#russia - if you're listening

[post-futurism]

a sample of t.A.T.u. god's work

[girlfriendline]

the levels of idiocy in the takes i've seen surrounding this four nations tournament are truly reaching new heights

[tomorrowusa]

Republicans are very particular about which government is influencing social media.

But with Russian troll master Yevgeny Prigozhin currently deeply distracted, we're not sure who exactly is minding the troll shop in St. Petersburg these days.

[fallout-lou-begas]

on 4chan's deathbed, if i had to pick i think my favorite ever greentext story is either white woman spotted, love me some pickles, or the one about the guy who goes to the club but doesn't know how to dance so he just pantomimes the reload animations from various video games, and basically any shaggy dog variation on "burst into treats" and "walk the dinosaur". i'm also 80% sure that all the "you're listening to [thing] radio (imagine dragons starts playing)" memes are derivative of an original greentext as well. and while not greentexts, who could forget "fun is a buzzword" breaking misanthropic video game discourse like a fault line finally shifting into an earthquake, "I'm straight so whatever makes my dick hard is a woman faggot" johnnybravo.png, and the ukranian guy who posted "on my fucking day off come on" on /pol/ the day that russia invaded.

[beastblade69]

new as I lay dying song // feat alex terrible

[phantomrose96]

Season 3 Elias is so goddamn fucking funny to me I forgot what a rollercoaster he was during my first listen.

Like the s2 finale has Jurgen Leitner giving Jon the whole "monsters are real speech" and Jon's like "I need a cigarette. NO ONE get brutal pipe murdered while I'm gone" and Jurgen fails step 1 because Elias walks in and grabs Jon's point-and-click-adventure pipe he'd been carrying around and Brutal Pipe Murders. Which, of course, Jon walks back in on and is prime suspect #1 due to literally every single feature trait and word he's said in the entirety of s2.

So naturally s3 starts with Jon on the lam and Officer Tonner like "I'm gonna arrest him for brutal pipe murder" and I'M like "Shit. I hate this. Elias is going to SO easily pin it on Jon and get away with it."

EXCEPT Elias walks in and is like "hello Ms. Officer no Jon Archivist did not kill that man, also I won't tell you anything else, also this is what you sound like" while reciting all her childhood trauma and all her illegal activity that will get HER sent to jail for brutal murder of the non-pipe variety and now I'm like "....huh." He's also like "Jon didn't do it but you can kill him if you want maybe :)" Elias your alibi????

And then we come BACK with Jon storming Elias's office with his two lesbian bodyguards as back up and he's like "I'm gonna use my powers to make you confess to pipe murder!" At which point Elias is like "It doesn't work on me. But I'm having fun so Martin go get everyone I need to tell you all how I committed pipe murder." and Martin does and Elias is like "Yes I pipe murdered. I also killed Gertrude. I love murder. You will not be compensated extra for this time. Get back to work." And they... DO... just go back to work. Because work is haunted. One of the lesbian police officers works here now, too. This just happened. "Also living dolls from Russia are about to Apocalypse the world, Jon go stop it," Elias says, while also saying "no I'm not gonna tell you how to stop it."

Okay???? Mr. Elias man??? And you're like "maybe he's a ruthless tactician? Maybe he's brutal but it's all in the interest of stopping the doll apocalypse??? He wants to save the earth???" Except THAT'S not even true it's actually more like he's trying to get the Russian dolls kicked out of line at Disney World so HE gets to meet Mickey Mouse first by which I mean, start his OWN Apocalypse, because if the dolls do it first well then what's the point of apocalypsing a planet that's become someone else's sloppy seconds.

Anyway Elias's master strategy here is to bring the human equivalent of a drowned cat to the gun fight and just sit back and watch Jon fall down every set of stairs he finds while Elias goes "This is good. This will work." His name isn't even fucking Elias.

[dontforgetukraine]

Signs That You're Looking at Ukraine Through a Russian Prism

by Mariam Naiem

1. Perceiving Russian culture as apolitical Culture is political. Russia weaponizes its heritage, promoting a 'great Russia' myth to normalize the subjugation of other 'lesser' cultures. Literary classics become tools of cultural supremacy. 2. Perceiving this war as 'fraternal' Russian propaganda portrays Ukraine and Russia as inseparably linked peoples. This concept ignores Ukraine's aspirations for independence and self-determination and imposes the idea that, at the core, we are one and the same. 3. Pushing reconciliation with Russian opposition This narrative ignores the power imbalance. Any dialogue must be on Ukraine's terms, if and when Ukrainians choose. External pressure for reconciliation is unacceptable. Ukraine's agency is non-negotiable. 4. Explaining Ukraine to Ukrainians Explaining Putin's motives, Ukrainian history, Dostoevsky's relevance to Ukraine, and so on implies that you possess superior knowledge of the topic compared to Ukrainians, which is not true. Ukrainians have deep insights into Russia's actions based on historical experience and direct impact. Such explanations, even if well-intentioned, might come across as patronizing or dismissive of Ukrainian expertise. 5. Suggesting capitulation Urging Ukraine to yield? It won't end the war. Russia regroups, and casualties mount later. Ukraine's fight is for survival, severely limiting compromise options. Respect Ukrainians' difficult position and right to determine their future. 6. Whataboutism "Other conflicts exist" isn't a reason to help less – it's a call to help more. Each crisis deserves its own focus. Don't use comparisons to justify inaction on Ukraine. 7. Claiming Ukrainians don't deserve help Questioning a nation's worthiness of aid based on alleged issues can be seen as justifying inaction. It's more constructive to focus on the current situation and humanitarian needs. Consider the actions of the aggressor rather than criticizing those defending themselves. 8. Not my war A nuclear-armed autocracy attacking a democracy is everyone's problem. It's not about values – it's about time. This war isn't yours today, but ignore it, and it'll be at your doorstep tomorrow. Ukraine's front line is democracy's front line. P.S. Consider the Ukrainian perspective and try to imagine their experiences. It’s important to avoid assuming how one might act in their situation. What Ukrainians may need most is genuine understanding and support. The key is to listen and empathize.

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Teddy Swims - The Door 2024

Jaten Collin Dimsdale, also known by his stage name Teddy Swims, is an American singer-songwriter and rapper. Known for his genre-blending music, including soul, country, and pop, he originally attracted fans through song covers on his Youtube channel in 2019 and 2020.

"The Door" was released in April 2024 as the third single from his debut studio album I've Tried Everything but Therapy (Part 1). The song was described by Swims as about saving his own life and finding the courage to walk out on an abusive relationship that played a part in driving his friends and family out of his life. He further said: "It was so hard to convince myself of that at the moment, but that's when my priorities shifted from her to me, to saving myself, to loving myself again. "The Door" is about believing that you're always going to be okay if you trust in yourself."

"The Door" topped the charts in Bulgaria and the airplay charts in Kazakhstan and Russia. The song also reached the top ten charts in the UK, Hungary, Belgium, the Netherlands, and Ireland, as well as the airplay charts in Croatia, Poland, Czech Republic, Belarus, and Romania. Moreover, the song received numerous certifications in several countries.

"The Door" received a total of 73,5% yes votes!

[parfaitblogs]

present enough for me ❀ s. reid x reader

in which you're decorating your apartment with your boyfriend, you're all too clumsy, and really, who makes glass baubles these days? 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: fluff tags: established relationship. decorating a christmas tree. mentions of blood. joking about murder and prison (it makes sense i promise). puts up with your shit!spencer reid.  word count: >1k a/n: short n sweet little thingy to keep us going this holiday season ♡

❄︎ advent calendar masterlist

Everything had happened so fast. 

One minute, you were hanging a bauble on the tree, Spencer's ever so familiar voice reverberating around the room as he recites information you had to applaud him for knowing. 

Facts like, "Did you know Germans celebrate Christmas on Christmas Eve? Because technically, Jesus was born on the night of the 24th. It's like this for a lot of European countries, actually." And, "Orthodox Christmas is on January 7, because Orthodox centric countries like Serbia, Belarus and Russia follow the Julian calendar, instead of the Gregorian one we do."

And, unfortunately, Spencer Reid's info-dumping is not annoying, but attractive to you. You oftentimes find yourself keenly listening in as he rattles off facts about things you'll probably never understand to the extent he does. Though, he does love over explaining just so you can comprehend some part of it. 

It had, evidently, led to you becoming a bit too distracted by your boyfriend halfway across the living room, adorning the television with tinsel, and resulted in your hand slipping as it slid a bauble onto the faux snow tree branch. It had fallen, and shattered, shards of it exploding across the wooden floor. 

You curse aloud, taking an instinctual step back, eyebrows furrowing. 

"Are you okay, angel?" Spencer calls, and you cringe at the sight of the pieces of bauble on the floor, though nod your head regardless.

"Yeah. You should see the other guy," you mumble, crouching down to the floor to pick up shards of the bauble. 

"No, don't touch—" he's cut off by your hiss as the sharp edge of the bauble slices your skin, your other hand that was already nursing some pieces, closing into a fist around them.

"Fuck," you seethe again, all the shards dropping to the floor at your — arguably stupid — mistake.

"The first health and safety rule when you drop glass is don't pick it up with your hands," Spencer scolds, his slippers padding against the floor as he heads over to you. His hand wraps around your forearm and he picks you up, shaking his head. 

"Okay, well, what idiot makes glass baubles?" you retort. 

"What clumsy idiot buys them?" he shoots back, and you huff because, well, he's got you there. 

"You're supposed to be supportive and nurturing," you mumble, though you're sure if Spencer overbearingly attempted to console your injured hand immediately, you'd question if he's sick.

"I can multitask," he answers, wrapping his arms around your waist. "Up."

You jump off the ground as he picks you up, carrying your body over to the kitchen stool, where he sets you down, away from the crime scene that is a shattered, bloodied bauble.

"It looks like that bauble tried to murder me," you say, staring at the scene. 

"I'll put some caution tape around the tree until it goes to trial."

"I vote two consecutive life sentences."

"Two? What's the second one for?"

"Conning me," you grumble.

He laughs as he disappears into the guest bathroom, just to reappear with the bright red First Aid kit, placing it on the kitchen counter next to you.

"Hand, please," he says, standing in front of you, and you hold out your palm. "Oh yeah, this is pretty bad, huh?"

"I can handle it," you huff, puffing your chest up. "A soldier never shows fear."

"My brave girl," he says, using baby wipes to clean up the blood, gently. "Did it get you anywhere else?"

You shake your head, wincing at the pressure — however slight — over the cuts on your skin. "Just my hands."

He nods his head, and once the blood is cleaned, he's soothing them with some antiseptic cream, trying to keep his touch as featherlike as possible. 

"I liked that bauble too," you mumble as he begins wrapping a bandage around your hand. 

"It's the same as the thirteen other one's of its design in the pack."

"No. It was special," you reply, shooting a glare at Spencer, who surrenders almost immediately. 

"Okay," he slowly nods his head, only really indulging in your antics to humour you. And maybe himself. 

Once your hand was wrapped up, and Spencer had given you a kiss for your undeniable bravery, you were bounding back over to the tree to finish adorning it with trinkets and other decor. 

"Please be careful," he warns, though abandons his post on the other side of the living room to help you with the three. 

Just in case. 

"I'm super careful."

He shoots you a look, that you match with a shit-eating grin, and then you're delving back into decorating the tree. 

By the time you're done, you are not any more injured, and the tree is lit up with an assortment of colours and glitter, and you're smiling, leaning against the television cabinet to admire it. 

The television cabinet dressed with a collection of candles, candle holders, tinsel, and a festive table runner you forgot you even owned. 

A table runner your hand was resting on.

And Spencer was too late in warning you, and your hand swings forwards, before you trip and land flat on your ass.

He doesn't help you up this time.

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[oceantornadoo]

betrayal (simon riley x f!reader)

in the same universe as two lieutenants

--

"what the fuck, simon."

you slammed down a stack of papers on his desk. he tilted his head up, eyes moving fast as they read what was in front of him. leaning back, he crossed his arms and spread his legs in his desk chair, the picture of composure. "use your words, lieutenant."

you scoffed, unbelieving. "i put in a transfer and you deny it? we're the same rank, you shouldn't even be able to do that." he shrugged, eyes darting away. guilty. "don't know what yer talkin' about. same rank, remember?" you rolled your eyes, feet starting to pace his office floor out of anger. "i thought we were friends, simon." you stopped, the hurt swelling into your words. all your emotions hit at once. betrayal. sadness. you thought he'd be different. "and- and then i see this?" you swiped a hand angrily at your eyes, wiping away the tears before they formed. "what, you just want to hold me back? i want to be a captain and i can't be one on this team. you know that."

he knew that because of late nights in his room over tea, sharing deep secrets. you on his bed, him in his extra chair, whispers exchanged in the dark of the night. the trust you put into your fellow lieutenant was unimaginable, the weight of it immeasurable. your foolish mistake had come to bite you in the ass.

"dove, 's not what you-"

"don't you dare call me that." your finger up against his chest, accusing. his nickname for you too hurtful for you to hear right now. "lovie, let me explain i-" you turned around, heading for the door. done with this bullshit.

and then suddenly you were up against the door, simon's masked hand covering your mouth. he wasn't even breathing hard, the exertion barely making a dent in his stamina. he towered over you, eyes shining through his eyeblack and his simple black balaclava. the thumb of his hand covering your mouth brushed your jaw, a soothing motion to calm you down. "gonna be a good girl and listen?" his thigh was wedged in between your legs, mostly to keep you from bolting, but he used it to emphasize his words. you felt wetness pool in your underwear, your body betraying your mind. you rolled your eyes, but after seeing his facial expression not change, you finally nodded. he took his hand off your mouth, brushing your cheek before leaving it, his thigh forgotten between your legs.

"i denied it 'cause i'm a selfish bastard." your eyes widened in shock. confusion. were you right? "i just-" he took a breath, hand reaching to run through his hair before realizing he had his mask on. he yanked it off, throwing it to the side.

"i just wanted you to myself, ok? heard the team you applied for was gonna go dark for years in russia in an undercover op. and i can't-" his eyes seared into yours, both sets of pupils dilating in the moment. you understood.

"you won't lose me, simon." you reached your hand to run it through his hair, dirty blond strands easily passing through. you both stood there for a moment, taking comfort in the fact that this thing you two had was finally being addressed.

"i can't. after everythin', it's jus- not you too. can't lose you, dove." his masked hands cradled your face, glad your physical friendship boundaries were finally being crossed. you gave him a sad smile.

"i know you want captain. i asked 'round and there's other teams open. closer. was gonna tell you this afternoon but got interrupted." by you, choosing to believe he was like all the men before, who wanted to make you small so they felt big. by you, choosing to protect yourself first, not in the wrong but not optimistic either.

"ugh, you're the worst." fuck, had he gotten in wrong? this whole thing wasn't what he'd planned. the whole confession wasn't in the cards, and now he was paying for it. except-

except you were pulling him in for a hug, standing on your tippy toes so you could wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. his hands immediately rested on your waist, the feel of it so foreign and yet so right. this was the first time you'd ever embraced him like this, so open and emotional. he memorized the feel of you in his arms, just in case, always just in case, then let himself live in the moment. he dug his face into the crook of your neck, sniffing the scent of your contraband shampoo, the scent that chased him in his dreams and nightmares. his thumbs caressed your skin, drawing circles into your waist.

"yer it for me, you know? you see it now? but if you need to choose between me and captain, i get it." he waited for your answer with bated breath, squeezing you tighter in case you turned him down. in case it was his last chance.

you answered with a peck to the side of his head, making simon all warm and fuzzy inside. "you're mine too, idiot. i can still make captain without going to russia." finally, he relaxed. the hug had gone on for longer than necessary at this point, but he didn't want to let you go. slowly, you pulled back, making eye contact. "so when are you taking me out on a real date?"

--

this is for the girlies guys and pals who have always had to feel like they had to choose between a man and a career. with the right man, you deserve both! (i wouldn't know i'm just a hopeless romantic trapped in a college town but i'm trusting what the books say.)

[wandanatw0rld]

+18 | men & minor denied

beefy!natasha romanoff x pillowprincess!female reader x college!au

warnings: girlxgirl; Natasha being a boxer; rough sex; anal sex; strap on use (r receving); a little bit of praise; fingersucking; brief mention of war; Alexei & Bucky being two assholes; not propfread

b: Natasha's father comes to visit her, but their meeting doesn't go very well, and (un)fortunately for you, you have to pay for her frustration.

I think that's it, have fun ;D

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Okay, I love you too, Mom. Bye" You're sitting on Natasha's bed, notepads and books on every surface, you stop writing and look at the redhair.

"Is everything okay, Nat?" She looks at you, her jaw is clenched, her poor phone pressed against her strong hands, she sits on the edge.

"My dad's coming to visit, he wants to take a tour of Steve's gym," you crawl next to her, taking her hands off her thighs and replacing them with you.

"Is that so bad?" You hold her face, green eyes with a hint of desperation.

"Let's say my dad wanted me to be a doctor and not a boxer," Natasha didn't like to talk about her parents, especially her dad.

Her parents are both from Russia, late Soviet Union, and came to America after the war destroyed their home, the United States seemed to be a place to have a new life with more hopes. Natasha was young and didn't remember much about it, but she remembered the bombs, a whole reason why she hated New Year's Eve.

"Do you want me to be with you?" Natasha seems to consider for a few seconds.

"Are you ready to meet Alexei Romanoff?" She asks you sweetly. "One of the founders of this masterpiece?" Natasha pointed at herself in a very silly way.

"Actually, I am. But let's stop talking about your dad and talk about how much I need you to kiss me".

"I agreed," she says, standing up, you laughing as she holds you, her lips pressed to yours.

...

You were nervous to meet Natasha's father, lost count of the number of times you looked in the mirror, even though the redhead said you looked gorgeous as always. At first, Alexei Romanoff seems really scary with his bear, but he's really an idiot like his daughter. He told jokes, shared stories about Natasha wanting to be a superhero, you kissed her red cheek when the old man made fun of her blue hair.

Now the three of you are in Steve's gym, which he closed just so Natasha could show the place to her dad. But the more you listen to them, the more you're worried about Natasha's well-being.

"You're getting too big, sweetheart. And those tattoos, your mom will lose her mind if she sees you," the redhead breathes out, her patience coming to an end.

"I like my tattoos" You watch them very quietly, the way Natasha squeezes your hand and clenches her jaw makes you worry about her dad. "Dad, please. Look at the size of your belly."

"Your mom likes it".

"I bet she does". Alexei doesn't think it's funny, and you only realize that when he say it to her:

"When are you going to get a real job?" His tone is throaty, sharp as a knife, the same tone Natasha uses when she's stressed.

"This is a real job, Dad. I like working here" Her eyes glow with challenge, one more word and she'll explode.

"Yelena is doing great with me, she's really going to run the business one day".

"Yelena was always looking for your approval." You'd never met Yelena before, but Natasha always talked about the blonde with love and affection.

"Someone has to have it" The silence is heavy, you want to say something, but Natasha could kill her father with her eyes.

"Well, my class is in ten minutes, so... Let me walk you to the exit," Alexei seemed shaken, but he turned to you.

"It was really nice to meet you. When Natasha told me how beautiful you were, I didn't think it would be so much". Natasha doesn't look at either of you.

"Thank you, Mr. Romanoff".

"Please, call me Alexei. You make me feel old".

"You are old." The look in his eyes frightened you.

...

Natasha is taking you home, the fact that she hasn't said a word is worrying.

"See you tomorrow?" You ask and give her a peck on her cheek

"I don't know. I'm busy tomorrow" But she doesn't look at you.

You know what bothers her. Natasha wants her father's approval, all she ever wanted was to make him proud and not being able to do that is killing her. You don't see her the next morning or the day after, so you ask Clint if he knows anything while you both go shopping for baby stuff.

"I don't know, to be honest, she doesn't talk to me" He's looking at the dipers section in the drugstore, you've been helping him for forty minutes now, one of the professors has canceled the class. "I was going to ask her out for a drink, but she didn't answer her phone"

"I'm going to visit her at the gym today after class," you smile sweet at him. "Clint, these are adult dipers".

"God, I'm a terrible dad".

"Don't put too much pressure on yourself, Clint. These are things you can catch up over time.

"Thank you!" You gave his shoulder a good, enthusiastic squeeze.

"I gotta go. I gotta help Wanda with Billy and Tommy."

"Who are they?"

"Her clownfish, but I think one of them is female".

...

The hours seemed to pass so slowly that you didn't notice anything. You left your things in your dorm and hurried to Natasha's work. You entered, the place is quiet, there are a few people working out on headphones. You approach the reception, Bucky, another employee looks at you. You don't like him, the way he provokes Natasha and worse, his jokes towards you, they aren't funny, but it definitely amuses him.

"Hi Bucky, is Natasha here?"

"She asked Steve for a day off, she's at the arena" You turn to leave, but he calls you. "Can I ask you something?"

"Bring it on".

"Why are you with her?" See, not funny. "I mean, I know she's hot and rich, but-."

"I don't think that's any of your business, Bucky."

They march into the arena, loud rock music, The Marvels really hate somebody. Natasha hits the bag with precision, she growls with every punch, it is fucking hot. She doesn't realize you're there until you turn off the music.

"What the fuck!" You wave to her, she takes off her gloves and grabs a bottle of water.

"Hi to you too" You reache her. "I miss you"

"Me too" Her response is somewhat mechanical.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She drinks the water.

"Not really". Getting close to her, analyzing every single detail in her, sweat running down her chest, on her strong arms, the veins on her forearm drive you crazy.

"You're avoiding me, was it something I did?" Natasha keeps not looking at you and starts to get on your nerves.

"Everything's fine" She doesn't add a nickname, which means she's really mad.

There are a few details people need to pay attention to with Natasha Romanoff and you mastered them quite well.

When she's angry, she gets quiet, refuses to look at or talk to anyone, plus she listens to rock music really loud, just like it happened. When she is jealous, especially of Bucky and his aproaches towards you, her voice gets husky and scary, hands on your waist, pulling you close, and when takes you home, she makes sure of making you hers, every inch of your skin belong to her.

She was angry. In this case, angrier than she had ever been.

"Fight with me" Natasha seemed confused.

"I'm not going to fight with you" You take a few steps closer.

"Why not?" You ask, her woody perfume smells so good. "Are you afraid I'll hurt you?" You know you have no chance in a fight, you're smaller than her, in everything. Natasha Romanoff could destroy you with one blow. "Okay then. Bye, Natasha."

"Wait" She holds your wrist, her breathing at a normal pace, she looks at you. Natasha was so angry that she didn't notice that you were wearing her favorite outfit. "I'm sorry about that. Is just... Never mind, I'm fine".

"You're not fine, Nat. Something is bothering you, you can tell me," but she just avoids looking into your eyes. "Is it your dad?" The grip in your wrist had tightened.

"I don't want to talk about him" Natasha looks at your body, you're dressed only for her amusement and it's a waste not to take advantage. "Wait here," she opens the door to the arena.

"What are you doing?" You ask.

"Steve will be using the arena today. I'll open it for him." After that, Natasha grabs her backpack and drags you to Steve's office, then locks you both in.

"Nat-" She presses her mouth against yours, it's rough, your legs go weak. On your tiptoes you grab her face, her lips a little salty, hands on your waist, nails scratching deep into it. You push her onto the table, paper clips, documents, everything goes down. "You have to use me, okay?"

"What?"

"About your dad." Her jaw clenches again. "You can bite me, I don't know, just do whatever you want." With worshipful eyes, Natasha turns your bodies over and places you on the table, your legs wrapped around her waist. "I am all yours".

"You are, detka." Finally, the nickname hits between your thighs. "First I'm going to eat you up and then fuck that pretty pussy of yours," you moan, grabbing her hands and putting them over your mouth, sucking her thumb. "You're so beautiful," she touches your lower lip with her wet thumb.

"Nat..." You move your hips into hers.

"No, Malyshka. You have to stay still." Natasha kissed you as she took off your underwear, lifting your skirt just a little, her fingers dipping into your wetness. "This soaked already?" your nails dipped into her neck "And I'm just getting started" You raised your arms to take off the t-shirt, the fact that you were without a bra pleases her, but then she remembered the asshole at the reception. "I wonder if Bucky knows you're not wearing a bra today.

"No, he didn't look at me today." You know that's a lie. Bucky always looks at you, especially today, he definitely noticed the lack of underwear. You bite your lip, her fingers teasing through your folds.

"I think it's just the opposite, Malyshka," she states, her tone assertive. "When he looks at you, he wants you all for himself." Natasha's lips find a place in your neck, a finger dipping gently into your pussy as her teeth in your shoulder. "He wants to fuck you, but he forgets that I'm the only one who can fuck you."

"Nat, please." Natasha firmly squeezes your neck.

"I'm going to remind him, remind everyone. I am worthy of everything, even you" Her fingers slide over your breasts. "Every inch of you is mine, Detka. Your face, your body, this fucking pretty cunt of yours. I can wait until you come in my mouth." Her teeth clamp down on your right nipple, and she sucks hard. You drop your head back, fingers scratching her neck. It hurts, but you're both enjoying it. Natasha spreads your legs wide, her thumb teasing your clit.

"Nat, easy- oh fuck" She buried her fingers deep into your pussy with no mercy.

"You want me to use you, Malyshka. I will. I'll use every hole in you".

"Mm... So good." Natasha's tongue burns your nipples as she adds a third finger.

"Can it fit one more, Malyshka?" You nod, grabbing her fist that adds the fourth one. "So hungry"

"Nat, take off your... "Mmm... please" The redhead is all smiles now, her pretty girl is so needy. Her thumb throbbs in your clit, and you're desperate. Your breasts are sensetive, but Natasha doesn't seem to be tired of them. She'll never be tired of them. "Fuck!" You pull her close with one of your legs, toes clenching inside your shoes. "Don't stop. Please don't" Natasha releases your breast with a lustful pop, her hand bumping for the last time at your soft spot, and then you melt away at her fingers. "Nat..." You hide your face on her neck.

"Thank you, Malyshka." She kisses your cheek. "I'm sorry for avoiding you these days. I've been overthinking about my dad, but I'm handling it."

"Forget about him. For now, I'm going to come into your mouth" You lick her lips slowly.

"God, you're perfect." She kisses you, hungry, her lips pressed on yours, hands on your breasts. You moan on her mouth, they're so painful. Pushing her, you take off her shirt, throwing it with your clothes. Her breasts are perfect, all sweaty, her tattoos glowing. Your hand lands on her ass, squeezing.

She gets on her knees and puts one of your legs on her shoulder. She can't get enough of your cunt.

"Nat, just fuck me" You demand, she dives into your pussy, and begins to grind her tongue on your clit. "Fuck!" You grab her hair and yank, pulling her closer. You try to close your legs, but she holds them open, her fingers digging into your inner thighs. "God... Shit" she plunges a finger into your cunt. "Mm... Don't" You're trembling, so grab her free hand and put it in your mouth. She's watching everything with adoration, loving the sensations that she causes in you. You're mumbling nonsense, sucking her thumb, and pinching your nipples. "I'm going... Don't stop, Nat. Please, don't... I'm almost" You bite your lips, hands on her head now, her red hair tangled in your fingers, holding her mouth firmly on your pussy, she rasps her teeth in your bud, that's enough to make you come, hard, body shaking, legs like jelly. "You're amazing at this"

"I'm not to blame for your choice in men" You smile, bringing her close to your mouth, tasting you on her. "But I have a surprise for you" You watch her put down the cotton shirt, your mouth getting wet. Nothing compares to the wetness between your legs. Natasha is wearing a pink strap, your favorite. "I was planning to come to your place to use as an apology for my behavior."

"I accept your apology after you fuck me hard"

"I will, Detka" she says, her voice low and seductive. She comes closer, her hands on your ribs, thumbs in both of your nipples. "I'll fuck you so hard that you'll not even walk away from here" She pinches your nipples, her eyes locked on yours. "You want that?" You nod, your lips curling into a slow, sensual smile. "You want that everyone see your trembling walk, especially Bucky."

"Yeah" you say, biting your fingertip.

"Let's arrange that for you" her husky voice commands, sending another wave of pleasure through your body. Natasha pushes her cock inside you, lying down on the desk in a mix of pain and lust, nails scratching her arms. She comes forward, hitting your soft spot, her lips seeking yours. "You're mine. I'm fucking worthy of you. Of anything. This job." She leans her forehead on yours, her growls making you moan loud. "He will see." She's not talking about Bucky. Her hands hold your waist, nails digging into your skin. You're too caught up in the pleasure to feel the pain or the blood from the slightly wound.

"Nat, too much." Her hips don't stop, it hurts, but you're too overwhelmed with lust to care. Then she stops, and you moan in tantrum. Natasha pulls out the strap, and you look at her, confused.

"Turn around".

"I don't-"

"You said I had to use you. I'm using you, Malyshka. Now turn around" You do as she says and turn around. "I've always wanted to know what it's like to fuck your tiny hole" She bends you over the desk, deep inside you regret saying she could use you, but now it doesn't matter. "Don't worry. I'll go real slow, Detka".

"Nat, I've never done this before," you said, holding her wrist and looking up.

"It's okay, we can stop if you don't feel comfortable. I'd never do anything to hurt you." The red hair planted a kiss on your bare shoulder, her hands gently caressing your waist.

"I don't want to stop, I just..." You look into her eyes and you have never trusted her as much as you do now. "I trust you.

"Thank you, Malyshka." You bring her close, kissing her lips, stroking the red hair behind her ears, you feel her positioning the strap on your entrance. You exhale into her mouth as she squeezes a tip, nails digging into her cheek. "Fuck!" She curses, it's fucking painful, no more than the pain you feel on your ass. "You're so fucking tight".

"Nat, I don't think I'm going to-" But then she pulls everything into you, and she starts moving, all you can think is why it's taking you so long to do it. "Fuck!" Your arm encircles her shoulder, she puts one of your legs on the table and spreads it. "Right there, Nat," you feel the plastic going in and out, her hands holding you still, it's fucking good, it burns, but you don't want to stop. "Don't stop, please. Don't stop."

"I'm not going to" And there's the rusky voice, Natasha leads her hand to your clit, touching it very slow, the base of the strap lightly on her clit, then rubbing real rough while she fucks your ass. "You're doing great, pretty girl".

"Mmm... Nat, fuck, please. Faster" Steve's table starts to slide on the floor, more things fall off it. "Almost" Her hips are much faster than you think is possible, you lose control of everything, you start mumbling nonsense again, you don't know what's happening, but you can definitely hear voices coming from the arena, you don't know any of these people, Natasha doesn't seem to care, she's not loud, but she's not quiet either.

"I'm almost there too, detka" You can feel her breasts on your back, her hands pulling your hair to make room for her mouth to find your neck and her teeth dip into it, fingers entering your cunt. You know it's not easy to do it, but Natasha made it seem easy. "Shh Malyska, people will start to hear you," you can't help but moan. You stuffed your mouth with your hand, the teeth go deep. She adds another finger, but then begins to lose frequency, you feel more and more close to the edge. "I'm coming, pretty girl" A few more thrusts and you almost pass out.

Breathes throughout the office, Natasha laid on your back, hands caressing your arms.

"Natasha, are you still there?" It's Bucky. "I didn't see your girlfriend leave. Is she there?"

"Yeah, we're cleaning, Steve asked me to and she's helping me, why?" You only realize what happened when you feel her cock digging into your cunt, a slow moan leaving your lips, it's too sensitive.

"Steve wants to know if you want to join in" Natasha begins to slowly push against your pussy, you want more, you need more, your hands searching for any support.

"Only when I finish cleaning" She kisses your neck, on the mark she made. "No way I'm leaving you for that." She whispers in your ear. Her hips are frenetic. "Can you get that box for me, Detka?" But you don't answer, you can't, it's too good. "You have to say something, Detka".

"T-that o-ne??" Natasha laughs in silence, her smile playful and cocky.

"Okay, I'll tell him." You don't know if Bucky believes that, but it's too good to pay attention.

"You liked that, huh?" She raises her torso, holding your waist, her movements bursting. "Don't try to deny it, Malyshka, I can't keep my cock inside you"

"I like it" She bites your sholders, her tongue burning your skin.

"Malyshka, you're so good to me" Her nails dig into your waist, her hips bump against your butt, the strap gliding smoothly over your wet cunt. "So beautiful accepting everything from me" You feel her front on your back, her teeth biting hard into the skin of your ribs.

Natasha's fingers rub your needy bud.

"Nat... I'm going to... Fuck!" You bite your hand, the small room insanely hot, the voices of people on the other side of the door adding another layer of lust.

"It's okay, pretty girl. You can cum on my cock," the walls are tightening around Natasha's cock, she's gripping your jaw very gently, very different from what her hips are doing, she kisses you. And then you feel the nod in your stomach to undo.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Your teeth mark your hands.

Her hips slowly stop, you feel her heartbeat on your back. She pulls her cock out.

"That was hot." She says, kissing your cheek.

"I don't know if I can walk".

"That's what you wanted," you look at her, almost offended. "I'm joking, Malyshka. We'll have to stay here for a while.

"As if I'm going to leave with all these people".

You watch as Natasha goes to her backpack, grabs a towel, and wraps the strap to clean it later. She picks up your clothes, you can't move, the orgasm has melted your legs.

"Let me help you, Malyshka," Natasha pushes one of your legs through the panties, then the other. "Okay. Do you need help with your shirt?" You nod, you don't need it, but you have a soft spot for her being so sweet and helpful. You raise your hands, she helps you, then she pulls up your skirt, your shoes. "Come here, let's get you somewhere more comfortable" You hold her like a koala while she leads you to a sofa. "I'm going to put my clothes on and then put everything back. You need to rest.

"I want to help you" You try to get up, but your legs are still wobbly.

"It's okay, I can do it myself." She strokes your hair behind your ears.

"Nat, I don't care what your dad thinks. I'm really proud of you and I'm happy to be your girlfriend" The way she smiles at you makes your heart warm and race.

"Thank you, Malyshka. I'm lucky to have you as my girlfriend," you kissed her, your hands pulling her closer, legs around her waist. "Detka, you have to let me go, otherwise we'll have to stay here forever.

"I'll stay." You wanted to tell her that you loved her, but you were too afraid of being rejected or of her not feeling the same, so you backed off, you didn't want to ruin this.

You just didn't know that the redhead felt the same way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[tiramissyoucake]

could you write something for prison mark? he gets no love💔💔

Dunno much about him besides being a sadist freak! Here's him finding reader, CW for unwanted kissing and a little choking, Fem reader:

It was almost comical, the end of the world and it was at the hands of copies of the geekiest loser you knew, you couldn't waste time guessing where they would start causing chaos and got to work; alerting your loved ones, taking safety precautions and packing yourself a bag to head to whatever location public safety officials deemed suitable for shelter.

The TV played in the background as you got your bag and threw a few bottles of water, snacks, flashlights and essentials inside, you could hear a news reporter explain what's happening and a few messy and cut up shots of men who resembled Mark destroying the town, moving too quickly for the eye to witness.

There was a rumbling, silence, and rumbling again, a continued loop as you prepared to head out, making sure you're packed and ready to go— you opened the backdoor and hurried out, phone in hand.

You dialed your parents and siblings when you were inside, your friends messaged you so they didn't need the message, you decided to check in on Mark's family, dialing Debbie's number as you locked the door.

"Hey! It's me, did you see the ne— I mean, of course you saw, fuck- y-yeah! I'm leaving now, I'm heading to the closest shelter.." your keys jingled, refusing to cooperate with you.

A shadow loomed over your head, your eyes were too focused on the keys.

"Wha? Yeah, I'm fine, why wouldn't I be?... listen, I'm abo—!!" A gasp caught in your throat as you heard an abrupt landing behind you, one louder than Mark's. "So, you're still alive here." The stranger stood up straight, you had to squint to realize that he wasn't just bald, his skin looked.. burned. you weren't sure if it was from a fire or a chemical disaster. He rolled his shoulder as he approached you. "Sorry I'm late, it's a long trip from Russia, y'know?" He could hear Debbie begging you to answer or continue over the phone, prompting him to snatch it quickly from your hand. "Wh?! hey!! give it back you jerk!!" "Aw, I'm hurt." He dropped it onto the ground, boot crushing it immediately, the voice on the other end immediately died off. "You don't recognize me?" the dots connected that he was a variant of Mark, but he's not your Mark. "a freak from hell version of Mark?!" You regretted your words immediately as his hand shot out to grip your throat and stop you from spewing anymore nonsense, you could feel the battered texture of his skin. "Watch your mouth, if you wanna dish it, I expect you to take it." he looked too happy watching you struggle to breathe, were you some kind of enemy where he came from? Moving you aside, he kicked your backdoor open, the splinters flying as the lock broke easily under the force of his foot. he threw you inside. on one hand you were glad you could finally breathe but the pain spreading at your back was not worth it. he loomed over you as he stepped inside. "Figured we needed some privacy, so let's start over. and I expect you to play nice." As you coughed and glared up at him, he smiled, like he was happy you did. "Yeah, that's what I'm looking for." he shuddered. "you fuckin' hate me, huh?" He dropped on his knees to straddle your waist. "Y'know, you were crazy about me in my world." "you wish." you strained with gritted teeth as he grabbed your jaw and forced you to look up at him properly. "You were so upset when I was thrown to prison, we traveled the whole damn galaxy together." No response, you couldn't as he tightened his grip and examined you. "like some horned up version of Bonnie and Clyde." His breath fanned over your face, he was getting more and more excited as he finally had you in his hands. "Fuck, you even smell just like her." You defiantly grunted, trying to look away as he leaned in. "Stop moving, I know you recognize me. And I know for a fact I'm better than your world's Invincible." His lips pressed to yours forcefully, you couldn't purse your lips in time as he snaked his tongue into your mouth. Mark's hands let go of your jaw to grab your wrists and stop you from shoving at his chest, using his weight and strength to lower you to the floor, murmuring between kisses. "You taste good," as if he wasn't enough of a creep he had to say that. "Probably better than me, huh?" he let out a raspy laugh, self depricating at his current physical state his fingers jabbed into your fists, opening your palms and intertwining your fingers together. "It's like your body knows-" he let out a long hum into another kiss. "like it knows you were mine, how about we ditch this place? huh?" you grunted once more, turning your head away forcefully. "Yeah, keep being difficult." his hands came back to your throat, your own immediately coming to his wrists with a grunt and hiss. "See where that gets you when I turn this town to dust."

[mncxbe]

EYES DON'T LIE

𝑭𝒚𝒐𝒅𝒐𝒓 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡𝒂/𝒏: the new chapter hello?? i loved it so much. tbh i never know how to write fyodor but oof i just had to. anyway, hope you like it. cw: mild angst, fyodor being a softie, bsd spoilers

It's been weeks since you last saw those deep, violet eyes, weeks since Fyodor was taken, once again, to a far away place. was he back in Russia again? or maybe he was still in Japan, hiding in one of his safehouses, or maybe this time he was actually dead. he never told you anything before leaving, so you're left wondering and during those cold, sleepless nights that's all you have: your haunting thoughts.

despite your worry, you miss him dearly. you miss threading your fingers through his raven hair at night, listening to him talk about little nothings– his cold fingertips tracing patterns on your skin. "you know i love you, right?" you'd ask and he'd smile, ruffling your hair. "i know, myshka. and i do too" if he knows you love him, why does he always leave you behind like this?

worry consumes you, your mind firing images of his body laying in some makeshift grave at the side of the road, of Nikolai showing up at your doorstep, telling you that your lover wasn't coming back. you try your best to push these thoughts away, to lock them somewhere in an imaginary drawer in the back of your mind but they keep coming back. especially at night

fighting back tears, you roll over to the side and gaze out the window, searching for a distraction, but the painfully empty side of the bed next to you serves as a cruel reminder of your predicament. you turn to the other side, pulling your knees up to your chest and reaching for the pillow that served as his replacement during the past few weeks. the material feels soft against your skin as you bury your face in it and inhale deeply. there's only a faint trace of his scent left, but it's enough to bring back all the memories you have together, so you hug the pillow closer to your chest, holding onto it as if it's your lifeline and you cry and cry and cry.

you don't even realize that you fell asleep until the sound of your bedroom door sliding open wakes you from your slumber. you stir, propping yourself up on your elbow as your eyes flutter open. it's hard to see anything through the darkness of the room, but you manage to make out the contour of a person at your doorstep. "um... hello?" you ask warily, shifting closer to the edge of the mattress. but all your worries slip away when you recognize the voice of the man before you.

"that's an awful reaction to waking up to a man inside your room, myshka" the person muses, stepping into the sliver of light that seeped inside the bedroom through the window. despite your hazy vision, you can make out some of the man's features– the thin line of his lips, the arch of his brow and those piercing violet eyes you'd recognize in a thousand lives. Fyodor, he's back.

"fedya..." you say weakly, too stunned by his sudden appearance to muster up anything else. for a moment, it occured to you that you were dreaming, but the pressure in your skull and the stinging feeling in the back of your throat serve as proof that you're wide awake. you watch him slowly making his way towards the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sits next to you.

with a deft hand, Fyodor brushes the stray strands of hair from your face, tucking them behind your ear. "i missed you, my love" he smiles and you know the voice belongs to him but you have the feeling something changed.

his touch feels strange, foreign, his fingers are more calloused and he seems... taller? the clothes he's wearing are different too but they somehow fit him perfectly. a cold shiver runs down your spin and you feign away from his touch, clutching the duvet.

a twinge of pain flashes across Fyodor's features at your reaction. of course, you didn't know yet. he never confided in you about his ability. still, he hoped that you'd simply be happy to see him. "myshka..." he sighs, reaching for your hand and giving it a light, reassuring squeeze "it's me"

you're left dumbfounded by his words. how can it be him? that's not his body, not his scent, not his touch. "but... how?" you ask in that same strained voice and Fyodor's heart sinks. you're hurting, he can tell, you need time to adjust to this new discovery but he wasn't going to give that to you. he's been away for far too long and he was too selfish of a man to deny himself your comfort.

"my dear, i want you to trust me. i'll tell you everything tomorrow, but let's just rest tonight" he reassures you, discarding his black cloak on the floor before joining you in bed, his arms wrapping around your waist. you try to scoot away from his foreign embrace but he doesn't let you, shushing you with a chaste kiss to your temple. "don't run away from me. we've been apart for too long" he pleads and you comply, despite the nagging feeling of uncertainty.

your drowsiness is long gone now and you simply lay in his arms, trying to understand what's going on. your heart is telling you that this is Fyodor, but your rational mind has a hard time piecing together the puzzle. this body doesn't belong to him– he feels different, but it's somehow still him.

he's always warned you that you'll go through some weird things if you date him, but this certainly isn't something you expected. still, you're too worn out by countless sleepless nights and worries to think about this now, so you close your eyes, relaxing your body and mind.

as time passes, you ease into his embrace, finding solace in his closeness. in the dark of the night, you are once again listening to his velvety voice. he whispers apologies and i love you s, his hands carefully caressing your body and you're more and more convinced that it's truly him. if you think about it, though justified, your initial aversion was silly.

so what if he has a different body? it's still your Fyodor. you trust that he'll tell you everything tomorrow and you'll finally be able to put those agonizing weeks behind and go back to your life together. alas, hope. good days are about to come.

[lizzy019]

НИКТО Personality Analysis

-> Information Given

Some form of dissociation disorder

Tortured by Zakhaev, leaving heavy scarring and forcing him to wear a mask to avoid ridicule, fear from others, and shunning by society

Age is in the range of late 20s to mid 30s, not confirmed yet

-> Theories

Nikto says "us" a lot in his voicelines, and in his description it only says he has ACUTE DISSOCIATIVE DISORDER, which is when you zone out and fall into a heavy state of haziness and confusion for a short period of time before regaining focus. However, DISSOCIATIVE IDENTITY DISORDER is all about dissociating for however long, the range is limitless, and another identity will take over while you're spaced out. Therefore, this is why I believe Nikto had DID and not ADD.

Nikto has this animation where he's supposedly showing that he'll slit your throat in a very oddly realistic manner. What pressure to use and how he'd end off your head. I believe he's witnessed and first handedly experienced this when Zakhaev tortured him, and he began doing it while in the military. Why? Nikto has a very gruff, harsh tone, but it's only when he's yelling and putting too much pressure to his vocal cords. I believe he has a scar on his neck, maybe a bit too close to his esophagus and lower chin that didn't heal properly and affected how he projected his voice.

Now, Nikto has one voice line that goes, "I hear enough voices, I don't need another!" Referring back to my first theory, I believe Nikto also has very short patience and all of his alters do as well. His whole personality is built off of acting fast, doing as instructed, and constantly going. You never see Nikto stop. I believe this voiceline is a very strong giveaway to a part of Nikto's personality on how he functions. It also shows how his temper is kind of wonky.

-> Personality Scan-over

Nikto is presumed as a very harsh Russian man, brutalized by his captor Zakhaev and taken advantage of when he was at his absolute lowest. This has caused major issues with trust, abandonment, and self-love. Nikto struggles with expressing himself, often resulting in violence and anger as heard in his voicelines.

He typically doesn't like speaking to people, only his fellow military personnel, but even then it isn't guaranteed. Nikto is a very self-sufficient person, he's head-on about lots of things and isn't scared to take charge when need be. His main frustration is when people don't listen to him, he already lacks control mentally with all his alters.

Nikto is the type of person who struggles with letting people into his life, or into his head in general. He's reserved, too reserved. He doesn't like letting people in, and who could blame him with all that he's suffered?

But if you do manage to break down his barriers, expect tough love and lots of strange surprises. He'll become more protective of you in a physical sense, not caring too much about you emotionally. If you've brought him comfort in any way, shape or form, he will tell himself how much he cannot lose that solace you bring him.

Nikto is cold, and typically isn't good in relationships. In his voicelines, he's very aggressive and doesn't show any sympathy, much less many manners. The occasional "spasibo" (thanks in Russian) and that's all. It'd be hard to be dependent on him when he's just more independent than you'd expect.

-> Background Theories

True Name: Igor "Nikto" Vasilyevich Yurievich

Age: 33 or 34

Born in: Siberia, Russia

Family: No mother, no siblings

-> Summary

Nikto is a Russian soldier who fights in the private military dubbed "KorTac", an elite group of military personnel who fight alongside other military units to achieve a shared goal.

Nikto is a torture victim survivor, captured my Viktor Zakhaev and ending up with some severe scarring to his lower face and neck. This is why he hides his face with a mask, and also covers his whole body in dark clothing.

Nikto is an individual who struggles with a dissociative disorder, causing some of his work to be a bit half-done, not purposefully however. His lack of control due to his disorder brings him only disadvantages, making him stop mid-fight and inevitably making him an easy target.

Regardless of this, Nikto has proved himself to be a worthy soldier on the battlefield, exceeding many expectations and climbing the ranks cleanly and efficiently. His character is the embodiment of determination and dedication despite everything going wrong much to his dismay.

[frostyharbor]

F!READER/JOHN PRICE ■ EXPLICIT ■ IN-PROGRESS

SUMMARY:

You're a junior diplomat at the American Embassy in Bucharest. Even as tensions with Russia threaten to boil over, by the very nature of your job, you're more of the "ask questions first, shoot never" type. It's too bad military men don't really follow the same creed. tags: slow-burn, canon typical violence, minor character death

CHAPTER FOUR, 6.5K

His voice is a low, amused rumble. At the sound, your hand twitches and your breath catches in your throat. The flame wavers between you—too close, too warm. You meet with your boss, talk about duty, and light a cigar. Meanwhile, Price is getting ideas.

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MASTERPOST

READ ON AO3 or continue below.

In Jack Surace’s office, the light is mercifully dim. His perch at the top of the hierarchy affords him the luxury of a rug—albeit a rather cheap one—that deadens sound and lamps that give off a soft yellow glow that’s easy on your eyes. The heavy drapes at his windows are closed, blocking out the glare of the afternoon light.

The man himself, looking distinctly worn down with a loose tie and shadowed eyes, sits in the middle of a desk besieged by paperwork and overflowing files. His laptop pings every few minutes with a new email notification, half the country and his contacts in Washington pressing in. He spares the screen a half-glance to check for anything pressing before looking back down at your printout.

The clock on the wall ticks loudly, a brisk counterpoint to the murmur of indistinct office chatter that bleeds through his closed door. The only other sound in the room is your own breathing.

You had handed over the physical printout of the Reddit comments the moment he had returned from Ukraine, shadowing him into his office and seating yourself on the other side of his desk impatiently while he flipped through the pages. Now and then, he lingers thoughtfully over a particularly hostile remark, but by the time he finishes, Jack looks more weary than galvanized.

He drops the papers to his desk.

“I see your concern,” he says now, pushing his glasses up to the top of his head so he can rub at his eyes. You can sense the “but” hanging there, but say nothing. Choose to pick at your nails instead, like you could scratch at some of the tension simmering under your skin.

This is the kind of silence that—in your experience—goes before a disappointment.

One of his hands falls heavily to the printout, fingers drumming thoughtfully on the black-and-white thumbnail of the video post. “Ironically, the post being removed may work in our favor. Difficult to spread dissent if you’ve got enemies working to take down your communications.”

“Only the communications that we know about.” You scoot to the edge of your seat, resting your elbows on his desk. “That isn’t going to stop the talk going on behind closed doors.”

“That talk was going to go on whether this happened or not.”

You bristle, feeling a stab of injustice. You had dug into the contents of the post with your superior’s orders in mind, had reported to him at first opportunity, and now he isn’t listening. “It was going to happen, yes, but this rumor will be enough to make it worse. They’ll spin the removal in their favor somehow, say that the Americans or NATO are suppressing dissent—"

Jack holds out a hand to forestall you, making a placating motion. “All possibilities, but not certainties. It helps to be informed, true, but we can’t jump at every shadow we see.”

“And what about the shadows everyone else sees?” You gesture pointedly to the printout. “That was sent to me by Public Diplomacy—God knows who else has seen it. What would the SRI think of foreign soldiers using an American embassy to infiltrate their cities?”

He’s silent, mulling over your words and flipping back slowly through the pages. “Reade hasn’t mentioned any problems with Romanian intelligence.”

You know of Lt. Col. Callum Reade’s reputation for having an excellent network of operations technicians and local informants. As far as Senior Defense Officials go, they could hardly have done better. “And what does he know about this?”

“Nothing, or I’m certain I’d have heard of it already.” Jack looks at you, and then over your shoulder to the door behind you. “I’d like to keep it that way. He’s aware of SAS presence here, certainly, but the less he—or anyone—knows, the better. We have enough fires to put out as it is without worrying about military ego.”

And isn’t that the truth.

Jack rubs one of his thin fingers under a comment you had highlighted. They’re next. “This alone isn’t enough to act, but it can help.” He hands it back across the desk, and you release your white-knuckled grip from the arm of the chair to take it. “Keep digging. Find everything that you can and get with your local contacts to see what they know.”

“I will.” Not entirely pleased with the outcome of the meeting but relieved that your concerns haven’t been dismissed entirely, you rise at the implied dismissal and are halfway to the door before you remember something else.

“One of them—the captain—was hurt that night.” You chew the inside of your cheek, out of your depth in this. “He requested that he…accompany me around the embassy while he recovers.”

Jack had been in the act of resettling his glasses on his nose, but he aborts the motion, tapping his chin with the frames thoughtfully instead. “Did he, now? And you agreed?”

You feel a wide chasm of wrong answers yawn in front of you, but you meet his eyes with a lifted chin and steady gaze. “I did. In the interest of keeping an eye out, of course.”

“Of course.” His words are assuring, but his eyes gleam in the low light, watching you with something that you can’t place. His answer, when it comes, arrives on the tail end of an uncomfortable silence. “Well, you’ll keep me updated?”

“Always, sir.”

You think he might have more to add, but his phone rings at that moment, breaking the tension and giving you an excuse to beat a tactical retreat.

The fluorescent lighting in the rest of the office blinds you when you make your escape, swinging the door shut quietly behind you and giving his receptionist a nod.

It isn’t until you’ve walked out the door and onto the lawn that you place his final expression, the realization hitting you like a freight train.

He had been suspicious.

----------

You’re still shaking off the lingering effects of your meeting with Jack when you round a corner and spot Price. 

He’s sitting at a picnic bench under a gnarled old tree that had been a lush green in the summer, but has since dropped its leaves. The bare branches clatter like bones overhead, but Price doesn’t look up from where he’s talking low into his cell phone. He’s not alone—Scarecrow is sprawled across from him, legs stretched under the table with his boots propped up next to Price’s thigh.

Two steaming paper cups rest on the worn wooden table in front of them, the scents of coffee and tea carried to you on the breeze. It’s oddly domestic.

Still, you consider turning around and pretending like you hadn’t seen them. You don’t know if you’ve got on the right face for whatever this conversation is going to entail. The frustration from the meeting still persists, gnawing insistently on your ribs and leaving you feeling distinctly raw. And, to be honest, you’re not sure where to begin with Price.

I picked you.

In spite of the cool air, you feel a flash of heat creep up your neck at the memory, and you fuss at your collar to hide the blush.

You’re an adult, but his simple declaration had left you confused and babbling like a teenager. You had gone home that evening and spent a restless night in bed, alternating between dissecting his comment and berating yourself for overthinking it—tossing and turning as you wondered at hidden meanings and ulterior motives. 

Because there has to be some covert reason for it, some calculation that you’ve missed—anything but the obvious.

It’s not that you think that you’re not worthy of the attention. Educated, competent, and self-reliant, you know you’re a catch. But you’re a catch for other people like you. Quiet, stable office workers whose greatest excitement of the day is a printer running out of ink or having to sit in on some forced team-building exercise.

Not for people like him, who have seen too much of the world and probably left a trail of wreckage in their wake.

It hadn’t helped either that, after your brief conversation on the lawn, Price had practically disappeared. You had cornered Ozone just yesterday morning, and the man had assuaged your worries with the promise that Price had been sleeping off the worst of his injuries.

“Our PCMs don’t really go for anything much stronger than Motrin,” he had laughed. “Apparently, they give out the good stuff here. Knocked him flat on his ass. Now, if you don’t mind…” he had yawned pointedly, like he had been up all night, and walked off in the direction of their barracks after giving you a fond pat on the head.

Faced now with the prospect of actually talking to the man you had inquired about, your courage would have failed had Scarecrow not looked up and hailed you with his friendly drawl.

“Hey, Miss Diplomat!”

Oh, you really are going to kill Price for that nickname one of these days. 

For now, you settle on a polite smile and a measured walk as you let yourself be drawn closer.

Your eyes flick over to where Price sits, still engaged in his conversation. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge you at all, really, but you think you see a little grin behind the beard. Scarecrow waves you over again impatiently, and, with his blessing, you close the remaining distance to perch on the bench beside him.

As you sit, Price stands, relocating himself and his phone call to a sunny patch of grass a few meters away. You track his retreat across the lawn, trying not to read rejection into his silence. One of those types of calls, I guess.

Scarecrow knocks his shoulder against yours in a friendly way. He smells like black coffee and the outdoors, and it brings to mind a quiet, foggy morning on a rural farmhouse porch. “Doin’ alright?”

“I’m alright,” you reply simply, propping your elbows on the picnic table and resting your chin inside your cupped hands. You try to look anywhere but Price, but his broad shoulders keep drawing your eye. “You?”

“Never better.” He takes a long gulp of his coffee, wiping his chin with the back of his hand when a drop spills from the corner of his mouth. You stare, more impressed at his ability to down a scalding drink than you are disgusted at his rusty manners.

He grins. “Sorry, Miss. Not used to proper ladies bein’ present.” He tips his head towards Price, raising his voice a little to be intentionally overheard. “Almost as rude as our mutual friend there.”

Step faltering slightly, Price turns his head enough to look at you both out of the corner of his eye. You only raise one unimpressed eyebrow while Scarecrow laughs at him over the flimsy rim of his cup, unbothered.

While Price keeps pacing over the same stretch of grass, you whack Scarecrow’s knee with your own. “Anything interesting going on?”

Yawning, he shakes his head. “Naw. Just admin bullshit.” He traces a pattern across the grain of the table. You see a ring on his left hand—not a traditional wedding band, but one of those black silicone rings you’ve seen some of your coworkers wear around the gym.

He sees you looking and wriggles his ring finger obligingly. “Married almost ten years. Here.” He reaches into an inside pocket of his coat, pulling out a thin wallet. There’s no money or credit cards inside—just pictures. The first is of a stunningly beautiful woman who’s looking at the camera with a bright, friendly smile.

“My wife,” he explains, beaming down at the picture like she could see him. “Dated all through high school and got married right after she graduated college. She’s the smart one,” he adds proudly, setting the picture aside with no small amount of reverence. “Accountant. Everyone said the CPA exam was the hardest in the country, but she passed on her first go.”

For the next ten minutes, he flips through the remaining photos of his kids—two girls and one boy—and entertains you with stories of their antics and accomplishments. Most of them are told secondhand— My wife told me or I found out when I got back from deployment—and you feel a prickle of sadness on his account.

In your world, families separating wasn’t entirely uncommon, either. Some assignments in hostile nations were unaccompanied postings where family couldn’t go. Others stayed stateside voluntarily, unwilling to uproot their families to travel to the other side of the world.

But that was different. Drastic emergencies aside, a diplomat wasn’t going to suddenly find themselves in the middle of a firefight or a mission gone wrong. Your everyday job, in fact, isn’t so different from one you would do in an office anywhere in the world. 

Scarecrow lingers wistfully over a picture of the five of them. “She hates it, you know—when I go dark. But she gets it, too. Not everyone does.”

You’re not sure you do, either. Both of you looking down at the picture of his family, you privately think that if you had a loving spouse and three wonderful children, you wouldn’t be caught dead running headfirst into danger. Unable to help yourself, you pry a bit. “If it bothers her, why do you keep doing it?”

The question doesn’t appear to annoy him, and he answers easily, like he’s been asked before. “Most of the time, it’s just another job. People get this idea like we’re these 24/7 secret agents, but I sit around and write just as many reports as any civilian. This?” He waves vaguely to the embassy and the surrounding streets. “This is the outlier. Even here, I just walk around and talk to people. Observin’, mostly.”

His voice hardens as he continues. “But when things get bad—and they do—I’m ready.”

It’s quiet for a moment as you pick at a peeling piece of wood at the table’s edge. “But there are other guys without families who are ready, too.”

He grumbles, and you look up, startled—now you think you’ve offended him. “Why should I expect some other guy to take my place just ‘cause I’ve got a family and he doesn’t?” 

“I didn’t say anything about expect—”

But Scarecrow doesn’t let you finish, his tone sharper now. Challenging. “Let me ask you somethin’.” He’s looking at you now dead-on. “Why didn’t you leave the work to somebody else? They cleared half the civilians out of here weeks ago, and nobody would’ve batted an eye if you went with ‘em. Why stay?”

You hadn’t been expecting the tables to be turned on you, especially by someone as easygoing as Scarecrow. To say because Jack needed you sounded too self-important, and, besides, that hadn’t been the only reason, had it? 

“Because if Jack was going to stay,” you begin slowly, looking back up at Scarecrow, “I wanted to help him if I could. I couldn’t abandon my post here.”

“Well, then,” he says as he leans back, satisfied. “You should already know why I can’t abandon mine.”

He takes another sip of his coffee, and you look down at your hands, unsure of what to say. Across the lawn, you see Price finally lower the cell phone at last and tuck it into his pocket. 

You wonder what he would think of this. Would he agree? If he had a wife and kids, would he still be here? Obviously, or else he would’ve quit already , you mentally chide yourself.

But that line of thinking brings up another possibility you hadn’t considered.  Was he married? It hadn’t occurred to you to wonder until now. Would a man like him even have the luxury?

The idea sinks low in your gut like a heavy stone.

There’s no time to overthink it. Price sits down heavily across from both of you, awkwardly adjusting his sling with his left hand and rubbing the back of his neck where the strap must have bitten into it.

When his hand drops to his cup of tea, you chance a quick glance down to his ring finger. No ring. Even as the relief registers, you feel a hot wash of shame—what were you thinking, checking out his hand like that? He had made one comment to you and now you were checking to see if he was married ?

You’re a professional, for God’s sake. Pull it together.

Looking back up at his face, you think he looks both better and worse than when you saw him last. The haggard, half-dead pallor has been replaced by the flush of healing, but the bruising on his face has deepened into a dark, ugly purple. The side of his face that had been scratched was no longer an angry red, but had crusted over in patches of brown scabs.

He takes in your scrutiny patiently and without complaint, only making a face when he goes to take a sip of his tea. “Cold,” he sighs. The cup is set aside.

It’s quiet for a moment as you all look at each other. Price is considering you, head tipped to the side in that curious way of his. Scarecrow’s eyes dart between you both before he takes a deep breath, apparently coming to a decision.

“Well,” he says, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. “I’d better go see how Marlin is holdin’ up with Peasant. Pity we can’t all be on medical leave.”

“Piss off,” Price counters without any real heat. Denied his tea, he fusses with something in his coat pocket, pulling out a narrow case and a lighter with intent written all over his face.

Scarecrow grins as he stands. “He enjoys his vices, our Captain.” He squeezes your shoulder briefly when he passes behind you on his way out. “Don’t let him burn the place down, eh, Miss?” 

As he strolls off, Price retrieves a cigar from the box, pinning it between his sling and his body so he can cut the end. The lighter gives him a bit more trouble—it proves difficult to hold the cigar and keep the flame lit at the same time.

You watch him struggle for a moment, unsure of how to lead into the conversation and wishing that Scarecrow had stayed as a buffer. “You know, I don’t think this is a designated smoking area.”

“Tha’ so?” He almost fumbles both lighter and cigar, and you heave a sigh of resignation.

“Oh, for—here.” Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach out and pluck the lighter from his hand. While you’re shocked at your own boldness, you feel a smug moment of triumph when he relinquishes it with a surprised grunt. “At least don’t set your beard on fire.”

He grins as you flick the lighter and hold it out for him. “Ta, love.”

His voice is a low, amused rumble. At the sound, your hand twitches and your breath catches in your throat. The flame wavers between you—too close, too warm.

You recover quickly, steadying your hand as Price rolls the cigar between the fingers of his good hand, toasting the foot evenly over the lighter before lifting it to his mouth. The surrounding air is quickly filled with the sweet perfume of tobacco and spice.

It’s not an unpleasant aroma, but it’s not a familiar one, either, and you can already feel the smoke going to your head. You drop the lighter back to the table and try to shift upwind.

Price spies you leaning away and chuckles. “Don’t smoke?”

“No.” You sigh as you consider the last few weeks. “But I’ve been thinking about starting.”

He lowers the cigar for a moment, letting it rest between his index finger and thumb. “Workin’ for Surace got you that wired?”

At the moment, yes, but your loyalty to your boss wouldn’t ever allow you to admit it. “It’s not Jack,” you respond, glancing towards the fenceline. “It’s everything else that’s been going on. The riots, the bomb, people leaving…” The embassy being turned into a military base goes unsaid, but from the way Price’s eyebrows furrow, you think he hears what you don’t say.

He takes another pull, turning his head away slightly this time to exhale the smoke away from you. You watch it curl up into the air and disappear.  “Not exactly what you signed up for, is it?”

You remember the conversation you had had with Chrissy before she left—you had discussed something similar then with her. “No,” you admit. “Although I guess it was always a possibility.” 

For a moment, you both watch the comings and goings of other people in silence. The branches overhead rattle, and a single shrivelled leaf drifts down to the picnic table below. Price sweeps it away with a careless flick of his wrist. “Knowing that, what made you want to be a diplomat?”

“Travel, mostly.” You shrug. “Seemed like a good way to get out of the country without having to spend a fortune.”

“And that’s what you wanted?” His blue eyes were watchful as he tapped ash from the end of his cigar. “To get out of the States?”

You’re beginning to feel like an insect pierced on the end of a needle. The scrutiny makes you defensive. “Yes. Not in the sense that I was running, but yes.”

Price smiles, either in spite of your raised hackles or because of them. “Never said you were running.”

You fold your arms tighter into yourself, looking for a different topic that would relieve you of that probing gaze. “What made you want to join the army?”

He seems to give the question serious thought, gallantly overlooking the obvious change in subject. “Joined up when I was sixteen. Infantry seemed like the only option back then.” He looks down at the table, eyes following the same designs in the wood grain that Scarecrow had traced earlier with his hand. “Didn’t have much else goin’ for me in those days.”

You try to picture a teenage version of Price standing small in a recruitment office as a last resort. It’s hard for you to imagine. Barring his bout of frustration days prior—which you’re willing to concede as an uncharacteristic moment of weakness, given his fall—he seems the type of man to always be in control.

He doesn’t elaborate on what his home life must have been like to push him into the infantry at sixteen . You don’t press the subject, feeling instinctively that it’s a sore issue. “Did it help?” You ask instead. “Joining?”

“It gave me purpose. A regimen to follow.” Price shifts in his seat. “I was a kid with no direction, and suddenly I was bein’ told how to dress, where to go, what to do. Structure like that, it teaches you how to carry yourself, ‘least until you can find your own way.”

The silver and gray threaded through his beard catches the afternoon light, and you think that he’s been finding his own way for a long time. Sixteen , you think again, and give him a curious once-over. He has to be at least in his late thirties, possibly even early forties. That would give him at least twenty years in uniform. A career’s worth of deployments and bonds forged.

Several lifetimes, for someone in his line of work.

Echoes of your conversation with Scarecrow come back to you as you reflect on Price’s words. “And after you…found your way? Why stay?”

Price worries the tip of his cigar between his teeth for a moment before answering, expression distant. “Stayed at first because it felt daft to walk away from the only consistent thing in my life.” 

Smoke slips from his mouth as he exhales slowly. His eyes find yours through the haze, cutting and keen. “Then, I made it through selection. After tha’, I stayed because I was good at it.”

He makes the claim so simply, without a hint of boasting. It should sound arrogant but, coming from Price, it doesn’t. What his tone lacks in ego, it makes up for in conviction. The kind that’s built up over years of difficult jobs and tangled decisions.

And you don’t doubt that he is good at it. You don’t think operators make it to his age without some sort of preternatural skill protecting them from all the dangers that should have hollowed them out.

They either get reassigned, retire, or…

Your hands, clenched on the table in front of you, tremble a little at the thought. He tracks the movement, and you think his eyes linger on your left hand for just a second too long, keen to his attention because of your own wandering gaze.

You avoid his eyes. You’re also aware of the other side of that skill, the cold reality of war and conflict that’s too often overshadowed by Hollywood films of glory and honor. That Price could sit here in front of you at all means that other men hadn’t gone home. Even as badly as he’s injured now, it means nothing in the end—because he had lived to see another day, injured or not. 

The other man…you think of the video you had seen, the blurry figure being packed away into the back of the SUV. Dead…or worse .

Another quiet spell falls between you both, interrupted only by the sound of distant traffic and embassy staff crossing the lawn. 

The conversation had gone in a different direction from what you had initially anticipated. Price had been more honest in his answers than you had thought he would be, and his sincere responses make you regret your earlier caginess. Taking a deep breath, you try again.

“I didn’t want to leave the States because I was running from anything,” you assert firmly. “And I can’t really say I didn’t have anything going for me, either. I had a good job that I could have stayed in. But it was so…” you reach for a word, trying to remember how it had felt to wake up every weekday morning only to stare at the same emails day in and day out, “…mundane. Not bad, but not great, either.”

Purgatory, your mind supplies helpfully, but it would feel a bit too melodramatic to say so.

A pair of birds twitter overhead, and you look up, watching them flit through the branches. “Sometimes, this job is like that. But there are more exciting days, too, more things that break up the monotony. The politics of a country change every day, so there’s always something new to read about and write up.”

You bite your tongue before you can say more than you already have. Changing politics and reporting social climates—the topic is spiraling closer to the Reddit post. Thus far, the subject has been left unaddressed, and you’re set on keeping it that way.

But Price is only nodding slowly, like he can relate to the idea of breaking out of an unrewarding desk job. “What was it like, trying to get in?”

Was that how men like him, who had been through the most rigorous selection process on the globe, measured the worth of a career field? “Not as difficult as your application process, I’m sure,” you say dryly. “How selective they are varies year to year according to need. Honestly, I think I got lucky.” You let out a grim little laugh, more to yourself than him. “They had been struggling to fill the candidate pool for years after what happened in Sakhra.”

Across from you, Price almost drops his cigar.

You’ve got a hand half-reached out already on instinct to steady him, but pull it back at the last second. “You alright?”

He recovers himself quickly, looking annoyed with his own slip. “Not used to holdin’ things with my left hand.”

Though you’re sympathetic, discussing the injury can only lead to questions about how it occurred. You only nod tightly and return back to the conversation. “Even I wasn’t too keen on joining after that.” You look down at your hands again, feeling a bit naive. “But I told myself it probably wouldn’t ever happen to me.”

Price sets his cigar down on the corner of the table, letting the burning end hang over the edge. “You weren’t completely wrong,” he reassures you, not unkindly. “Odds of anythin’ like that happenin’ to anyone is low.”

“Yeah,” you say quietly, but your stomach twists. Odds are always low, right up until they aren’t.

On the other side of the iron fence, a local man walks by with his two young children and a thick file tucked under his arm, headed towards the waiting area for the visa applicants. One of the children, a young boy, waves at you. The gesture makes you smile, and you wave back.

But the memory of the besieged embassy dampens your mood. “It was terrible, what happened to all those people.”

There’s no immediate response, and you look around to Price. He’s watching the boy and his father also, but with a faraway look like he’s seeing something else. The shifting branches overhead cast moving shadows over his eyes, and, turned away from you like he is, his full expression is unclear.

You wait, but Price’s silence lingers.

Maybe it had been a mistake to bring up Sakhra. You drum your fingers nervously on the edge of the bench. It wasn’t something that you or anyone else spoke about much—bringing it up in an embassy felt like bad luck, or perhaps a little too much like tempting fate. But no one usually reacted poorly to it.

“Price?” You ask, voice soft. He looks back at you and the distance is gone, replaced with his usual air of calm impenetrability. 

The man picks up the cigar and returns to his smoking. “John,” he says.

You blink, half-looking around. Price takes in your reaction with a smirk. “ I’m John,” he clarifies. “If you’re gonna light my cigars for me, might as well call me by my name.”

His tone is light-hearted, but you’ve taken enough notes behind the negotiating table to know when a barrier has been lowered. You bite your lip, feeling near-whiplash from the change in subject. 

Something nudges against your calf. You glance under the table and see he’s stretched his legs out, one of his calves brushing gently against the inside of yours. He doesn’t make any move to pull away and, after thinking for a moment, neither do you.

“Alright.” Your voice cracks on the word, mouth dry and tongue feeling too big for your mouth. But you only clear your throat and straighten your spine. “Alright, John .”

He presses his leg against yours a bit more firmly.

Across the compound, someone slams a door a bit too loudly entering one of the buildings. Neither of you flinches away from the other, but the birds overhead take off, disappearing over the wall and into the city beyond.

----------

He parts ways with you at the door to your building.

Though you bid a polite farewell, there’s still a shaken look to your expression, and you look back over your shoulder at him before the door can swing shut fully behind you.

It isn’t your fault. John had never thought in a hundred years you would bring up the embassy in Urzikstan, not at that moment, but he should have seen it coming. The boy and his father passing had just been another unfortunate stroke of bad luck.

“How about you, Captain? Are you gonna let them die?”

He remembers being on the wrong side of the bulletproof glass, the woman begging for help, and Gaz’s wounded expression as they had both walked straight past an execution. Gaz had been younger then, softer, brimming with just fury. He had still clung to his morals then, much the way that you still do now.

Discarding the cigar and winding his way back to the barracks, John is still thinking of you when he enters his quarters and closes the door behind him.

He shrugs off the sling and tosses it on his pillow, sinking into his desk chair with a groan. His wrist has been itching something fierce, and he reaches for a pen from the desk to scratch carefully at the skin under the brace.

The room itself is nothing special. With vinyl flooring and no windows, he thinks it had been an IT closet before he had commandeered the space, and his occupation hasn’t done it any favors. A thin cot is shoved up against one wall with his desk on the opposite side, a folding card table and four chairs rounding out the ragtag ensemble.

The desk at least is more organized than it had been since he had arrived. Perks of medical leave, he thinks as he rearranges one of the neat stacks of finished paperwork.

And not the only perk. John tips his head back and closes his eyes, letting his mind wander back through a haze of cigar smoke and rustling branches. A little lighter flame held in a shaking hand and the warmth of your leg pressed along his.

His musings are cut short by a vibration from his coat pocket. John pulls out his phone and, seeing the caller ID, answers immediately.

“Laswell.”

“John. Got a minute?”

What she’s really asking is if it’s safe to talk. He leans back in his chair, glancing at the closed door. “For you, Kate? Always.”

“Charming.”

He smiles. “Tell your wife to watch out.”

That gets him a wry laugh. “I’m sure she’ll feel very threatened. Listen, we’ve followed some of the leads we got from Mihalache.”

His wrist throbs at the mention of the name, and John grits his teeth, privately wishing the man could take another trip down a fire escape. Knowing the CIA’s methods of dealing with terrorists, Mihalache would probably welcome it by now. “‘M listening.”

There’s a pause as Kate shuffles through a file. “There’s an event that keeps coming up in our digging—the International Gala. Some big thing for the diplomats and dignitaries in the city that always happens before Christmas.” 

He glances at his desk calendar, lifting the top page to count the weeks remaining. Less than two months. “Where?”

“Let me verify. The venue changes every year.” He sits, the gears in his mind already turning. Kate comes back to the phone. “It’s at the Corinthia this year.”

John lets out a low whistle. “Nice place.” He had seen the exterior during one of their many ventures into the city. The grand old architecture and wrought-iron balconies had looked distinctly out of any reasonable person’s price range. 

“I’ll say. You’ve seen the Palace of the Parliament? Romanian government doesn’t really do subtlety. Anyway, with those leads, we’re still working on what the RNF has planned.” John shifts the phone between his ear and shoulder, awkwardly beginning to tap out notes on his laptop with his left hand.

Kate continues. “For any external threats, it’ll be easy to put our guys on the streets, but what we need is someone inside. We’ve got intel that puts members of the AUR in the pockets of the Nationalist Front. Could be our chance to identify who’s backing them from the inside.”

“Thought the AUR was pro-NATO.”

“Not all of them, apparently. We’re putting together a dossier on the party members with ultranationalist ties. I’ll send it over to you when we’ve gathered what we can—after that it’s just a matter of narrowing down which ones will be there.”

He types clumsily, annoyed at the drag of it. “And gettin’ into the event? Doing the usual ‘security detail’?”

“It won’t be that easy. These people all know each other, John. You won’t be able to get in or out without someone noticing.” Kate sighs. “And security doesn’t exactly get close enough to rub shoulders with the country club set.”

He’s got an idea half-formed by the time Kate finishes speaking. The picture is so clear in his mind that John can already see you in the middle of an opulent ballroom in a sweeping black gown, chandelier lights reflecting in your wide eyes like diamonds. “Who exactly gets an invitation to this thing?”

“All of the ambassadors in the city, for sure. Usually their deputy chief of mission as well, and possibly some staff if the space permits. Spouses, too. We’d have to get a copy of the guest list to know for sure.” Kate, always a quick study, can already guess that he’s got something in the works. “What are you thinking?”

John hesitates. The lads might know of you, but Kate doesn’t, and John isn’t going to out you just yet—not until he knows for sure that he has an in. The CIA’s radar can be a dangerous place to be. “Give me more time to think it through.”

She grumbles a bit but leaves him to it, and after exchanging a few additional details, she hangs up. John tosses the phone to the desk, bringing his hand up to cover his face.

Becoming entangled with a civilian is already a bad idea, and one he hadn’t intended on letting get out of hand. A bit of casual flirting here, some banter there—not exactly a compromising situation.

But then he had gotten hurt and had seen the opportunity to keep you close. The light exchange you both had had days prior had been harmless enough. But conversations like the one today are dangerous. He had been too open, too honest, and had let himself be caught off guard. 

That you can even surprise him at all is intriguing in itself, though he knows you had stumbled onto the topic of Sakhra without knowing of his own involvement there. He couldn’t allow that discussion to continue. It would lead to too many questions, too many connections made. If he had been involved there, what are his motives now, at this embassy?

He shrugs, rationalizing his own decision to the empty room. It doesn’t matter what his motives are. He has a job to do, and sometimes difficult choices need to be made. You would understand.

No, you wouldn’t , a small voice in his head protests. Hidden behind a sharp tongue and a wall of independence, there’s a softness that you try not to let anyone see. He thinks of your tentative glances and reluctant smiles, your pity for innocent people killed in conflict. Your loyalty to Surace. Your stubborn hold on your principles, even as you sink into questions you don’t want the answers to. 

You haven’t yet been asked to get your hands dirty for the greater good.

John rubs the back of his neck wearily, feeling a faint guilt war with what he knew had to be done. But if you were going to play this game, you were going to have to learn sometime.

----------

notes

SRI - Romanian Intelligence Service (though the acronym comes from the Romanian name for it - Serviciul Român de Informații) PCM - Primary Care Manager (a military doctor, basically) Motrin - Brand-name Ibuprofin, used in the military to cure everything from mild to severe injury CPA - Certified Public Accountant. The exam, I've heard, is something of a horror show. AUR - Alliance for the Union of Romania, a newly-founded, far-right political party that allegedly promotes, among other things, fascist and pro-Russian beliefs

I first thought of this story due to a weird intersection of niche interests - foreign affairs and CoD - and started writing it to play with opposing viewpoints. The point isn't to promote either side, so when the narrator/military characters talk about their motivations, please don't interpret that as endorsement or justification.

Any ties between members of the AUR and ultranationalists/terrorist groups are purely fictional and invented for the purposes of this story.

Thanks for reading and sticking it out through this (very) dialogue-heavy chapter!

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[creidart]

So, they want us to be completely helpless against attacks on civilians.

I kinda wonder if trump & co has some kind of fetish about bombed children, considering that at the same time they left us without help they gave israeli 4b dollars to, quote, "finish the job".

Evil is trivial. I do not know if I personally will survive this (probably yes, but my luck is not infinite), but I know that nobody in Ukraine wants to give up. If anything, we became even angrier. I mean, it is not the first time USA violates Budapesht memorandum that they pressured us to sign because russia was scared we can fight back. And this time we do not take shit. Enough is enough. You're siding with our oppressor -- we will not listen to your demands anymore.

Donate to United24 and comebackandalive if you are also angry and heartbroken. I cannot stress enough how much that helps.

I don't think it is my place to tell anybody which Gaza campaings truly work and I do not know if there is anything for Syria, so I'd say consult somebody who you trust. My expertise ends on my own country, sadly.