natashathespyqueen

[natashathespyqueen]

Conventional Weapons: Chapter One

KRAKOW, POLAND

PRESENT DAY

The dark Krakow alleyway is illuminated by a single flickering street light that casts the surrounding area further into shadows. The silhouette of a woman stands directly underneath it, leaning up against the wall of an apartment building. She wears all black, her clothes fitted and tactical, and her face is cast into shadow by her hood. The only thing visible of her appearance is a cascade of fiery red hair that falls over her shoulder. Her stance is impatient, as if she’d been waiting for some time. The wind ruffles her hair and the hood of her jacket, but she is otherwise motionless. She stands there for a while, barely moving an inch, while the city falls into dead silence around her. The only soundtrack to the scene is the faint sounds of traffic on the A4 motorway to the south. The faint sound of footsteps breaks the calm, and the woman adjusts her position, whipping her cloaked head to the left to stare toward the entrance of the alleyway. Her right hand moves to the firearm concealed at her hip, drawing it and aiming the handgun, her usual HKP30 pistol, expertly towards the source of the noise.

A man emerges from the shadows. He is an American, blonde, tall, and lanky. His face is long, with narrow features. Though he is dressed in a neatly pressed suit, he gives the aura of shadiness and unkemptness. He approaches the woman cautiously, hands raised to show he means her no harm. Nonetheless, she does not drop her aim. 

“You’re late,” she says, her tone even, not betraying the slightest hint of emotion. Her voice is laced with a slight sultry Russian accent. The man takes another few steps, dropping his hands, and slowly reaching toward the inside pocket of his jacket with exaggerated movements. The woman clicks the safety of her weapon off.

“I ran into some trouble on my way. My handler was asking too many questions.”

The woman nods and gestures with her head toward him. “So I’m assuming you have it?”

By means of reply, he pulls a manilla folder with printed English text across the front from his jacket and holds it out toward the woman. She lowers her gun and holds out one gloved hand. The man places the file into her palm and she immediately retracts it, stowing the file inside her jacket.

“Were you followed?” she asks. The man shakes his head.

“And you have told no one about our little arrangement?”

“And get arrested for being an informant to some SVR agent? Hell no!”

“I don’t work for the SVR,” she says, annoyed.

“Whatever,” the man responds, “You’re still some sort of Russian spy, and I don’t want anyone knowing I’ve sold government secrets to the goddamn Russians!”

“For a CIA agent, you do surprisingly little research,” the woman says, her smirk evident in her tone, “But, that’s all very well. I’m sure you don’t want any of your Langley friends knowing what funds your gambling habit, Agent Knowles.” The man straightens and meets her eyes. He clears his throat and holds out his hand.

“Speaking of which…” he insinuates.

“Ah, yes. Your reward. How could I forget? But first, I have one more question for you.”

“Ask away.”

“Did you pass anyone on the street?”

“No.”

“Good,” the woman replies, her tone laced with a grim smile, “Then there is no way that your body will be traced back to me.”

She aims the gun at his head and pulls the trigger, her silencer dampening the sound of the shot. The man falls crumpled to the ground, blood leaking into his watery blue eyes from a perfectly round hole in his forehead. He’s dead before he hits the ground.

“Well, Agent Knowles, there’s your reward,” she whispers to the dead man, the tiniest twinge of regret in her voice, “I’m sorry, but we both know that loose ends in this business can be deadly, and you are practically unraveling.”

The woman holsters her gun and adjusts her hooded sweatshirt over her face. Without a second glance at her victim, she steps over his body and begins making her way down the street, toward the exit to the alleyway. When she makes it into the open, her eyes perform a quick scan for cameras on the surrounding buildings. Seeing none visible, she walks down the street, her path twisting and intentionally hard to follow. Her conspicuous attire gives her motivation to move quickly. She traverses the knotted map of empty, narrow streets until she reaches a parked, grey car. It’s old, a Soviet-made model from before she was born. She taps on the driver-side window and it rolls down, revealing the face of an elderly man. 

Leaning in close to the window, she whispers in Polish, “I believe we’ve arranged a pickup?”

The old man narrows his eyes and answers in kind, “Name?”

“Rose,” she says, not even bothering to hide the fact that she’s lying. The man, unbothered by this show of untrustworthiness, nods towards the back door, and she hears the click of a mechanism unlocking. Opening the back driver-side door, she climbs in. The engine starts, and the car slowly begins to crawl along the curb. The driver adjusts his mirror so he can meet his passenger’s sage-colored eyes. Her hood has slipped slightly, revealing not only her cascade of red hair, but a beautiful face, pale, with full lips, high cheekbones, and a piercing, almost deadly gaze. Noticing that she is now in view, she sharply pulls up her hood, drowning her visage in shadows once again. She turns her head to look out the window, the sleepy streets becoming more active as they reach the busy heart of the city. 

Pedestrians, bundled up in gear fitting for a Polish winter, clog the sidewalks, carrying shopping bags and takeout boxes. The neon signs of businesses flash across the woman’s vision. Her fingers brush against the outline of the file in her jacket, and her face twists at the memory of her informant’s crumpled form. The guilt creeps up on her as it does every time she kills- each victim a brick in the wall of her mental prison- but she’s used to this. Necessary sacrifices must be made. And her mission is more than necessary. She reminds herself of this, directing her mind away from her guilt and towards the task at hand. She must reach her destination, get on a flight out of Poland, and hurry to the location of her next mark before anyone pieces together her involvement. Or, before anyone else tracks down the man she’s been trying to find.

The car slows, meeting with the intercity traffic. She glances towards her driver and sees that he is focused on the road. Good. They have sat in silence thus far, and she doesn’t intend on breaking that streak. As they drive, she takes in the sights. She’s been all over the world, and it’s far from her first time in Krakow, but despite the sheer number of cities she’s seen, each new visit never fails to amaze her. Watching the complex tangle of people, lives, and secrets. Lost in thought, she barely notices that the car has reached the outskirts of the city until it slows to a stop outside of an old theater. The building is dark, unkempt, and clearly abandoned. She looks towards her driver, who nods and unlocks the door. She reaches into her jacket and pulls out a small stack of PLN. The old man’s wrinkled face breaks out into a nearly toothless grin, and he reaches for it. She relinquishes the cash and climbs out of the car. The second her feet hit the asphalt and her door clicks shut, the car pulls away from the curb. The headlights are the only source of light, getting smaller as her driver practically races off the scene, eager to emerge from the shadowy world of his client, and back into his normal life. As soon as the car disappears, the woman takes a step forward. She draws her firearm and approaches the door of the theater. She tests the handle and it swings open without resistance. Her contacts weren’t wrong, this was easier than expected. She steps into the building, pulling the door shut behind her. The door squeaks on its rusty hinges, the sound deafening in the otherwise deathly quiet.

The room she stands in clearly used to be the lobby. Tattered posters of old films, both Polish and American, line the walls. The waiting benches and ticket booth are draped in ghostly white sheets, giving the theater the impression of being haunted. The entire building has the feeling of emptiness that almost feels hollow. As she moves, she is doubled over with a coughing fit, choking on the thick layer of dust that coats everything. The ancient atmosphere feels haunted, like the old theater had never quite let go of the ghosts of its glory days. She looks up once more, this time fully taking in her surroundings. In the very center of the space, a single table stands, completely free of dust. Upon the table rests a black canvas duffle bag, a sniper rifle, and an envelope. She lifts her hands to her hood and pulls it down, shaking out her scarlet hair before crossing to the table and holstering her weapon. She reaches for the envelope first, picking it up and twirling the paper in her gloved hands. She opens it, the sound of ripping paper echoing off the dusty walls. Reaching inside, she pulls out a sheet of paper, with a message typed in black ink:

Agent Red,

I hope you’ve found your accommodations for this mission adequate. Inside this bag, you’ll find enough supplies to last you overnight. I have arranged your pickup from this location tomorrow at 07:00 hours. You will be transported to the location we discussed previously, where I will be waiting to discuss the method of payment. 

Cordially,

Apollo

The woman’s eyes scan the paper, her lips twisting into a slight smile as she reads the letter. Folding it, she reaches once more into the envelope and finds a stack of cards. Identification cards. Each has her picture on it, and falsified information printed in many different languages. Each has a different name, a different story, a different life. Maria, a nurse from Belgium, Svetlana, a Ukrainian school teacher, Norah, a receptionist from America. She rifles through the stack until she reaches the bottom card. This one is printed in Russian, her native tongue. Next to her picture, in the spot where a pseudonym should be, her real name lies. Not Maria, not Svetlana, not Norah. Nadezhda. Nadezhda “Nadya” Arkanova- a name both feared and revered in the intelligence community. Her fingers rub across the tiny lettering, slowly contemplating the card. 

Despite the lack of explanation given to her by Apollo, she knows exactly what the card’s presence means. She is going to have to cut ties with her most valuable contact. He has discovered her true name, and if he knows that much, there’s no doubt that he knows a lot more. There’s a good chance that he would take the substantial price on her head over any modest sum she could pay for his services. There was also a good chance that he would find it far too dangerous to continue assisting a woman with her record. The amount of assassinations she’d carried out for the SVR had made her more than a few enemies. She was infamous in the shadowy world of espionage as the dangerous seductress who was wanted by most major governments. Pity, Apollo had been very useful to her. This would certainly be a hitch in her plans, but this did not mean she was giving up. She never leaves a job incomplete. She reaches for the duffle bag, pulling it toward her across the table. Fumbling with the pull, she unzips it. She reaches inside, rifling through the contents. Clothes, ammo, a medical kit, water, rations, a burner phone, and a rechargeable battery. She pulls out the bundle of clothes and sets it beside the bag. She undoes her belt, removing several knives, and unclasps the holsters from her thighs. Pulling her hooded tactical jacket over her head, she undresses. As she clothes herself in civilian garb- a black tank top, fitted black jeans, zip-up leather jacket, her typical combat boots- she thinks about the man she killed that day.

Despite only knowing Agent Knowles for a matter of months, she knew her informant inside and out. Given, he wasn’t an especially unique or complicated man- rather, he was a rich boy who was accepted into the industry due to a combination of his parents' influence, and his own easily controlled mind- so her analysis of him took less than a minute of conversation. It wasn’t uncommon for espionage agencies to employ those they found weak-minded and easily controllable. This ensured that they only asked the questions they were instructed to, and nothing more. They were less likely to start doing their own research, divulging secrets that those who were higher up would rather keep buried. They were the tools of an industry that saw them as disposable. Men like Knowles were so easy to bribe, so easy to control. And Nadya hates herself for taking advantage of that. But she also knows it’s far from the worst thing she’ll do this week. 

She folds her tactical gear and places it back in the duffel, before disassembling the sniper rifle, and nestling it beside the clothes. Picking up her sidearm from the table, she attaches it to her belt, adjusting her clothes in such a way that it is virtually unnoticeable. She rolls up her pant leg and straps her knife to her calf, letting the cloth drop, hiding her weapon. She places all of her excess gear in her bag. Picking up the letter once more, she rifles through the side pocket of her bag, finding a red pen. She uncaps it and begins to write on the reverse side of Apollo’s note.

Apollo, 

Thank you for your message, and also your letter. It is apparent that it is necessary for us to dissolve ties at this time. You will receive your payment in USD within a month. Thank you for your aid up to now. Expect no hard feelings or retribution on my part. 

Don’t bother trying to find me. You won’t.

-N.A.

Nadya places the note directly in the center of the table, before shouldering the duffel bag and glancing back at the table. The contrast is stark between the dark-stained wood and the ghostly white paper. Her green eyes scan the room one last time, taking in her surroundings. She can’t stay here. There is no doubt in her mind that people are after her now. And she doesn’t have it in her for a full-scale shootout today. She crosses the room, entering the dark hallway across from her. The absolute stillness sends shivers down her spine. After what seems like an eternity, she reaches a door. It used to be an emergency exit, though the red neon sign is as lifeless and dark as the rest of the theater.  She pushes against the door, and it gives easily, creaking slightly as it opens. The noise startles her, putting her teeth on edge. As she emerges into the dimly lit alleyway on the other side, the realization hits her that she is completely alone. She’s not new to this, having been a solo agent for the past five years, but three of these have been spent with Apollo’s assistance. She doesn’t mind, in fact she relishes the freedom that comes with lack of connection, but she knows the loneliness will start to eat at her soon. It always does. She steps out, closing the door behind her as quietly as she can. Taking one last long look at the building behind her, she walks quickly toward the exit of the alleyway. Now that she’s on her own, she has to move quickly to get out of Poland. Thankfully, she knows just the way to do it. Nadya turns the corner onto the street, and disappears into the night.

[natashathespyqueen]

Conventional Weapons: Prologue

ROSTOV, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

SIX YEARS AGO

The click of the gun’s safety being switched off makes Nadya’s heart sink. She slowly raises her gloved hands to the back of her head and squeezes her eyes shut. Her entire body tenses.

“Sasha?”

Her voice trembles on the last syllable of his name, and her jaw clenches as she realizes she’s been betrayed. She hears an intake of breath behind her, and a tear leaks out of her eye, cutting a path through the ashes- the remainder of their latest mission- on her face. 

“Nadya… I’m so sorry,” he says, his voice low and broken, “I can’t do this anymore.”

She opens her eyes, and stares at the faded wallpaper of the Rostov hotel room. The flowered design swims across her vision, the repetitive patterns leaving her nauseated. Her heart pounds in her ears, nearly drowning out the sound of Sasha’s quiet sobbing. What the hell is happening? He had been acting strange for months, his typical brash efficiency replaced by a quiet loathing directed, it seemed, at everyone. Everyone except for her. Despite everything, he always seemed to do his best to protect her. Until now. Until the moment that the two of them stand in the dimly lit motel room, him holding a gun to her head. She hears him drawing in a breath, as if preparing himself for something, and she realizes that he is going to kill her. The man she loved so dearly, who had shared the same pain as her for so long, who had sworn to love her for as long as he was breathing, was going to murder her in a shitty hotel room in Rostov. Just her luck. She has always known she will never get the happy ending she wants. She squeezes her eyes shut, preparing for death, but instead she feels a rustle in the air behind her. 

“I-I’m not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you,” he says.

Her voice trembles as she replies, “Then why the hell are you holding a gun to my head, Sasha?”

“I’m leaving. I’m leaving all of this behind and I don’t want you to stop me.”

Nadya’s eyes snap open again. 

“Leaving? You’re going to try to leave the SVR? Sasha, that’s suicide!”

He chuckles and places a hand on Nadya’s shoulder, turning her to face him. He looks down at her, and the pain in his dark grey eyes makes her shudder. He brushes a stray curl of scarlet hair off her forehead, his hands achingly gentle against her skin. 

“That’s the idea,” he replies, clenching his jaw and refusing to meet her eyes. Nadya’s stomach sinks. She raises her hands to his cheek, brushing away a tear, before burying her face in his shoulder. His arms encircle her. Her breaths begin to hitch in her chest, her lungs refusing to take in the air. Sasha cups her face in his hands and presses his forehead against hers.

“Breathe, детка. Breathe. It’s okay.”

“No!” she gasps, “No, it’s not okay! I can’t do this alone.”

“I know,” he says, “I’m sorry. I know it’s unfair, but you don’t understand. I have to.”

“Why? Why do you have to?” Her breathing is coming in short, painful bursts now. He lets out a breath and steps back, his left hand still caressing her cheek.

“I did it. I killed Lebedev.”

“What! Sasha, they’ll kill you if they find out! Not just you, they’ll make sure they burn everything you ever loved!”

“Which is why they can never find out, at least not definitively. They have been suspicious of me for a while now. It’s only a matter of time before I’m discovered. I can’t let that happen. Nadya, I need to ask you something.”

Dread grows in her gut. She knows exactly what he’s going to ask her. And she knows that she doesn’t have the strength to do it.

“No, Sasha. I… I can’t.”

“Please? I can’t do it on my own. I can’t be the one to pull the trigger.”

Nadya lets out a short, harsh laugh that barely conceals the fact that she’s on the verge of tears. 

“And you think I can? God, Sasha. You really are an idiot if you think I’m gonna let you do this. Fuck national security, fuck Lebedev, I can’t lose you.”

“Nadya… if anyone finds out, they’ll kill me anyway. And not just me. They’ll kill you, they’ll kill Sergei, they’ll kill anyone who they even suspect might have been involved.”

Nadya steps back and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Then we leave. We escape. Today.”

Sasha laughs and shakes his head, “We’d never make it. The second we leave, they’ll realize it was one of us, and then the entire security force of the Motherland will be after us. We would stand no chance. This is the only way. Please.” 

Nadya turns away, unable to look him in the eye. Her mind races at the speed of light. Her body shakes with silent sobs. This was impossible. Sasha had sworn that he had nothing to do with Antonin Lebedev’s assassination. And they never lied to each other. They were the only ones who each other never lied to. Not that she hadn’t broken that rule before, but this was different. He had assassinated one of the most powerful men in the world. And that decision had led to him asking her to do the impossible. She couldn't kill him. She knew she couldn’t, but she also knew he was right. If anyone ever found out what Sasha had done, it wouldn’t just be his life on the line. But damn that! Was he really asking the woman he loves to kill him? She buries her face in her hands, her back still turned to Sasha, and sobs. Behind her, she hears the gentle sound of Sasha sitting down on the bed.

“Nadya. Please.” 

She looks up and fixes her gaze once more on the wallpaper, her vision blurred by tears. She looks down at her shaking hands and balls them into fists. She knows he is right, and she hates herself for it. She knows what she has to do. She turns to him, her body surprisingly steady as she walks toward him. Her gaze rests on the gun, lying innocuously on the bed beside him, before flitting once more to him. As her green eyes meet his grey ones, an understanding passes between them like a bolt of energy. A small, sad smile plays across Sasha’s lips. Nadya crosses the room until she’s standing directly in front of him. He stands, and there’s no longer any space between them. Reaching around her, he pulls her into his arms. Both of them shake, from anguish, from fear, from their sudden closeness. Nadya feels his hand touch her chin, guiding it upward to look at him. Their faces are inches apart, their breath intermingling, until Sasha leans in and kisses her. He tastes of tears and pain and home. This last kiss is gentle, but passionate in its own way. Nadya’s arms encircle his neck and pull him closer, not wanting to let go of him. He tightens his hold on her waist, and pulls away from the kiss for a second, before kissing her again. When Nadya pulls away the final time, Sasha doesn’t want to let go.

“You know,” he says, his voice low, “The hardest part of all this is knowing that I’m leaving you behind.”

“Why does it have to be me?”

“You’re the only one I trust to do it.”

She nods and breaks from his embrace. He grabs her hand, and presses something into it. Something small and metal. She opens her palm and gazes down at the delicate silver necklace in her hand. Looking back up at Sasha, she smiles, pain showing through the cracks in her facade. He takes the necklace from her and reaches around her neck, clasping it. She cherishes the feeling of his fingers brushing against her neck, knowing that soon, she’ll never feel them again.

“I’ll never take it off.”

Sasha nods silently and presses something else in her hand. Her fingers close instinctively around the handle of the HKP30 pistol. The second the rubber grip makes contact with her skin, her entire body tenses. Her brain feels foggy, as if she is standing in a cloud.

“Are you sure there’s no other way?”

“Nadya,” he sighs, “You have been in this business just as long as I have. You know how they treat traitors. You know there’s no mercy.”

“And you call this mercy?” Her voice is laced with tears.

“Yes! You’re saving me from a long, torturous death at the hands of our captors, and giving me a peaceful one at the hands of the woman I love. What’s more merciful than that?”

“Sasha…” she says, “This may be merciful for you, but it sure as hell isn’t for me. You’re damning me to a life without you. You’re going to make me walk this world alone, with the knowledge that it’s my fault you’re gone. I love you, Aleksander. How the hell is that merciful for me?”

Sasha looks away, unable to meet her eyes.

“Please.”

His voice is pleading, wrought with desperation. As he turns to look at her once more, his grey eyes look haunted, and his face, usually so composed as to never betray his feelings, is a cracked mask of emotion. He runs a hand through his ash-blonde hair, his breath quickening in fear.

“Either way, I’m a dead man. Just give me this little bit of mercy.”

Nadya knows in her heart that he’s right, and the sheer frantic energy in his eyes destroy her last strands of hope. She nods slowly, stabbing pain from sobs she won’t let out coursing through her chest. Her body is numb, and she moves robotically, as if some outside force is governing her limbs. She raises the firearm, seeing the fear on Sasha’s face as he stares down the barrel of the gun that is going to kill him. Her hands are steady, but her body shakes. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, squeezing her teary eyes shut as the blast sounds.

[natashathespyqueen]

Intro post:

Hi! I'm Katya (@ne0n-and-garbage).

I'm an author, and am gonna be posting chapters of my ongoing novel, Conventional Weapons, on here weekly!

If you have requests or commissions, message me <3

[natashathespyqueen]

Conventional Weapons Introduction:

They say the past is a ghost, but for Nadya Arkanova, it’s a shadow—one she can’t outrun. Trained as an assassin since childhood, Nadya is a weapon of precision and purpose, her humanity buried beneath layers of deception and blood. But the ghosts of those she’s lost, and the man she was forced to betray, refuse to let her go.

Sasha Morozov was the perfect soldier until he became the perfect target. Programmed for loyalty, stripped of his identity, and haunted by fragments of the man he used to be, he’s now a rogue force caught between vengeance and redemption.

Markus Sauber has always worked in the darkness, a relentless crusader with a fractured soul. Driven by his own moral code and the scars of a family torn apart, he sees through lies and thrives in chaos. But even he is drawn into a web of manipulation when his hunt for Nadya reveals truths that could shatter them all.

In a world where enemies wear familiar faces and trust is the deadliest weapon, their paths collide in a game of survival. As alliances shift and old wounds resurface, Nadya, Sasha, and Markus must confront the ghosts of their pasts—or be consumed by them.

Conventional Weapons is a tale of broken heroes, unforgivable choices, and the search for meaning in a world built on lies. For fans of dark intrigue, action-packed espionage, and the delicate balance between humanity and destruction.

[natashathespyqueen]

My art will never take off

[natashathespyqueen]

I empathize with the Palestinian people.

They were failed by their elected government, and now that same elected government is using them as human shields.

They have been failed.

[natashathespyqueen]

Mandalorians as Jewish Allegory

First of all, we have this quote right here:

"We'll rebuild [Mandalore]. Isn't that our history? For thousands of years, we have been on the verge of extinction, and for thousands of years we have survived." ―Din Djarin

If you just replace the word Mandalore with Israel, it is a completely plausible thing for a Jewish person to say.

Anyway, on to my essay:

History:

Both Mandalorians and Jews have an indigenous homeland that is intrinsic to their culture and belief system, (Mandalore and Israel respectively). Throughout their entire history, they have been consistently under attack from various regimes seeking to commit genocide against them, (Jedi, Empire for Mandalorians, Romans, Nazis, Soviets, Arab colonialism for Jews), and yet each group has managed to remain alive and retain their culture. The Siege of Mandalore has a lot of parallels to the destruction of the Temple, and the Mandalorian Purges are very similar to the antisemitic Pogroms. Both groups are forced out of their indigenous homelands and into a diaspora, under which they are consistently hunted and attacked. Eventually, both groups regain control of their homeland from the colonizers who held previous rule over it.

Culture:

Mandalorians are either born into the culture or adopt the Creed, which is similar to born Jews and Converts. There are groups of Orthodox Mandalorians, such as the Children of the Watch, who observe the traditional laws regarding the Creed, as well as headcoverings, (similar to Orthodox Jewish people). In contrast, there are also more liberal factions of both Mandalorians and Jews. There are specific foods and religious clothing associated with both groups, their own languages, their own mythical beasts. Also, both cultures have a ceremonial bath/Mikvah associated with rituals and conversion.

Overall, I think it's fair to say that Mandalorians are an excellent allegory for Jewish people. Mandalorians are Space Jews. You can't change my mind.

This Is The Way

Am Yisrael Chai

[natashathespyqueen]

It's kind of funny how leftists on the internet just completely "forgot" about Ukraine, (which actually needs help), once it was no longer convenient and they found a new pet cause to champion. Except this one managed to just lead to more antisemitic violence. Funny...

[natashathespyqueen]

✡️✨JEWS ARE INDIGENOUS TO THE LAND OF ISRAEL. PASS IT ON. ✨✡️

[natashathespyqueen]

Don’t forget about the hostages and victims of Hamas STILL being held in Gaza

Sasha Troufanov

Kfir and Ariel Bibas

Evyatar David

Agam Berger

Liri Albag

Daniella Gilboa

Karina Ariev

Naama Levy

Hersh Goldberg-Polin

Omer Neutra

AND SO MANY MORE.

[natashathespyqueen]

DO NOT FORGET ABOUT THE SIX HOSTAGES KILLED BY HAMAS THIS WEEK

Hersh Goldberg-Polin

Eden Yerushalmi

Carmel Gat

Alexander Lobanov

Almog Sarusi

Ori Danino.

WE NEED TO BRING THE REMAINING HOSTAGES HOME. NOW. IF YOU DISAGREE WITH THIS, YOU ARE BENEATH CONTEMPT, AND YOUR DISREGARD AND FLAGRANT HATRED FOR HUMAN LIFE DISGUSTS ME.

[natashathespyqueen]

CONVENTIONAL WEAPONS CHAPTER SEVEN OUT NOW

[natashathespyqueen]

right? like, they won't hesitate to devolve into antisemitism and straight up support of terrorists whenever they lose an argument or can't find sufficient evidence of "israel bad"

At this point, I'm convinced that Pro-Pals are the gateway movement to the Hitler Youth...

[natashathespyqueen]

Bisexual Winterwidow

Okay, so I love the idea of Winterwidow being a queer relationship. Both Nat and Bucky are so bi-coded, and together they are the biggest disaster-bi ship. I love them together so much (mostly in the comics), and I love the idea of them both being bi.

[natashathespyqueen]

Natasha Romanoff/Black Widow Bisexual pride icons💖💜💙 (rᥱᑲᥣ᥆g/ᥣіkᥱ і𝖿 ᥙsᥱ)

🌈іᥒ һ᥆ᥒ᥆r ᥆𝖿 ⍴rіძᥱ m᥆ᥒ𝗍һ і ᥲm g᥆іᥒg 𝗍᥆ 𝗍rᥡ 𝗍᥆ mᥲkᥱ іᥴ᥆ᥒs 𝖿᥆r sᥱ᥎ᥱrᥲᥣ ��і𝖿𝖿ᥱrᥱᥒ𝗍 ᥴһᥲrᥲᥴ𝗍ᥱrs ᥕі𝗍һ sᥱ᥎ᥱrᥲᥣ ძі𝖿𝖿ᥱrᥱᥒ𝗍 ⍴rіძᥱ 𝖿ᥣᥲgs/ᥴ᥆ᥣ᥆rs. і𝖿 ᥡ᥆ᥙ һᥲ᥎ᥱ ᥲ ᥴᥱr𝗍ᥲіᥒ ⍴rіძᥱ іᥴ᥆ᥒ ᥡ᥆ᥙ ᥕ᥆ᥙᥣძ ᥣіkᥱ mᥲძᥱ, 𝖿ᥱᥱᥣ 𝖿rᥱᥱ 𝗍᥆ mᥱssᥲgᥱ mᥱ ᥆r rᥱᑲᥣ᥆g ᥲᥒძ ᥴ᥆mmᥱᥒ𝗍 ᥆ᥒ 𝗍һіs ⍴᥆s𝗍 ᥕі𝗍һ 𝗍һᥱ ᥴһᥲrᥲᥴ𝗍ᥱr ᥆𝖿 ᥡ᥆ᥙr ᥴһ᥆іᥴᥱ ᥲᥒძ 𝗍һᥱ ⍴rіძᥱ ᥴ᥆ᥣ᥆rs/𝖿ᥣᥲg ᥡ᥆ᥙ ᥕᥲᥒ𝗍 :)🏳️‍🌈

[natashathespyqueen]

BISEXUAL WINTERWIDOW, GUYS