.

The Turkish dictator differs from almost all others in that he had no socialist period in youth and even in maturity betrays not the faintest interest in socio-economic stresses. His only policy was Turkey for the Turks. He is certainly a revolutionary, but as far as economics is concerned he might be President of Switzerland. The theory that all nationalist dictators must bear to extreme Right or extreme Left breaks down on Kamal Ataturk, as it did on Pilsudski."

- John Gunther, "The Turkish Colossus," in Inside Europe. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1940. p. 477-481

[oslo2istanbul]

09.06.22 Oslo

Day One 9th June 2022 Overcast

9:20 Woke up from the Abyss 9:40 Emerged from my cocoon in the back of Heiko’s car. My neck and back were stiff as a board. Heiko asked if I wanted coffee. Not sure if he was being rhetorical.

9:41 I put my pants on and headed to the toilet around the corner from where we had parked our car. We were in a sort of big parking space near the ferry terminal in Oslo. A huge ferry that went from Oslo to Copenhagen loomed over us.

9:44 Found this bottle of whisky near the pubic toilet. Considered picking it up a selling it for gas money.

9:55 Back at the car heiko was taking out the breakfast things and had a a french press full of coffee, ready to pour. I poured us some cups as Heiko moved around some things in the van. The rest I poured in the thermo to keep warm.

10:10 Heiko and I made some cereal for breakfast. We cut up dried fruit and added it to the bowl. We sat in the back of the car and ate it.

11:00 After breakfast I faffed around trying to get all my busking gear together and it was in various places in the van. Eventually I had everything together including the AER amp that the AER people gave us for the trip and Heiko’s brother’s nice strat.

11:40 Left the van in search of a copy shop.

11:50 Arrived at the copy shop to print of the QR codes. They guys behind the desk was super lovely and was more then happy to help. We payed 40 crowns for 3 sheets of paper though.

12:05 Heiko and I walked up the hill toward Karl Johans Gate. The main shopping strip.

12:22 Found this nice spot next to some flowers by the Cathedral.

12:30 Began my set. Heiko sat in the cafe / bar a little way down to work on some Oslo To Istanbul admin.

12:45 Several songs into my set things looked pretty grim. Hadn’t made a cent and nobody was stopping to watch. Fortunately a guy sitting at the bar, with his arm in a sling, came over and gave me 50 crowns.

12:50 A short while later after playing ‘Delicate’ by Damien Rice. I spoke to a lady who worked in a stationary store up the street. She was a busker too, from England, and gave me some Oslo busking tips. She said I wouldn’t have to worry about the police. Apparently post covid everyone was more chill.

13:15 Finished up the set, I made around 200nk 13:20 Packed the gear up.

13:22 We started in the direction of the Opera house. We had walked on the building the night before and it was a pretty nice spot next to the water with a bunch of tourist. Seemed like it would be a good spot.

13:40 Set up here.

[placerdiario]

VAN GOGH: An Immersive Journey from Nohlab on Vimeo.

For more information: nohlab.com/work/van-gogh

In this journey, Van Gogh’s artworks and life are transformed into audiovisual storytelling in four parts, with digital interpretations and futuristic predictions. We start by diving into his subconsciousness and then witness the beginnings of his career. We chase the sun with him to the South, where he paints many signature works. His manic episodes take us to his hospital room in Saint Rémy, where he recreates endless scenery through his confinement window.

Through his eyes, paintings turn into living sceneries and futuristic 3D environments. Finally, an AI analyzes over 2.000 Van Gogh artworks and generates imagery in his style with high-dimensional algorithms and neural networks.

ROLE: Direction & Design TYPE: Immersive Exhibition DATE: 2022 DURATION: 18' 00" LOCATION: Royal Dublin Society, Dublin COMMISSIONED BY: Theatre Of Light

CREDITS DIRECTION & DESIGN: Nohlab VISUAL ARTISTS: Nohlab, Alexandre Le Guillou, Berkay Türk, Cue Istanbul, Emre Bayar, motionmatik MACHINE LEARNING & CREATIVE CODING: Hakan Gündüz MUSIC DIRECTION, SOUND DESIGN & MUSIC: Gökalp Kanatsız TECHNICAL CONTENT DIRECTION: Fehmican Gözüm TECHNICAL PRODUCTION: Creative Technology Ireland PRODUCTION MANAGEMENT: Catapult

NOHLAB TEAM CREATIVE DIRECTORS: Candaş Şişman, Deniz Kader PRODUCER: Yasemen Birhekimoğlu MOTION DESIGNER: Arif Yıldız, Candaş Şişman, Deniz Kader RESEARCH: Özde Karadağ, Begüm Tunçer, Yasemen Birhekimoğlu

DOCUMENTATION TEAM PHOTOGRAPHER: Roberto Conte VIDEOGRAPHER: Jonathan Mascaro VIDEO EDITOR: Teoman Küçükeren COLOR GRADING & POST: Candaş Şişman, Özde Karadağ