#scope berlin

[wolfbluebird]

The Cost of Letting Go

Avenger!Natasha x Villain!Reader

Word count: 3.7k

Summary: She was meant to be the mission. You were meant to be the villain. But somewhere between bruised knuckles and borrowed nights, it became something else entirely.

TW: Implied 18+ content, angst

(Men and Minors dni)

… ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ...

The first time Natasha saw you, it was through the scope of a rifle.

Berlin. Late summer. The rooftop beneath her boots was slick with rain and old pigeon droppings, her breath misting the night air. You were exactly where intelligence said you’d be—moving through an abandoned complex that used to house Stark-tech before it was stripped and mothballed. The dossier marked you as a threat. Highly mobile, teleportation suspected. Trail of high-profile thefts, a few dead bodies, one empty Hydra vault.

She’d watched you through the scope, finger on the trigger, breath steady. Just a glimpse of your face. Not quite what she expected—too young. Too human.

Then, as if you’d felt her gaze, you paused and turned your head.

And vanished.

No dramatic flash or puff of smoke—just a shimmer in the air, a ripple like heat rising from concrete. Gone.

“Shit,” Natasha muttered under her breath, adjusting the scope. But you were nowhere.

Teleportation confirmed.

⸻

The second time, it was Istanbul.

A gala at a high-end museum. Natasha played diplomat’s arm candy, dressed in a deep red gown with a dagger strapped to her thigh. She spotted you halfway through the evening, dressed in a tuxedo jacket too big for your frame, hair slicked back like you owned the room.

You were beautiful and smug and dangerous.

You smiled when you saw her. She had just enough time to process that smile before you flicked her a kiss and turned on your heel, heading for the back corridors.

She followed, slipping through the crowd, down marble staircases and into the guts of the building. She caught up in a narrow hallway outside the kitchens. You barely glanced over your shoulder before she lunged.

She got a knee to your ribs, an elbow to your jaw. You staggered but recovered fast.

“Nice to see you again, too,” you said, teeth stained red where her elbow cracked your lip.

“Stop running.”

But you didn’t. You vanished again before she could land a finishing blow.

She punched the steel wall where your body should’ve been. Hard.

⸻

The third time, she found you bleeding.

Lisbon. Midnight. You limped into a rundown laundromat, clutching your side, dragging a thick trail of blood across the tile. She tracked you easily—too easily. You were slower. Sloppier. Hurting.

She caught up while you were trying to catch your breath near the dryers, one hand pressed hard against your ribs, blood soaking through a ruined hoodie. The fabric was dark, but not dark enough to hide it.

“You’re getting careless,” she said, stepping into your space, gun drawn but not raised.

You smiled, even through the blood in your teeth. “Maybe I just wanted to see you again.”

She should’ve ended it. You looked half-dead already. But something in your voice stopped her. Something in your eyes.

And then, once more, you flickered out of reach, vanishing with a grunt of pain.

She stood there for a long time, fists clenched, heart twisting with something she refused to name.

⸻

She started dreaming about you after that.

Not nightmares. Not mission debriefs replaying in her head. Real dreams. The sound of your voice. That grin. The way you looked at her like you knew she wouldn’t pull the trigger. You haunted her—sleeping or not.

Every intel drop with your name on it made her stomach tighten. Madrid. Prague. Tokyo. Each time she arrived, you were already gone. Left behind a broken door or a stolen hard drive or a mocking note with your lipstick smeared across the edge.

She started wondering what it would feel like to catch you. Not for SHIELD. Not for justice. Just… to understand.

She started wondering what your voice would sound like up close, if it wasn’t tinged with adrenaline.

⸻

Three days into a storm in Brooklyn, you knocked on her door.

It was nearly midnight. Natasha had just stepped out of the shower, hair still damp, wearing a T-shirt and loose drawstring pants. The knock was soft. Unassuming.

She checked the security feed first, and her breath caught.

You stood there soaking wet, one arm wrapped around your torso, bleeding through your shirt. Your face was pale, lips cracked. You looked like hell.

She opened the door cautiously, gun in hand.

You blinked up at her, drenched, shivering. “Hi,” you croaked.

She didn’t lower the weapon. “You tracked me down?”

You shook your head, exhaling weakly. “No. I remembered this safehouse. Slept three floors down once. Figured—if I could make it here…”

Your voice faltered. Your knees buckled a little.

“I’ve been shot,” you said softly. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

For a moment, she didn’t move. The rain battered the fire escape behind you. Thunder cracked.

Then Natasha stepped aside. “Get in.”

⸻

You collapsed in the bathtub twenty minutes later.

The wound was bad—lower left abdomen, close to the hip, bleeding sluggishly but steady. A clean entry and exit, but you’d wrapped it badly. She peeled away the gauze, rinsed you off, and cleaned the edges with antiseptic. You hissed but didn’t complain.

Teleportation had scorched the skin around the injury. A side effect, she guessed—short-range jumping while injured took a toll. You’d burned yourself mid-escape. That explained the shaking. The grey sheen to your skin.

She worked fast. Quiet.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Natasha said as she stitched you up, her fingers efficient and careful.

“I know.”

“But you did.”

You looked up at her, expression soft despite the pain. “Yeah.”

⸻

Later, she bundled you in blankets and laid you on her couch, where you immediately fell asleep. It was the kind of sleep people collapsed into—deprived and deep and unguarded. She sat nearby in the armchair, legs tucked under her, listening to the rain beat against the windows.

You weren’t what she expected. Not a killer in this moment. Not a villain. Just human. Hurt and exhausted and lost.

She watched the rise and fall of your chest. Noticed the twitch in your fingers. The faint line of a scar under your collarbone.

She should’ve called SHIELD. Should’ve turned you in.

But she didn’t.

⸻

You woke sometime after midnight, blinking slowly.

She was still there, watching.

“You stayed,” you murmured, voice dry.

“I live here.”

A flicker of amusement crossed your face. “Fair enough.”

“How’s the pain?”

You touched your side. Winced. “Manageable. You stitched me?”

She nodded.

“I trust your hands.”

Natasha looked at you, something tugging deep in her chest.

“I should’ve taken you in,” she said.

You were quiet.

“I should’ve called Fury the second you walked through that door.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

She hesitated.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

You turned your head and looked at her. Really looked. The distance between you was inches, not miles now. And yet still you felt far.

“Why are you being kind to me?” you asked softly. “After everything?”

Natasha didn’t have a good answer.

“I don’t know,” she said again.

Then you reached out. Your fingers brushed hers—tentative, testing. Cold and shaking, but deliberate.

She didn’t pull away.

And in that quiet, with your fingers grazing hers and your body curled in pain but alive in her space, she let herself wonder what it might mean—if maybe you weren’t running just to survive. Maybe you were running to her.

⸻

The silence between you stretched.

Your fingers remained where they touched hers—just barely. You weren’t pushing, weren’t asking for more. You were just… there. Present. Fragile in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to imagine you could be.

Natasha should’ve pulled away.

But she didn’t.

She let your fingers rest against hers, let the quiet swell around you both like something sacred. And when she finally spoke, it was softer than anything she’d said to you before.

“Why me?”

You blinked slowly. “What do you mean?”

“You could’ve gone anywhere. Broken into a clinic. Called a contact. Teleported to goddamn Tokyo if you’d wanted to. But you came here.”

You looked down, eyes tracking the edge of the blanket on your lap.

“I didn’t know if I’d survive another jump,” you admitted. “Didn’t have anywhere else.”

A pause.

“But mostly…” You swallowed. “I wanted to see you. One more time.”

Her breath caught. She wasn’t sure if it was from pity, anger, or something much more dangerous.

You looked at her then, fully. Your eyes were raw and tired, but honest. “You’re not like them.”

“The Avengers?”

“Anyone. You saw me. You could’ve killed me. You didn’t.”

Her heart clenched. It wasn’t true—she’d wanted to. Tried to. But something always held her back. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was weakness. Or maybe—God help her—it was something else.

Something she didn’t want to name.

“You should sleep,” she said, voice quiet, but her eyes never left yours.

You hesitated. “Can I stay? Just for tonight?”

She didn’t answer with words. Just stood and held out a hand.

You took it.

⸻

Her bed was bigger than expected—soft sheets, minimal clutter. Clean, but lived-in.

You lay down gingerly, hissing a little as you adjusted for your injury. Natasha eased in beside you, careful not to jostle you. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, slowly, you turned toward her.

“You’re warm,” you murmured.

She smiled faintly. “So are you.”

You reached up, brushing a knuckle across her cheek. Your hand trembled, still weak, still healing.

“I thought about kissing you in Istanbul,” you whispered. “Right before I vanished.”

“I would’ve punched you.”

You smiled. “I know.”

There was a beat of silence, then her voice, low and dry: “I might still.”

But you didn’t flinch.

And neither did she.

⸻

When her lips touched yours, it was slow. Careful. Like she was still waiting for the moment to fall apart.

But it didn’t.

You kissed her back—tentative, aching. Her hand found your waist, just above the bandage. You winced, so she moved up, pressing gently against your ribs instead. You didn’t stop her.

Clothes fell away piece by piece. She moved over you like someone unravelling a mystery—soft hands, firm grip, never cruel. You tasted like rainwater and blood and fear. But beneath it, something real.

You whispered her name like a secret.

And when you came apart in her arms, trembling, jaw clenched to keep from crying out, she held you through it all.

It was quiet afterward.

No need for words.

You fell asleep with your head on her chest, your fingers laced in hers.

⸻

She woke before you.

For a moment, she watched your face—peaceful in the half-light. She brushed a strand of hair from your temple and whispered your name.

You stirred faintly, then shifted closer.

Natasha smiled. She didn’t smile often, not like this. Something had changed between you—something delicate and unspoken.

She got up, careful not to wake you, and padded into the kitchen. She made coffee. Toast. Thought about what she’d say when you woke.

Maybe it was time to stop running—from each other, from what this was.

Maybe, just maybe…

Then she heard the silence.

Not just quiet.

Empty.

She walked back into the bedroom and stopped cold.

You were gone.

⸻

At first, she didn’t panic.

You could’ve gone to the bathroom. Or stepped out onto the fire escape. But her gut told her otherwise.

Then she saw the note.

It was folded neatly on her pillow. Just her name written on the front, in your handwriting—scrawled and slanted.

She picked it up with fingers that felt suddenly numb.

Natasha,

I’m sorry. I didn’t want to leave. I really didn’t.

But you and I both know what this was. A moment. A mistake. Something soft before it got hard again.

They found me. I have to go.

Please don’t come looking.

You won’t like what you find.

— Her

She read it twice. Then a third time.

Then she folded it, slipped it into the drawer by her bed, and left the apartment.

She was going to find you.

⸻

Weeks passed. Then months.

No sign. No trail. Not even a whisper in the usual back channels.

Until one day, deep inside a debriefing on a Hydra base recently taken out by an Avengers strike team, she saw your face.

Security footage.

Grainy, flickering, but unmistakable.

You. In black. Wearing Hydra insignia. Escorting a prisoner down a corridor. Eyes cold. Expression blank.

Natasha couldn’t breathe.

Not at first.

She played the footage again.

And again.

You weren’t bleeding. You weren’t afraid. You weren’t running.

You were working with them.

⸻

She didn’t sleep that night.

Didn’t speak to anyone.

Just sat on the floor of her apartment, note in her hands, fingers shaking.

They found me, you’d written.

She understood now.

You hadn’t just run.

You’d chosen.

And for the first time in years, Natasha Romanoff felt something like heartbreak.

⸻

The cell was bare—just concrete, metal, and shadows. Natasha sat on the floor, wrists chained, lip bloodied from the capture.

Hydra didn’t pull punches anymore.

They’d cornered her outside Prague—ambush, knockout gas, two black vans. She came to in restraints, throat burning, instincts flaring like broken glass. She counted the guards. Assessed the walls. Planned her escape.

Until the door opened.

And you walked in.

Same walk. Same eyes. But colder now.

Hydra black clung to your body like a second skin, the insignia stark on your shoulder. No mask. No excuse. Just you.

Natasha didn’t move.

You didn’t either.

You shut the door behind you with a soft click. Didn’t speak. Just stared at her like she was a wound you hadn’t meant to open.

“Long time,” she said, voice hoarse.

You nodded once. “You look like hell.”

“I’ve had worse.”

She looked at you—really looked.

Your hair was tied back, face neutral, but the tremble in your hands betrayed you. Only for a second. Most people wouldn’t have seen it.

But she wasn’t most people.

“Why am I still alive?” she asked, blunt.

You hesitated.

“I don’t know.”

She tilted her head. “They must’ve told you to interrogate me.”

“They did.”

“And?”

You looked away. “I said I needed time.”

A beat.

“You said not to come looking,” Natasha murmured.

“I did.”

“But I did anyway.”

You looked back at her, and there it was—something sharp and flickering behind your eyes. Anger. Regret. Something older.

“I told you that you wouldn’t like what you found.”

“I don’t,” she said. “But I still see you.”

You flinched. Just a little.

“You see who I used to be.”

“I see you,” she repeated, firmer this time. “The one who bled on my floor. The one who kissed me like it meant something.”

“It did,” you whispered.

Silence stretched between you, thick and aching.

“I didn’t want this,” you said, voice cracking. “But I owed them. They made it clear. It was this or—”

She interrupted. “You could’ve come back. I would’ve helped you.”

“No,” you said. “You would’ve saved me. And I don’t think I deserved it.”

She rose to her feet slowly, chains rattling. Her stance was unbroken, even now.

“You’re wrong,” Natasha said quietly.

You swallowed hard, stepping closer to the bars. Close enough to touch, if there weren’t three inches of steel between you.

“You still have a choice,” she said. “Whatever they’ve done to you, whatever they’re promising—you can walk away.”

Your breath hitched.

“And go where?” you asked, almost laughing. “Back to a world that wants me dead? Back to you, pretending we could ever forget this?”

“I’m not asking you to forget,” Natasha said. “I’m asking you to fight.”

She stepped forward. Inches now.

“I saw you once,” she whispered. “Broken and bleeding, and still brave enough to come to me. Don’t tell me that person’s gone.”

You didn’t respond.

But your hand lifted. Slowly. Like maybe it would press against the cell door. Like maybe it remembered how she felt beneath your fingers.

“I don’t know if I can come back,” you said.

Natasha reached up, placing her palm flat against the reinforced glass between you.

“Then stay here,” she said. “For five minutes. Ten. Don’t run this time.”

You hesitated.

Then, finally, you stepped forward and mirrored her hand.

Two palms. Glass between them.

But warmth, still.

Real.

⸻

You let her out at midnight.

No alarms. No cameras. You’d spent the whole day rewiring the loop on the surveillance feed, memorising guard shifts, and pocketing the security codes you weren’t supposed to have.

She didn’t say thank you.

She didn’t have to.

She followed you through the winding back corridors in silence, barefoot and bleeding and still somehow steady. You led her past the generators, down to the sub-level exit no one used anymore. You’d disabled the lock earlier. It opened with a hiss.

She paused just before stepping through.

Turned to you.

“You coming?”

You didn’t answer.

She blinked. “You’re not serious.”

“They’ll know it was me. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Then we run.”

You shook your head. “If I leave, they’ll come after both of us. I can’t protect you from what happens next.”

“You think I care about that?” she hissed, stepping back toward you. “You’re going to let them break you for this?”

You didn’t flinch.

“Someone has to pay the price.”

Her jaw clenched. She grabbed your arm, her fingers digging into your wrist.

“You don’t owe them your suffering.”

“I’m not doing it for them.”

That stopped her.

“I’m doing it for you,” you said, softer now. “So you can get out. Stay out. Live.”

She looked at you like she wanted to scream. Or kiss you. Maybe both.

You reached up, brushing a thumb along her cheekbone—one last touch.

Her voice broke. “Don’t make me leave you here.”

“I already did that to you once,” you whispered. “Let me do something right.”

And then—before you could hesitate—you pushed her gently back through the door and shut it.

It locked with a mechanical click.

Her fists hit the glass once. Twice.

You didn’t look back.

You turned, walked straight into the corridor, and waited.

⸻

They dragged you from your quarters two hours later.

No trial. No questions.

They didn’t need to ask. They already knew.

You didn’t scream, not at first.

Even when they chained your wrists. Even when they strapped you into that metal chair in the cold room with the drain in the floor. Even when they brought out the tools.

You took it in silence.

But Natasha’s name burned at the back of your throat, over and over.

The first lash split your shoulder.

The fifth broke the skin.

By the tenth, you were biting your tongue so hard you tasted blood.

You didn’t cry out.

Not because you were strong—but because pain was the only thing you didn’t regret.

They asked where she went. You said nothing.

They said you were weak.

You didn’t argue.

You’d never felt strong anyway.

⸻

It took days for them to stop.

When they left you in your cell—naked spine carved with bruises and welts, wrists torn from restraints—you curled into yourself on the floor and pretended you were somewhere else.

Somewhere warmer.

You thought of her hands. Her mouth. Her voice in the dark after Istanbul. Her heartbeat against your cheek that night in the apartment. The way she’d whispered your name like it meant something.

You whispered hers like a prayer.

⸻

Across the sea, Natasha stood on a rooftop in Budapest.

Rain falling.

Earpiece crackling.

She’d waited three days before contacting anyone. Told SHIELD she’d escaped on her own. Lied through her teeth with a sniper’s calm.

But she knew.

Knew what you’d done.

What you’d given up.

And it wrecked her.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw your face behind that glass door. That last look. That soft, stupid, beautiful smile before you walked back into hell.

She hadn’t stopped looking for you.

She wouldn’t.

And next time—if there was a next time—she wasn’t leaving without you.

No matter what.

⸻

The cell is quiet now.

They stopped checking on you days ago—figured you’d either die from the infection or learn your lesson. You weren’t worth the effort anymore. Just another broken asset rotting in the dark.

But you’re still alive.

Barely.

You count the cracks in the ceiling when you can’t sleep. Count the scars along your arms when the pain gets bad enough to remind you you’re still breathing.

And sometimes—when the lights flicker and your head swims with fever—you pretend she’s here.

That Natasha found her way back.

That the door creaks open and you hear her footsteps. That her shadow falls across your body, and that sharp voice says your name like it still means something.

You picture her kneeling beside you, saying nothing, just pressing her forehead to yours.

And you let yourself believe it’s real.

Just for a little while.

You know it’s stupid. Hope is dangerous. It softens you, makes you hesitate. Gets you killed.

But you hold onto it anyway.

Because hope is all you have left.

⸻

She is out there.

Somewhere.

You imagine her in cities you’ll never see again—Berlin, Hong Kong, New York. Watching your old haunts. Asking the right questions in dark corners. Picking apart Hydra bases like thread from a wound.

You wonder if she still has your note.

If she ever forgave you.

If she whispers your name when no one’s listening.

Maybe she hates you.

Maybe she should.

But you don’t regret it. Not really.

You gave her a chance to breathe. To run. To live.

You’d do it again.

Even if it meant this.

Even if it meant dying in this cell, cold and forgotten, with nothing but her memory to hold onto.

⸻

You close your eyes.

Your body aches, but you’ve stopped shivering.

Something’s shifting in the air—whether it’s your mind going or just the silence settling deeper into your bones, you’re not sure.

You press your palm flat against the concrete floor.

It’s cold.

But not as cold as it used to be.

Somewhere, she’s walking under streetlights. Somewhere, she’s looking for you. Somewhere, she’s still trying.

And that’s enough.

It has to be.

—

A/N: this one is pretty sad, I might write a part 2 for it? Not sure yet though. But hopefully you enjoyed reading this 💛.

(Part 2.1) - Unhappy

(Part 2.2) - Happy

A/N pt.2: I did in fact do two versions of part 2, just because I can 😏. (Hope you enjoy them)

[Masterlist]

[sgiandubh]

A statement

From S's IG stories - the 💖emoji superimposed by himself on The Guardian's shared reel about a protest near the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin (January 25, 2025). The event was organized in response to Elon Musk's more than questionable statements in support of Germany's Alternative für Deutschland (AfD) Neo-Nazi party.

On behalf of all my fellow Europeans, thank you, this time. Very much welcome, as the ghost of Munich's Beer Hall Putsch roams our continent, with a vengeance.

The turmoil is real and this statement is honest. The trolls will probably not share it, simply because this is out of their reach, understanding and scope.

Let it be known, though. Now that is something very brave, especially when taking into account the general atmosphere (dour enough) and his own circumstances (no future projects apparently in sight). Noted and commended as such.

PS: thank you, sweetheart, for letting me know. You know who you are.

[ltash]

Operation Esclipse

Ch-1 "Dead Drop & Ghost"

"SimonRiley-CODxMI6x'femOC'reader"

“I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.”

The corridors of CIA headquarters were bathed in pale fluorescent light, clinical, sterile, and cold, much like the people who walked them. Simon "Ghost" Riley sat still in the briefing room, clad in his tactical blacks. His skull mask lay in his lap, his sharp eyes scanning the room from beneath the low brim of his cap.

The tension in his jaw was steel-forged. He didn’t like this place. Too many liars in tailored suits. Too much blood in the walls.

But he was here because Kate Laswell had summoned him. And when Laswell called, you came.

The door clicked open.

"Ghost," Laswell said, entering with a tablet in hand. "We’re waiting on two more."

Ghost gave a subtle nod. He didn’t need to ask who.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. The door swung again.

Rose entered first.

SAS. Codename: Rogue.

His partner. A sniper so precise she could split a matchstick from a mile out. She had her auburn-brown hair pulled back into a high tactical ponytail, sharp eyes beneath thick lashes, and that unreadable look she always wore when she was on duty.

Right behind her was August Walker, also known inside the CIA as Hammer. He wasn’t just an agent. He was Erica Sloane’s personal weapon. Built like a tank, always cocky, always watching. Ghost had seen men like him before. Men who smiled while they twisted the knife.

Walker leaned in toward Rose, muttering something Ghost couldn’t hear, and she laughed.

Ghost’s fingers twitched on his mask.

Walker glanced over and locked eyes with him. Held it. Smirked.

Smug bastard.

Ghost clenched his jaw.

Laswell interrupted the moment. "Take your seats. We’ve got a potential nuclear crisis. Berlin. You’ve been selected because of your... overlapping priorities."

She tapped the tablet, projecting a holographic image of a known Russian arms dealer.

"We believe Viktor Makarov is attempting to acquire plutonium from a defunct Soviet bunker outside Berlin. IMF intercepted chatter that matches Task Force 141's intel. This mission will be a joint operation with MI6 and the CIA. Ethan Hunt is already on the ground."

Rose’s eyes flicked to the screen, her face taut with focus.

"Ethan Hunt?" Ghost asked, voice low.

"Your father’s there," Laswell added, glancing at Rose.

Ghost didn’t miss the tiny flicker in her expression.

"Your mission," Laswell continued, "is to infiltrate a black-market auction Makarov is attending and recover intel on the location of the plutonium. Ghost, you’re on overwatch. Rogue, you’re embedded with surveillance. Hammer handles extraction."

Walker leaned back in his chair. "About time we worked together properly, huh, Ghost?"

Ghost said nothing. His silence was louder than gunfire.

---

Berlin – 48 Hours Later

Rain fell in needles. The wind howled down alleys like a living thing. Berlin was dark, dirty, and angry tonight.

Ghost adjusted the scope on his M14 from a rooftop three clicks from the objective. In his comms, static crackled.

"Rogue, eyes on target?" he muttered.

"Copy," Rose’s voice whispered back. "Target moving toward the south corridor. He’s got two guards. I’ve got a window in ten seconds."

Ghost scanned his angle. He could see the backs of the Russian convoy entering the old Bundestag ruins, converted now into a private auction house for war criminals.

He could also see Walker. And he didn’t like it.

"You shouldn’t be down there with him," he said.

"You don’t get to tell me where to be, Riley," she snapped, but softer than her tone should’ve been.

Ghost exhaled. "I don’t trust him."

"You don’t trust anyone."

"Exactly."

"Eyes forward, Simon," she whispered. He hated how good she sounded saying his name.

Flashback: Six Months Ago, Prague

Rain on cobblestones. A surveillance op gone hot. Rose crouched behind a stone wall, rifle smoking.

“Sniper team, fall back!” someone yelled over the radio.

She was bleeding, cornered, and out of options, until a shadow moved behind her.

August Walker.

He dropped two hostiles without blinking.

“Come on, Rogue,” he said, offering a hand. “You owe me a drink after this.”

She hated him instantly. And then he smiled.

-----

Inside the auction house, Rose moved with perfect control, dressed in tactical black under a server’s coat. Her eyes scanned faces, wealthy dealers, rogue generals, and warlords with cigars.

She spotted him.

Makarov.

He stood beside a tall steel case.

The plutonium core.

She murmured into her comms, "Visual on package. Confirming identity. I’ll need Hammer’s code to access the manifest."

"Where the bloody hell is he?" Ghost growled.

"Right behind me," she replied.

Walker appeared beside her like a shadow. He leaned close, far too close.

"Did you miss me, Rogue?"

"Just give me the code."

He smirked and tapped it into her device.

The screen lit up. Location coordinates. Shipment logs. One word blinked red: Kashmir.

"Ghost," she whispered. "The nukes, he’s moving them to Kashmir. We need to..."

Gunfire.

Suddenly, chaos exploded. The ceiling blew inward. Glass rained down. Someone had tipped them off.

"Extraction compromised!" Walker shouted into the comms. "Move now!"

Rose ducked behind a stone pillar as bullets ripped through the air. She returned fire, her SIG barking thunder.

Ghost was already off the rooftop, ziplining down, his rifle slung as he dropped into the rear alley.

"Rogue, I’m inbound!"

"I’ve got eyes on Makarov! He’s heading out the side..."

Gunfire cut her off.

Ghost found her behind an overturned table, bleeding from her arm.

"Rose!"

"I’m fine," she said through gritted teeth, reloading. "Go after Makarov!"

"You’re my bloody mission now," he snapped, pulling her up with one arm and covering them with suppressive fire.

Walker burst through the side, engaging two masked gunmen near the vault.

"He’s gone!" Walker shouted. "Makarov’s slipped out the back!"

Ghost gritted his teeth. He hated this. He hated everything about how close Walker stayed to Rose.

She stumbled. He caught her.

"You’re hit."

"It’s nothing."

"Bullshite."

------

Ghost POV

He hated watching her bleed. Hated watching him near her even more.

Walker acted like he owned the ground she walked on.

But she wasn’t his.

And if Ghost had anything to say about it, she never would be.

Sirens screamed in the distance.

Walker barked, "Chopper’s two clicks east. Let’s move!"

They exited through smoke and gunfire, with Ghost’s arm firmly around Rose, Walker flanking them like a shadow. The mission had failed. Makarov was gone. The nuke was headed to Kashmir.

But Ghost knew something more dangerous had just begun.

He saw it in the way Walker looked at Rose.

Possessive. Obsessive.

And in the way Rose didn’t see it at all.

--------

Later That Night ,

Safehouse Bravo, Berlin Outskirts

The safehouse was silent save for the low hum of fluorescent lights and the hiss of boiling water in the kettle. Rose sat on the edge of a steel-framed cot, arm wrapped in gauze, blood crusted on her sleeve.

Ghost leaned against the wall near the entrance, arms crossed.

"You should sleep," he said, voice like gravel.

"You should stop staring at me like I broke your favorite rifle," she muttered.

He didn’t smile. But something in his eyes flickered.

"I saw the way he looked at you."

She froze, not looking up. "I’m not yours to worry about, Ghost."

"I’m your partner. That makes it my job."

She stood. Walked past him. Paused at the door.

"You didn’t answer the question."

He didn’t.

And she didn’t look back.

In the corner, behind closed lips, Ghost whispered only to himself.

"That’s the problem."

Outside, thunder cracked across Berlin. And somewhere far east... in Kashmir... the clock had already started ticking.

[lovehotelreservation]

chapter three: sweat marks all on my clothes summary: worldwide fame and a political tie or two has you--one of the biggest pop stars around--in dire need of reliable protection. thankfully you have four ex-military retirees to entrust your wellbeing to. but what happens when that protection turns possessive? rating: pg-13 (rating will increase across certain chapters) story pairing: f!reader/task force 141 | chapter pairing: f!reader/gaz previous chapter | next chapter

idk why i was so surprised by kyle smoking in mw3 when i first saw it happen ??? like i never got smoker vibes from him but then i saw charli literally smoking at her manchester show when it happened a couple weeks later and then it just clicked 😭🇬🇧

-----------------

It was so damn stuffy in here.

With a tug at his shirt collar, Kyle scanned his gaze across the sight before him: a vast production warehouse up in North West. There was a joke in the group chat that the reason why Simon wasn’t there to accompany you was because he’d likely ditch your side to go take a nap at his apartment.

Alas, he was assigned to go scope out the arena for your Berlin show, making sure that the full layout was committed to memory–a task that Kyle, Johnny and Price would have to take up eventually for your other tour stops.

For now however, today’s itinerary had him escorting you to visit the warehouse of the production company who was in charge of building out your concert stage. The crew had been at work the past few weeks creating a mock set-up of your stage for you to walk around on to test stability, featuring elevated platforms capable of 360 rotation, a grand catwalk, and a placeholder for the main backdrop set piece: a dollhouse.

As to be expected for the Doll.

From where he stood–out where the crowd would usually be–gazing up at the platforms of the stage mock-up reminded him of Super Mario, a thought that brought an amused smile to his lips.

Though, with that comparison in mind–

His gaze shifted up towards the center of the stage to where you stood.

There was a princess right there.

Your expression was contemplative as you discussed possible adjustments that needed to be made for your stage with the lead project designer, who was going over the practicality of some of your proposed concepts to take your concert experience to soaring new heights.

For Kyle, it was nice to see you take on and handle creative control with finesse, to see you–pop star and all–have so much say on how your artistry would be presented.

Considering that his first encounter with you was at your shyest, it was delightful to witness you take on more of an active role instead of having a group of executives pester you on your next move.

After some further deliberation back and forth, it was time to run a quick rehearsal on the platforms–the notes taken during this would be used to make the final adjustments before the production team committed to building out all necessary structures for your tour. The focus was mainly on how comfortable you felt traversing across while dancing.

And so, with the stage cleared, you were led up to one of the tallest platforms present via the rolling handrail that was brought over, waiting for one of your backing tracks to be queued up.

It was meant to be a simple rehearsal so Kyle truly didn’t expect for you to go all out in the slightest, but the subsequent squeaks and stomps of your shoes sliding and stepping over from platform to platform roared otherwise. 

He was in awe.

Seeing you hit your marks, maintaining your grace in tune to the rhythm—how could he not be?

Though he had to admit, as he watched you go from platform to platform, he couldn’t help but feel amused, recalling a day back in Al Mazrah with dangling ropes and exploding convoys.

The only people in attendance were him, the production crew, and your manager and yet you were dancing as though you were performing at Coachella. Witnessing the shift from calm and pondering to fiery and focused–how utterly captivating of a duality.

You didn’t even let it sit at just one track either. If anything, once one track ended, you signaled to have another song play, and then another and another, up until you essentially did a 15-minute set.

By the last song you had queued, you were back on center stage having leapt from one more platform for a dramatic finish, your chest labored as you stared straight ahead, maintaining your refined aura.

In response, Kyle was compelled to bring his hands up for applause, calling out your name with a cheer, “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”

From fierce to flustered.

Your narrowed eyes softened as you brought your hands up to your face, smiling from ear to ear as everyone else in attendance joined in with claps and cheers of their own.

Of everyone else in the room, your eyes met his, your gaze and smile bringing warmth to his chest.

What a pretty sight.

“Doll–” The voice of Pearl cut in with a click of her tongue and an exasperated sigh. “–you do know you have a commercial to film later, right? Guess we’ll have to head back to the hotel so you can shower.”

Your expression quickly switched to apologetic as you turned your face towards her direction. 

“Sorry! It’s been a while, you know? I have so much energy pent-up!” Laughing, you then bounced a bit from side to side to emphasize your point.

Pearl’s eyes remained thin.

“Then your fans are in for a hell of a good time with this tour then!” 

Your gaze was back on him as he offered you a thumbs up and a broad smile, even as he wondered just what the hell was your manager’s problem.

Giggling in response, you proceeded to bring your arms up over your head, bringing your hands to your head as you formed a heart, your expression cheerful, your voice the bubbliest he had ever heard you. “Thank you Kyle! I feel so much better with you here!”

Kyle froze, feeling as though he felt the breeze of Cupid’s arrow zip past by his cheek.

Though, seeing you so flushed and warm in the face, he knew you just had to be thirsty, especially with how stuffy the warehouse was. Thankfully, courtesy of the production company, there was a spread of refreshments and snacks set out for everyone on a nearby table by the stage. 

Without a second thought, Kyle lightly jogged over to grab a water bottle before approaching the edge of the stage, holding it out for you to take as you walked over to where he stood. “Cool off a little, yeah?”

“Yes, sir!” You smiled, graciously accepting the bottle before twisting it open and taking a few good gulps down your throat.

The rest?

You poured the rest down the front of your tank top.

Kyle’s eyes practically popped out of their sockets while Pearl’s voice sliced through the air once again amidst gasps and astonished laughter from the production company staff. “Doll!”

Fanning yourself, you apologized sheepishly once more, “Can’t help it! A/C in here is kinda–”

Lips curling into a scowl, Pearl immediately snapped her head towards the production lead, “You! Are you cheaping out on A/C when your top client is here?!”

Holding up his hands in defense, he explained, “Sincere apologies ma’am, since we only have a few of the guys actually here today, we didn’t think A/C was needed–”

Pearl’s heeled foot stomped to the floor as she pointed right at the thermostat towards the other side of the space. “Oh do not give me that!”

But Kyle had since tuned out the conversation, his attention much too focused on you as you sauntered over to the restroom to pat yourself dry.

Of course you were wearing white today.

-----------------

did u know that charli xcx made a song for super nintendo world because now u do

thank you all once again for your continued support of this piece!!! 🥹💖🥹💖 hope you enjoy what's in store for the next chapter:

i've been lookin' at you puttin' holes in your head

any guesses for the next focus 🙆‍♀️🙆‍♀️

[germanpostwarmodern]

2025 is all about the celebration of the Neue Sachlichkeit’s centennial and the exhibition at Kunsthalle Mannheim in 1925 that coined the term. A number of museums ceased the opportunity to show certain aspects of and artists related to the movement but the Kunstsammlungen Chemnitz without doubt undertook the most ambitious project of the anniversary year: with „European Realities - Realismusbewegungen der 1920er and 1930er Jahre in Europa“ the Kunstsammlungen at Museum Gunzenhauser extend the perspective to realist movements in all of Europe. But instead of covering the well-known movements in Germany, France and Italy, the exhibition focuses on the lesser-known developments in the Netherlands, Sweden, Britain and Eastern Europe.

Reflecting the exhibition’s scope, the accompanying catalogue is a substantial tome that collects countless illustrations as well as expert essays addressing, for example, the movements in Croatia, Czechoslovakia, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia and Poland. Accordingly, both exhibition and catalogue provide a comprehensive panorama of the diverse movements that share a pictorial language but differ greatly in terms of content, a circumstance that isn’t all that surprising in view of the social and political reorganization taking place all over Europe.

In the Netherlands Pyke Koch reacted to the new art coming from Berlin by charging the pictorial realism with symbols as well as his own identity and world view, a modus operandi significantly differing from those of his German colleagues. In Croatia on the other hand the French and German influences were reflected by artists like Sava Sumanovic and his neoclassicist paintings or the artist of the group „Zemlja“ (soil) whose critical realism reacted to current social, political and economic developments in the country.

These two examples are only a fraction of the positions and works gathered in the exhibition and the catalogue but exemplify the range of discoveries to be made. Although the likes of Dix, Grosz and Schad are also present it is the countless and largely unknown artists from all over Europe that offer a fully new perspective on a movement that spread the continent during the 1920s and 1930s. The exhibition was 6 years in the making but the effort really paid off handsomely in an eye-opening exhibition and a beautiful catalogue!

[safaakhatib]

what’s happening in Gaza is beyond the scope of words, pictures, or short videos. It’s a humanitarian catastrophe on a massive scale, with devastation resembling a real-life apocalypse. Calling it “The End of Gaza” sadly captures the depth of destruction and despair many are witnessing.

[probablyasocialecologist]

Capping demand from the top fifth, even at a fairly high level, cut greenhouse gas pollution from energy consumption by 9.7%, while raising demand from people in the bottom fifth who also live in poverty to a fairly low level increases emissions by just 1.4%. “We have to start tackling luxury energy use to stay within an equitable carbon budget for the globe,” said Milena Buchs, a professor of sustainable welfare at the University of Leeds and the lead author of the study, published on Monday in the journal Nature Energy, “but also to actually have the energy resources to enable people in fuel poverty to slightly increase their energy use and meet their needs.”

[...]

“The study confirms that energy demand reductions can contribute significantly to climate change mitigation, even as poorer households are lifted out of energy poverty,” said Felix Creutzig, an IPCC author and professor of sustainability economics at the Technical University of Berlin, who was not involved in the study. “High-income, high-education households have more scope and also more capacity in reducing their greenhouse gas emissions – and also carry more responsibility.”

[...]

Studies have shown the global rich – which includes middle-class people in rich countries – play a disproportionate role in heating the planet. In 2015, the top 1% of earners emitted twice as much carbon dioxide as the bottom 50%, according to estimates from the Stockholm Environment Institute and Oxfam. Rich people have more agency to cut their emissions and those of others. A commentary in Nature Energy argued in 2021 that this covered not just how they shop, which the authors stressed was a powerful lever, but also how they act as citizens, investors, role models and workers.

[lisenberry]

Don't have a name for this one yet, but this is Part One of Posh!Price, and my third entry in the Summer Love series.

Inspired in no small part by this amazing ask from a few months ago.

NSFW/MDNI/18+

CW: somewhat public sex, Price smokes and drinks, language.

There was nothing John hated more than pomp and fanfare.  Or tiny plates of cold, unidentifiable food.  Or the physical constraints of formal dinner wear.  Give him a waist-deep swamp, a warm MRE, and thirty pounds of gear any day.  Anything but the soul-sucking misery of a back-patting, bureaucratic group wank.

The only reason he was at the gala at all was because he didn’t have a choice.  Well, he always had a choice, in theory.  But in practice, he knew he’d be there the moment you asked him so nicely.  With a glowing smile and the promise that you’d make it worth his time.  He could sit still, and behave, like a good lad.

For a little while, at least. �� 

Finally, after the third hour of watching your every move from the edges as you made your rounds to financiers and well-to-dos, he refilled his glass of whisky at the open bar and took a fresh cigar to the secluded terrace.  With the full-bodied taste of earthy leather, sweet molasses and crisp cedar settling thickly on his tongue, he reflected on the circumstances that brought him there.

He’d met you six months prior at a product development retreat to introduce a new communication device that would resist both detection and interference in the field.  He’d been skeptical of your credentials at first, but by the time you finished your presentation and answered every one of his biting remarks with ease, he was left impressed with your knowledge not only of the tech, but of the practical application as well. 

You had experience with the weaknesses of the current equipment, and the upgrades would significantly improve not only the efficiency of the tradecraft, but the safety of his team.

He’d sought you out for the rest of the weekend, practically joined you at the hip, as you bonded over your shared combat experience and time at the Royal Military Academy in Sandhurst, although you’d been several years behind him. 

By the end, you’d exchanged numbers and a handful of nights together since.  When he was off mission, and you were in between business travel.  And there was that one wild night in Dubai when your flight paths had crossed clandestinely. 

Neither of you were in a position to make things any more official, but he never turned down the chance to spend more time with you. 

“How’d I know you’d be hiding out here?”  He heard you approach even before you spoke, as you wrapped your arms around his waist from behind. 

“I’ve hit my limit on polite conversation, I’m afraid.” 

John could stay hidden, and completely still in a bush for 24 hours without so much as blinking, all while holding a rifle scope steady on a target kilometers away.  But he’d grown restless to be so near, and yet so far away from you.

“What about impolite conversation?” you countered, slipping a hand lower to where his tuxedo shirt tucked into his trousers.  “Think we could fuck out here without anyone seeing us?” you murmured into the side of his neck. 

Your heels gave you just enough height to reach a bit of exposed skin above the collar of his well-fit jacket.

“Why do you think I chose this advantage point?” he growled with a grin, twisting around to face you and holding his cigar between his teeth.  It freed his hands to pull you closer, enough to feel just how much he needed you and slip up under the slit of your evening dress.

The smoke from it hung heavy in the humid summer air between you. 

You’d told him you didn't care much for cigars before you met him, but that your granddad would smoke the same label in his office when he’d let you sit atop his lap and listen to old war stories.

He'd been too young in WW2, but he'd served after.  The rebuilding in Berlin and the struggles throughout the continent that followed.  The Cold War and later, the troubles in Ireland.  His greatest successes and his deepest regrets.

John didn’t seem to mind that you’d drawn a connection between him and childhood memories of your grandfather, but you'd held off from confessing that it was something even stronger than just a pleasant recollection.  It was a feeling deep in your bones, of when home was a place in the world.  Concrete and unmoving, and yet a soft place to land.  Not just another tumultuous thing to be handled.  

Navigated.  Fixed.

With John, you found comfort again.  Or at least, recognized the possibility.  But still, you pulled the thick roll from his mouth as if it was competing for his attention and claimed his deceptively soft lips and warm tongue in a kiss that was as long as it was deep. 

“I’ve missed you, John.”  One night together was never enough.  Two was always a pleasant surprise, but they were few and far between.  Anything more was wishful thinking.

“I have a short leave starting the week after next.  Are you free?”  He nuzzled the length of his chin along your cheek, unwillingly to sever the connection even as he spoke.  His hands moved circles up along your hips.

“I’m going home for a family thing at our place in the country.  You’re welcome to tag along.”  You’d meant the last part to sound more sarcastic, but your voice hitched as he pressed you against the stone railing and spread your legs to better fit him against you.

“Where is it?”

“Herefordshire.  I was only kidding.  It’ll be horribly...I don’t even know how to describe it.”  

What were the odds that it would be the same area where he’d grown up as well?  In between his time at boarding schools, at least.  He was about sixteen the last time he’d been home.  He understood all too well the stress of returning.

However, he was unwilling to give you up for long. Not when you smelled like gardenias, looked at him so fondly, and clung so snuggly around his waist.

“How can I say ‘no’, when you’ll be there?”  It was his turn to claim your mouth, as he quickly proved just how clever he was at evading detection.

You just had to stay quiet, and not drop his cigar.

[welldonekhushi]

Call of Duty OC: Katya Kovalevskaya 🌹

An updated bio sheet of Katya! The last one felt like it was straight Wiki format style, but doesn't really explain her character properly, I also added some changes to her character as well so, here you go! <3

GENERAL:

Name: Katya

Full name: Yekaterina Viktornovna Kovalevskaya

Codename: "Katyusha"

Alias(es): Lady of Death (by the Red Army), Mama Katya (by her soldiers), Der Russische Leutnant (by the Germans)

Age: 32 years old (Call of Duty: World at War), 58 years old (Call of Duty: Black Ops), 70 years old (Black Ops: Cold War)

Gender: Female

Nationality: Russian

Languages spoken: Russian, German (for intelligence purposes), English

Date of birth: June 15, 1916

Place of Birth: Ural Mountains, Imperial Russia

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Martial Status: Single

Occupation: Senior Lieutenant and Sniper of the Red Army (retires after the events of the first Black Ops)

Status: Active

Rank: Senior Lieutenant (1942), Lieutenant Colonel (1945)

Affiliation: Red Army, CIA (briefly)

Universe: Call of Duty: World at War, Call of Duty: Black Ops, Black Ops: Cold War (alternative AU)

Faceclaim: Anna Chipovskaya

Song: "Katyusha" by Boris Alexandrov

Biography: Yekaterina, commonly known as Katya joins the Red Army for the service of the Soviet Union to avenge her parents death under the hands of German forces. While defending her country amidst the raging Second World War, she faces tremendous amounts of obstacles and barriers in her life which often try to make them as her weakness, but the woman was sworn to take her last breath in achieving one goal with her comrades — and that was liberating Berlin.

AFFILIATIONS:

3rd Shock Army (Red Army)

Sergeant Viktor Reznov [K.I.A]

Private Dimitri Petrenko [K.I.A]

Private Chernov [K.I.A]

Commissar Markhov [fate unknown]

Major General Nikita Dragovich [K.I.A]

Colonel Lev Kravchenko [fate unknown]

CIA (Call of Duty: Black Ops)

Alex Mason

Frank Woods

Jason Hudson

Grigori Weaver

SKILLS AND ABILITIES:

Weapon induced: Scoped Mosin-Nagant, Tokarev (TT-33), PPSh-41, Molotov Cocktail, RGD-33

Fighting style: Hand-to-hand combat, but rarely, since she's more used to being a sniper giving covering fire

Special skills: Is a very experienced sniper, that gave her the infamous name of "Lady of Death", but Katya didn't want to coin such a name for herself when she was only serving her people as a soldier of the frontlines.

Talents: Knows natural remedies, holds a lot of empathy for others, can speak fluent German even if she knows a little bit of it

Shortcomings: Due to the incident, she lost her face partially along with the half-vision of her eye throughout the accident, faces survivors guilt, is a bit mentally depressed but she's able to push those negative thoughts down

PERSONALITY:

Myers-Briggs Type: ISFJ (The Defender)

Is very protective towards her comrades: Ever since she lost her parents, Katya had always been searching for a way to cope up with her loss by taking care of the people she loves and believes in the most. Even if she never married, or birthed a child, she automatically unlocked her motherly instincts by calling her comrades as her "sons and daughters", considering them as her one, found family.

Ruthless, but at times merciful: Katya has shown immense strength and courage in the battlefield as a sniper and a squad leader, haunting the Germans in their own sleep thinking Katya wouldn't kill them and make the mattress they're sleeping on as their deathbed. But also, when Katya wants to show mercy, she'll show it. She thinks there's no use to wasting her own bullets on someone who already decided to surrender to the Red Army.

Emotional: Let it be a soldier dying, or a civilian, she'll ask forgiveness from God that she wasn't able to save an innocent despite having the duty to protect her own people. The incident that killed all of her soldiers left her deeply scarred, and believed she committed a bigger sin for being too naive and careless, and she deserved the impact on her face. It was even worse when Nikita Dragovich killed her teammates again by putting them as test subjects for the Nova 6 experiment that made her grow deranged and bloodthirsty to hunt Dragovich and his lapdog, Kravchenko in a fit of vengeance, until the CIA caught her presence.

Intelligent and observant: Katya is more aware of her surroundings ever since the incident impacted her, which caused her to be very vigilant, and grew her intelligence in the battlefield which made her useful for the Red Army as a sniper and as a squad leader in the infantry.

BACKGROUND STORY

Katya was born around 1916 with her mother Elizaveta Kovalevskaya (neé Petrova) and father, Viktor Kovalevsky. Spending her childhood in the Ural Mountains, she learnt how to snipe at a young age from her father, who was a hunter, the reason why she took her father's skill in the field of sniping.

In 1939, she recruited herself in the Red Army as a sniper, in which her talent gave a huge role and reputation among the soldiers as a source of bravery, courage and inspiration, that gave her the name "Lady of Death". But, Katya on the other hand didn't want to coin such a name for herself when she believes she's only doing it for the protection of her own people.

But, in 1941, when Germany attacked Soviet Russia under "Operation Barbarossa", her village became a victim of the attacks, which ended up killing her family in the process. Broken and enraged, Katya wanted to avenge her parents death by going through missions and eliminating every single enemy who tried to cross the Soviet borders. Her life completely changed when one day she encountered General Heinrich Amsel, who was responsible for the death of her family along with many others, wanted to kill him by her own hands but never succeeded because he evaded before she could get to him.

Furious, the General wanted to eliminate Katya in her path, by luring her into a trap that he was staying at a hotel and could grab her an opportunity to end his life there. But little to her knowledge, it was all a set up, when he used that entire building as a decoy with the explosives attached. His soldiers locked away his teammates, including Katya but she was able to break through it. In a desperate attempt to find her comrades who were still locked inside, it was too late before the explosion could take effect, and blew her out of the building, leaving her drastically injured.

The explosion was the turning point of her life, where it emotionally scarred her and made her regret being a soldier, when she couldn't even protect her own soldiers, who basked into the flames of Amsel's planned explosion. She was taken for medical assistance, which took her a month to recover physically, and mentally. But, that didn't stop Katya from retiring, as her mind still revolved around that one goal — to eliminate General Amsel, and push all the German forces back from invading Russia.

Somewhere around 1942, she was promoted to Senior Lieutenant, and became the squad leader for the 3rd Shock Army, and participated in the Battle of Stalingrad alongside Pvt. Dimitri Petrenko and Sgt. Viktor Reznov. As the General's whereabouts were found, she led her team throughout the warzone and successfully countered Amsel, which led to his untimely death under the hands of Dimitri's sniper rifle. Katya, who held immense pride for the Private for doing something she couldn't, made him along with Reznov and Chernov as her closest comrades.

After the entire battle, in 1945, they finally achieved victory by liberating Berlin by hoisting the Soviet flag on the Reichstag, Katya was now at peace, hoping for a better future after the war's end.

But, somehow.. her life was going to go into a bigger turmoil, when she gets sent to the mission around the Arctic Circle, leading the events of the first Black Ops.

[myth-blossom]

Hi! For the kindness ask game - #10: Enemies to Lovers with Diana/Grey

Hi Nonny! Thank you for the ask, what a great trope and pairing! 🥰

The immediate thing that came to mind was the classic: Grey doesn't trust Diana.

That image of him following 47 through his sniper scope in Colorado is just so perfect, so for Diana/Grey I'm picturing him posting himself on a rooftop in Berlin following her movements through his scope. He tracks her patterns, where she goes for coffee, a meal, shopping, etc until one day he discovers an outlier.

It's unusual enough that it grasps his curiosity and he goes on foot to investigate as she enters a building with no immediate identification, and instantly he expects the shoe to drop and find her speaking with a Providence operative, his revenge betrayed by Burnwood. Nothing prepares him for the reality waiting for him inside.

(i.e. some hella steamy and compromising things ensue)

[shabbytigers]

it cooled off! 🎉 it’s overcast but that’s fine by me. i’m not really as much of a fan of being half blinded by the naked sun as everyone else is

scored someone nearby’s opera tickets at a substantial discount (i keep alerts on all three opera houses at kleinanzeigen. mostly people sell at cost, but not always) so i took a morning walk to pick those up. i moved in december and haven’t seen this neighborhood other than in winter before. leaves and lilacs and magnolias oh my

there are two s-bahn stations in walking distance (really three but two are on the same stretch of the ring line so the farther adds negligible personal value) and the ticket seller lives down the other side of the one i use least often, so i had a relatively interesting walk, although today is good friday so everything i passed was closed except for the bakeries and, charmingly, the flower sellers

i passed this shop

as an erstwhile new yorker this blew my mind. imagine an vintage/antique musical instruments artisan (even throwing in a broader-scoped furniture restoration partner) working out of a literal brick and mortar storefront space in a cobble hill prewar building. you can’t. thanks to price controls, berlin real estate has some major pathologies new york doesn’t have but also some pretty wholesome optionalities new york has just fully forgotten about. love stumbling on these preposterously specialized storefronts

got a quick breakfast at the local before the holiday rush and hey! it’s Spargel season! (… there is no unicode emoji for asparagus, wtf? let’s storm the un about it, they probably have free bandwidth)

later i’m going to the here-there-be-dragons wilds of far east berlin to look at a pair of secondhand boots at €15, so the adventure continues

still running a moderately spectacular sleep deficit, but what else is new. i like being here and i like today

[camisoledadparis]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … January 4

1750 – France Bruno Lenoir and Jean Diot are caught having sex in public for which they are arrested. A year later they were executed. There was general surprise in France at the severity of their sentence. Their execution was the last in France for consensual sodomy.

1877 – Marsden Hartley (d.1943) was an American Modernist painter, poet, and essayist. Hartley was born in Lewiston, Maine, where his English parents had settled.

In 1898, at age 22, Hartley moved to New York City to study painting at the New York School of Art. Hartley was a great admirer of Albert Pinkham Ryder and visited his studio in Greenwich Village as often as possible. His friendship with Ryder inspired Hartley to view art as a spiritual quest.

Hartley first traveled to Europe in April 1912, and he became acquainted with Gertude Stein's circle of avante-garde writers and artists in Paris. Stein, along with Hart Crane and Sherwood Anderson, encouraged Hartley to write as well as paint.

Finnish-Yankee sauna

In 1913, Hartley moved to Berlin, where he continued to paint. Many of Hartley's Berlin paintings were further inspired by the German military pageantry then on display, though his view of this subject changed after the outbreak of World War I, once war was no longer "a romantic but a real reality." The earliest of his Berlin paintings were shown in the landmark 1913 Armory Show in New York.

In Berlin, Hartley developed a close relationship with a Prussian lieutenant, Karl von Freyburg, who was the cousin of Hartley's friend Arnold Ronnebeck. References to Freyburg were a recurring motif in Hartley's work, most notably in Portrait of a German Officer (1914). Freyburg's subsequent death during the war hit Hartley hard, and he afterward idealized their relationship. Many scholars believe Hartley to have been gay, and have interpreted his work regarding Freyburg as embodying his homosexual feelings for him.

Portrait of a German Soldier

In addition to being considered one of the foremost American painters of the first half of the 20th century, Hartley also wrote poems, essays, and stories.

Cleophas and His Own: A North Atlantic Tragedy is a story based on two periods he spent in 1935 and 1936 with the Mason family in the Lunenburg County, Nova Scotia, fishing community of East Point Island. Hartley, then in his late 50s, found there both an innocent, unrestrained love and the sense of family he had been seeking since his unhappy childhood in Maine. The impact of this experience lasted until his death in 1943 and helped widen the scope of his mature works, which included numerous portrayals of the Masons.

He wrote of the Masons, "Five magnificent chapters out of an amazing, human book, these beautiful human beings, loving, tender, strong, courageous, dutiful, kind, so like the salt of the sea, the grit of the earth, the sheer face of the cliff." In Cleophas and His Own, written in Nova Scotia in the fall of 1936, Hartley expresses his immense grief at the tragic drowning of the Mason sons. The independent filmmaker Michael Maglaras has created a feature film Cleophas and His Own, released in 2005, which uses a personal testament by Hartley as its screenplay.

1946 – Arthur Conley aka Lee Roberts (d.2003) was a U.S. soul singer, best known for the 1967 hit "Sweet Soul Music".

Conley was born in McIntosh County, Georgia, U.S., and grew up in Atlanta. He first recorded in 1959 as the lead singer of Arthur & the Corvets. With this group, he released three singles in 1963 and 1964 – "Poor Girl", "I Believe", and "Flossie Mae" – on the Atlanta based record label, National Recording Company.

In 1964, he moved to a new label (Baltimore's Ru-Jac Records) and released "I'm a Lonely Stranger". When Otis Redding heard this, he asked Conley to record a new version, which was released on Redding's own fledgling label Jotis Records, as only its second release. Conley met Redding in 1967. Together they rewrote the��Sam Cooke song "Yeah Man" into "Sweet Soul Music", which, at Redding's insistence, was released on the Atco-distributed label Fame Records, and was recorded at FAME studios in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. It proved to be a massive hit, going to the number two position on the U.S. charts and the Top Ten across much of Europe. "Sweet Soul Music" sold over one million copies, and was awarded a gold disc.

After several years of hits singles in the early 1970s, he relocated to England in 1975, and spent several years in Belgium, settling in Amsterdam (Netherlands) in spring 1977. At the beginning of 1980 he had some major performances as Lee Roberts and the Sweaters in the Ganzenhoef, Paradiso, De Melkweg and the Concertgebouw, and was highly successful. At the end of 1980 he moved to the Dutch village of Ruurlo, legally changing his name to Lee Roberts — his middle name and his mother's maiden name. He promoted new music via his Art-Con Productions company. Amongst the bands he promoted was the heavy metal band Shockwave from The Hague. A live performance on January 8, 1980, featuring Lee Roberts & the Sweaters, was released as an album entitled Soulin' in 1988.

Conley was gay, and several music writers have said that his homosexuality was a bar to greater success in the United States and one of the reasons behind his move to Europe and his eventual name change. In 2014, rock historian Ed Ward wrote, "[Conley] headed to Amsterdam and changed his name to Lee Roberts. Nobody knew 'Lee Roberts,' and at last Conley was able to live in peace with a secret he had hidden – or thought he had – for his entire career: he was gay. But nobody in Holland cared."

Conley died from intestinal cancer in Ruurlo, Netherlands aged 57 in November 2003. He was buried in Vorden.

1960 – Michael Stipe has been the lead singer, lyricist, and composer for the successful rock band R.E.M. for over two decades. Among his best-known songs is "Losing My Religion," which rose to number 4 on the United States rock charts in 1991. He has also become involved in film and now has his own production companies.

The child of a career military officer, John Michael Stipe, born in Decatur, Georgia, grew up on bases around the United States and also in Germany, and spent his high school years in Illinois.

Stipe returned to Georgia for college, enrolling as an art student at the University of Georgia in 1978. There he met fellow alternative music fans Peter Buck, Mike Mills, and Bill Berry. Within a year all four had dropped out of college to forge a career as a rock band, R.E.M.

They went on a concert tour and in 1980 put out their first single, "Radio Free Europe." Its success, particularly on college radio stations, won them a recording contract. Their first full-length album, Murmur (1983), was chosen as Album of the Year by Rolling Stone magazine.

Stipe's vigor on stage contributed to the success of R.E.M.'s concerts. He interacted with the audience and charged about with boundless energy. He blasted his often dark and brooding lyrics into the microphone with such force that they were frequently barely intelligible.

In addition to composing and performing, Stipe has also directed several of R.E.M.'s music videos and oversees the creation of their album covers.

By 2004 the band had recorded nearly twenty albums with collective sales of almost fifty million copies worldwide, making it one of the most successful in the history of rock music.

With the success of the albums Out of Time (1991) and Automatic for the People (1992), R.E.M. became mainstream music stars. Around 1992, rumors that Stipe had contracted HIV began to circulate. According to Stipe, he did not start the rumor and he does not know who did.

Not that I can tell. I wore a hat that said 'White House Stop AIDS'. I'm skinny. I've always been skinny, except in 1985 when I looked like Marlon Brando, the last time I shaved my head. I was really sick then. Eating potatoes. I think AIDS hysteria would obviously and naturally extend to people who are media figures and anybody of indecipherable or unpronounced sexuality. Anybody who looks gaunt, for whatever reason. Anybody who is associated, for whatever reason - whether it's a hat, or the way I carry myself -as being queer-friendly.

In 1994, with questions still swirling about his sexuality, Stipe described himself as "an equal opportunity lech," and said he did not define himself as gay, straight, or bisexual, but that he was attracted to, and had relationships with, both men and women.

In 1995, he appeared on the cover of Out magazine. Stipe described himself as a "queer artist" in Time in 2001 and revealed that he had been in a relationship with "an amazing man" for three years at that point. Stipe reiterated this in a 2004 interview with Butt magazine. When asked if he ever declares himself as gay, Stipe stated, "I don't. I think there's a line drawn between gay and queer, and for me, queer describes something that's more inclusive of the grey areas."

In 1999, author Douglas A. Martin published a novel, Outline of My Lover, in which the narrator has a six-year romantic relationship with the unnamed lead singer of a successful Athens, Georgia-based, rock band; the book was widely speculated, and later confirmed by its author, to have been a roman à clef based on a real relationship between Martin and Stipe. The two had previously collaborated on two books, both in 1998: The Haiku Year (for which the two had both contributed haikai) and Martin's book of poetry Servicing the Salamander (for which Stipe took the cover photograph).

1965 – Craig Revel Horwood is an Australian-British author, dancer, choreographer, conductor, theatre director, and former drag queen in the United Kingdom. He is also a patron of the Royal Osteoporosis Society.

Horwood is best known as a judge on the popular BBC dancing series Strictly Come Dancing, and until 13 November 2021, as he tested positive for COVID-19 and missed the following week's show, had been the only judge to have appeared in every edition since its inception. He is often seen performing ballroom and Latin routines including, in 2019, a performance themed around Hello, Dolly!.

Horwood has a waxwork in Madame Tussauds Blackpool which has been on display since July 2018. On 20 July 2021, Horwood was given an Honorary Doctor of Arts by the University of Winchester at Winchester Cathedral.

He was born in Ballarat, Australia. His father Phil was a former Royal Australian Navy Lieutenant whose alcoholism had "torn their family apart". He started his career as a dancer in Melbourne, then moved to London to take advantage of the greater opportunities available there and to dance competitively. In 1989, he moved to the UK from Australia, and on 20 August 2011, he became a British citizen.

Revel is Horwood's middle name; it is not double barrelled. In his autobiography, Horwood reveals that at the age of 17, he made money by appearing as a drag queen in bars and clubs and that his relationship with an unnamed celebrity was akin to prostitution.

Horwood was married to Jane Horwood from 1990 to 1992. In December 2014, Horwood informed a reporter from OK! magazine that 'I was bisexual for a long time. I flitted between men and women quite a lot between the ages of 17 and 26. My wife Jane left me for another man. Then I fell in love with a bloke. I have been gay ever since.' His former partner Damon Scott had been a runner up on Britain's Got Talent.

Since early 2018, Horwood has been in a relationship with horticulturist Jonathan Myring. In April 2020 Horwood and Myring announced their engagement. The pair, who met on Tinder, became engaged while in Tasmania.

Horwood became a patron of the Royal Osteoporosis Society in 2009. In this, he has found common ground with Camilla, Queen Consort, the Society's Royal patron (whose mother, like his, had bone disease). The two of them danced the cha-cha-cha together, on a school visit to mark National Osteoporosis Day in 2009.

In January 2015, Horwood revealed on ITV's Loose Women that he suffered from anorexia and body dysmorphia as a teenager and young dancer, as a result of trying to make himself look like other young men, and other dancers in particular.The 14th British series of Who Do You Think You Are? featured Horwood's ancestry in the second episode; in this, his family history research took him home to Australia, where he discovered that his family tree traces to Gloucestershire, Lancashire and Essex in England. Horwood found out that he is not the first dancer in his family, and that he is descended from gold prospectors that went bankrupt before becoming rich on finding a 250-ounce (7.1 kg) gold nugget. He also learnt further that his great-great-grandfather, Moses Horwood, who is revealed in the programme to have been a petty criminal from England, was convicted at the Gloucestershire assizes and transported to Van Diemen's Land (Tasmania) in 1841. Criminal records identified by TheGenealogist include a transportation document for Moses Horwood, showing he departed England on 1 December 1841 on board a ship called the John Brewer.

1970 – Christopher Klucsarits, better known as Chris Kanyon (d.2010), US Professional wrestler, best known for his work in World Championship Wrestling and the World Wrestling Federation, under the ring names Kanyon and Mortis.

In 2006, after Kanyon's release from WWE, he began a gimmick in which he was an openly homosexual pro wrestler. This included a publicity stunt wherein he stated that WWE released him from his contract because of his sexuality. Kanyon later told reporters and even stated on a number of radio interviews, that this was just a publicity stunt and he was heterosexual. However, he later retracted these statements and acknowledged that he was in fact homosexual.

Before his death Kanyon was working on a book, Wrestling Reality, with Ryan Clark. The book was released November 1, 2011, and it features Kanyon's struggles as a closeted gay man as a prominent theme.

1984 – Illinois repeals its "lewd fondling or caress" law, more than two decades after repealing its sodomy law.

1997 – A British tabloid accuses Conservative M.P. Jerry Hayes of having an affair in 1991 with a then-18-year-old male. At the time, 18 was under the age of consent.

[basilone]

PLEASE FEEL FREE KILLY to provide snippets/commentary/whatever you wish about ‘The Burning House’; consider me already intrigued!!! <3 thank you!

Love how The Burning House immediately had people going 👀 at me today, haha!

One of the fun parts of this project for me is that I get to move the scope of the narrative beyond just WWII. Half of this story is set in late 50s Berlin, at the height of the Cold War but before the Berlin Wall is built, and it's been really interesting to do research into that. Working with Ron on one side as an American officer made warden of Spandau Prison and with Tatiana on the other side serving as a Soviet liaison officer allows me to highlight so much of that American-Soviet divide that was going on in those years. There is a really stark difference in how they approach post-war life, which offers a lot of commentary on rebuilding and trauma in particular that I can't wait to sink my teeth into.

Another thing I'm superexcited about is getting to highlight the role of Soviet women in WWII and beyond through Tatiana, who is by all rights a very gutsy young woman turned wartime leader but left to flounder in the years following the war. Her worldview, her war experiences, her post-war struggles, etc. are all very much rooted in the research I did into these real-life women who rose to the occasion during the war but grappled immensely with their homecoming afterward. Tatiana has truly brought herself to life in these past years, and I can't wait for you all to get to know her properly.

For now, a small excerpt from the Berlin section (below the cut):

The bedroom is shrouded in near-darkness. Ron holds out a hand to stop the door from slamming against the wall. He swung it open with too much force behind the motion. Half-expected her to have locked it, somehow, with a key only she would have managed to find. Half-expected her to have disappeared, even though she would have balked at the height of the drop from window to ground. It’d still have been like her to try. And it’s not that he hasn’t considered the possibility of her staying, but the sight of her silhouette still gives him pause. Her head is in her hands. Ron can tell that much, even from this distance between door and mattress. The small lamp on the stool beside her illuminates her arms and crowns her hair with gold. Her knees are almost drawn up to her chest. There’s no indication that she’s heard the door open at all. He steps into the bedroom. Allows the door to click shut behind him, taking all of the living room’s light with it. Still she doesn’t respond. The quiet stretches out into the inky swathes of shadows that coat a part of her in deepest midnight blue. She doesn’t look up, even though the floorboards creak beneath his feet as he moves closer to the mattress. Her head remains in her hands. Her shoulders tremble slightly with each breath. There’s a small hitch in her inhales that leaves his own throat feeling strangely thick and parched, as if she’s taking all the air with her in that sound.

[segatoys]

posic / objectum research help !!!

im currently doing research on posic / objectum concepts and how these have developped post-industrial revolution; animism at the base of these concepts but evolving more into how we know them today and especially as those posic / objectum feelings relate to machines and robots. finding any literature on this subject is quite difficult and when it comes to objectum stuff the earliest i can find is with that one forums founder and her relationship with the berlin wall in the 80s (dont quote me on that, i dont have the actual data in front of me rn)

im basing the jumping off point of my research with the 1909 futurist manifesto by marinetti, though trying to find stuff has mostly brought up things like the general concepts of animism (not the scope here) and like... Pygmalion, which is also not in the scope here since the whole statue thing is too humanoid for what im writing about.

im writing about objects and non-humanoid machines. im writing about people who are in love with them, sexually attracted to them, friends with them, etc. not including forums and personal experiences, i need sources... as far as im aware theres really not any ltierature on this subject outside of psychological research tying these things to autism, schizophrenia, etc.

if anyone has any pointers on any literature it would be greatly appreciated. right now a source ive been looking at (besides the futurist manifesto) is design and emotion, a collection of papers/presentations that were given at a conference in the early aughts.

reblogs appreciated. thanks

[antaxzantax]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 54

Summary: Oswell E. Spencer hires Albert Wesker as security chief at Arklay Laboratory.

1

The Berlin Wall fell.

The Soviet Union dissolved and, with it, the definitive consolidation of Western hegemony.

A new world order ordered by the markets was born.

It was the corporations' time, Umbrella's time.

Spencer and Ashford had met urgently at Umbrella Pharmaceuticals headquarters in Bonn to discuss the future of the company and the joint course of action they would formulate for the bioweapons market.

Spencer never changed his mind. He set up Umbrella as an enterprise for his personal enrichment and for the extension of his individual fortune, as he promised his father Abraham. However, the serendipity of the Progenitor virus caused a deviation from his original route as a traditional businessman that uncovered new and affluent avenues for him to refocus his existential state. He had had a few ideas that had shaken him by their scope and overweening ambition, but these ideas were purely personal and unrelated to the subject at hand: the future of a multinational.

Ashford held a position that only the threat of thermonuclear war had quelled: Umbrella was to play a central role in the expansion and maintenance of Western hegemony. Alexander, like his father, his grandfather and virtually all his ancestors before him, wanted empire. Unlike the old glories who mourned the disintegration of the British Empire, Alexander looked to the wide ocean of nation-states with which to negotiate and in which to incite coups and civil wars. The Ashfords, and the Stuarts by extension, had cast themselves in the role of guardians of the old order regardless of whether the peasant carries a hoe or a computer. Specifically, of an old order dreamed up as an industrial and rationalist reproduction of the absolutism to which their Stuart forebears were usually prone.

And that was going to be a problem.

Spencer did not want Umbrella to survive. Although promising at first, his partnership with Ashford had turned into an ordeal of constant conflicting opinions because of the lack of a guiding principle between the two. He had experienced his long corporate career as enriching and forging a character that would have made his ancestors proud, but he was about to reach the limit of his effort and patience and could not simply walk away.

If he ran, the Ashfords would own Umbrella in its entirety along with the Progenitor virus patent. Even if he kept a boxcar of samples, the Ashfords would destroy his legacy, ruin his name and the rest of the Spencers would jump down his throat for giving those jocks such a succulent steak. Then, there was the matter of Alex and his mixed feelings about her. She certainly needed an heir, but... She wasn't even English. And he didn't quite trust her. She had killed Marcus as a test of loyalty and that honored her, but it remained to be found out if her ambition and his matched or, on the contrary, her role as prodigal daughter would be abruptly cancelled by a bullet in the head.

He had to do something. He would rather die than lose control of his half of the company. Seeing Ashford excited about a hypothetical invasion of Iraq with Umbrella's explicit involvement turned his stomach. His grandfather was governor of India, not the head of a militia of down-and-out highlanders. He wanted order and control, and to resolve conflicts from the discretion of his office, whereas the Ashfords wanted to involve Umbrella in a second battle of Culloden with the prince at the helm[1].

He sensed that Ashford also wished to leave. However, their bond had been twisted to the point of making a peaceful exit impossible at this time. Therefore, Spencer had to design and execute his tactic carefully. First, he had thought of a radical measure, but one he believed to be effective: hiring Soviet personnel. He had his eye on a man, Sergei Vladimir, who would repel Alexander for his furious anti-communism and begin to build a faction of loyalists. In this sense, Vladimir was an interesting addition as a disenchanted Leninist and former Red Army colonel. It was Vladimir who had contacted Spencer through his agents to join the UBCS[2], a paramilitary unit against biological disasters that was set up in the wake of the Chernobyl nuclear incident.

He could not anticipate what the consequences would be, but he took comfort in having taken a first step.

Only time would tell.

2

A sip from the coffee cup. Sherry stood up on the couch to touch the bandage on her head. Her tiny finger touched a bump that made her shudder.

William pulled his daughter's hand away and forced her to sit next to him as the girl began to look distressed.

“It's nothing. Just a bump. Dad is fine.”

William was not well at all. The incident... He was in a coma for two full days. Fortunately, with no after-effects. A persistent headache for a few months and a requirement to avoid any further blows to the head on pain of permanently damaging his cognition. The man and the woman...

He had been placed on a three-month leave of absence for a full recovery. He had not been fired or suspended from employment and pay. They simply sent him to the hospital, paid all the bills and sent him home for a paid vacation. Annette, for her part, was still working.

The incident happened at full speed. He was pissed off because he had been demoted. Then he went to the sales office and was beaten out of there for his inappropriate behavior. He went to the lab and ran into the woman. The woman drove him crazy and then the bearded man showed up and beat him like a savage into unconsciousness.

The chain of events seemed logical, but him being alive and employed didn't make sense.

There were two words that fluttered around inside his skull and with which he had established a traumatic relationship: Alexia and Alexander. The woman said her name was Alexia I don't know what and she believed the bearded man's name was Alexander because she remembered in a flash the meeting at the Spencer mansion and Albert's comment about the identity of those present. Alexia said she was the head of investigations, while the bearded man stared at her silently with the expression of a serial killer.

He was prescribed antidepressants to cope with the loss of the G-virus. In reality, the existence of the G-virus was never mentioned to a lay doctor, but the incident passed for an accident at work and a nervous breakdown that a stranger invented to justify William's leave and his taking Prozac. He had been pill-popped since waking up from the coma to alleviate the extreme feeling of emptiness.

G. Golgotha virus. Destroyed. Forever.

Tears bathed his eyelids.

Sherry hugged her father and joined him in sobbing.

3

“Alpha. Beta. Pi.” Auguste rolled down the window. “This is it.”

Alfred started the engine. The Lamborghini Diablo roared. He stepped on the accelerator and pulled into the fraternity compound. The gravel road circled a circular lake decorated with an imitation of the Trevi Fountain. At the end of the road was the entrance to a three-story colonial mansion. Scattered around the doorway and stairs swarmed the members of the exclusive fraternity linked to Raccoon City University. As they advanced, heads turned and whispered to each other.

Alfred gave them a wry smile. He found it amusing that students from a crappy provincial university thought they were part of the upper class. They were just a bunch of children of the American upper-middle class that so repulsed him. Unnecessarily overbearing and obsessed with a ridiculous display of wealth. Classists with money, but no classy.

Alfred parked the vehicle on the snowy margin of the gravel road. He turned off the engine as Auguste got out and put on his cap with the visor back. When Alfred got out, he smoothed his suit jacket and replaced the gold watch his father had given him for his twentieth birthday. They both stood in front of the hood to survey the scene. Boat blondes, leather shoes and polo shirts with the college logo. The spitting image of the American lifestyle.

“Do you have the coke on you?” asked Auguste.

“I have five grams left over.”

“Shall we get a couple in before we go in? I'm not going to last all night sober.”

Alfred removed his purse and wallet from inside his jacket. With the help of a platinum credit card, he prepared four stripes which he consumed instantly and discreetly.

“Better.” Auguste breathed in sharply. “Let's go.”

They made their way to the entrance. Under the threshold, Richard and Tracy were waiting to greet them. Alfred met Richard by chance at the university. He had been sitting in the library reading a couple of things when Richard approached him about studying together. Alfred didn't mind but regretted it as soon as Richard questioned him about his religious affiliation.

“I am Catholic.”

Alfred replied dryly to tertiary the absurd conversation. Richard said nothing more and just studied in silence. The next day, however, Richard approached him in one of the corridors and invited him to the fraternity party. Likewise, Alfred self-invited his cousin Auguste so that he would not end up retired in a corner and on the verge of suicide from boredom.

Richard and Tracy stepped forward.

“Welcome to Alpha-Beta-Pi!” Tracy greeted effusively. “Ready to party?”

Alfred responded to the welcome with a forced smile. Auguste extended his hand to Richard and Tracy.

“Auguste Campbell, Alfred's cousin.”

“Nice to meet you.” Richard shook his hand second. “Come on in. We have fifteen minutes to spare before it starts.”

Alfred and Auguste accompanied their hosts into the building. There were beer cans with swallowing tubes set in the hallway. Auguste was fidgeting casually, and Alfred had gotten the urge to smoke to calm the cocaine-induced excitement. Richard and Tracy led them into the main room, where there was no one else except the four of them.

Tracy hooked Auguste. Richard went straight for Alfred.

“Would you like to have a drink?”

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Alfred showed him a pack of unbranded cigarettes.

“No, of course not. Go ahead.” Richard repositioned the collar of his shirt.

Alfred lit a cigarette with the zippo he kept inside the pack.

“I'm glad you came, and with your cousin. We love meeting new people.”

Alfred exhaled, controlling his euphoria. He was half listening to what Richard was saying.

“I found your seminar the other day very interesting. And for that reason, I tried to talk to you the other day. I'm sorry if I offended you.”

“You didn't. But why did you ask me about my religion?” Alfred really wanted to know why.

“Nothing special. It's because I was struck by your critical and somewhat nihilistic approach to research.” Richard tried hard to sound sympathetic. “I don't mean that you are, but I felt a little depressed when I finished.”

“It is a continuation of the work of my great-grandfather, Arthur Ashford. He experimented with classical conditioning long before Skinner published his thesis.”

“Wow, a man ahead of his time.”

“It was.”

Richard kept his hands in his pockets, uncomfortable with his guest's curt attitude.

“And what part of the UK are you from?”

Alfred took a puff.

“Scotland, but I live in Northern England.”

“Oh, you're Scottish. Edinburgh?”

“Highlands.”

“I would like to visit Scotland. Maybe I'll let you know about a getaway.” Richard laughed.

Alfred finished his cigarette and went to the standing ashtray they had placed in the corner. Richard followed behind him as if he were his shadow. The party hadn't even started, and he was feeling anxious. He would escape to the bathroom to take two more drags.

“What about the rest of the guests? Anyone who likes horror movies?” It sounded like a snub, but Alfred was serious.

“There's Peter.” Richard took it as a joke. “He's got a little strange taste.”

Alfred sat on the couch waiting. He watched Auguste chatting animatedly with Tracy.

In short.

The rest of the guests milled around in the main hall. The carillon clock struck midnight. Alfred got up to greet people he didn't give a shit about. Auguste fell into his good graces and soon set out to smoke pot with his new friends. The only thing he liked was the music, a mix of New Order with Huey Lewis and the News, Mariah Carey and Billy Idol.

“Alfred? Are you Alfred?”

Alfred turned around. A young man about his own age, curly red hair, pronounced dark circles under his eyes and a pleasant smile.

“Richard told me you liked horror movies, didn't he?”

Alfred nodded.

“My name is Peter Lee. I am a medical student. My specialty is anatomy.”

They shook hands.

“Alfred Ashford. I am doing a pre-doctoral research stay.”

“You look very young. How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

Peter was surprised.

“Wow. You are a genius.”

Alfred shrugged his shoulders.

“Well...” He drank from his glass of water. “And what's your favorite horror movie?”

“Hellraiser by Clive Barker.”

Peter looked at him ecstatically.

“Hellraiser... What a coincidence. It's also one of my favorites along with The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Do you like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre?”

“I prefer Halloween, but that is also among my favorites.”

“Have you seen Cannibal Holocaust?”

“I have an original copy...”

Peter sipped half his glass in one gulp.

“Do you know what snuff is?”

Alfred raised an eyebrow in confirmation. Peter was thrilled.

“I invite you to my house. I have some Japanese stuff you'll like.” He finished drinking his glass. “Friday?”

“Saturday night.”

“Bake St. 2013. A two-story mansion. A gift from my parents.”

Alfred memorized the address. Peter withdrew. Auguste shouted expletives with his new colleagues.

4

Ulysses slid to the edge of the bed. Alexander gently caressed his waist. It had been years since he had enjoyed a good orgasm. But that man was not the Ulysses of her youth, the handsome gentleman who stole his heart from an intense but short-lived passion that left a permanent imprint on him. He had paid for that man and had given him the name Ulysses to raise his spirits. Since his father's death, whether male or female, his relationships had been limited to one-night stands. If he had abhorred commitment before, the shocks he suffered after the founding of Umbrella had deterred him from emotionally relating to anyone. And so little had he sought such liaison that his apathy affected his small family.

He justified himself with excuses until his mother clarified his thoughts after the incident at the Antarctic base. Like an epiphany, and with his daughter strapped to a hospital bed after attacking her psychologist, he understood his distraught mother's warning.

It was the end. If he did nothing, it would be the end. And he didn't want it to be the end. His complacency had absorbed him in a way that frightened him and made him burst into bitter weeping.

The death of his mother in 1988 reaffirmed the evidence that he was completely alone. But his mother's death was different. It was a light departure, agreed upon, like that of a son who leaves on a trip and his mother bids him farewell on the platform. There was no decay, no strange thoughts, but a melancholy acceptance, for the situation was quite different.

In the previous years, from 1983 onwards, he tried to erase CODE: Veronica from his memory. His obsession reached the extreme of rummaging through his grandfather Arthur's old psychology books to suppress that memory. Obviously, nothing worked, so he resorted to the old reliable one of there is no such thing as what is not mentioned. With all the evidence suppressed, only he himself remained as a witness. His mother didn't believe it when he told her. However, since he and his father had been the masterminds, Elizabeth ordered him not to reveal the secret, and so he would act.

With his stupid project buried under tons of detritus, Alexander rediscovered his children. After the incident in Antarctica, he called Spencer to notify him of his absence and showed up at the Institute to accompany his daughter during intake. Elizabeth kissed them both when they returned. She did not congratulate Alexander because that is what Edward would have done for him. As for Alfred, during the first Christmas vacation after the incident, he hugged him for the first time. Alfred cried and the child told him about his experience of abuse, emotional repression, and sexual confusion at Jacob II; and Alexander, though he did not cry, empathized with his firstborn because he must have survived the same and prevailed, thus forging his character and sealing his future as head of the family. Alfred wiped away his tears and his eyes radiated admiration. Alexander felt comforted and that Christmas he regained his good humor.

What he started in that year carried him through to the present, and he realized he would give his life not to change it. Perhaps that was what his father would really have wanted. He would not know, but his mother rested in peace as she witnessed a seeming contentment that had never reigned at Ashford Hall since he was invested peer of the United Kingdom after inheriting his father's dignity.

For this reason, he struck William Birkin with the intention of killing him.

Alexia stopped him and interceded on the employee's behalf. She blamed herself and allowed William Birkin to live and keep his job.

The why escaped his discernment and eliciting it from her was not an option.

“William Birkin,” he whispered.

Ulysses cocked his head.

“I hate it,” Alexander mumbled into the void.

5

“Go ahead.”

Albert entered Spencer's office in the Raccoon City mansion. Spencer didn't get up from his seat, and Albert saw that a cane was propped next to his desk. He noticed that the decorations followed the same pattern as in the rest of the house, with hunting and classical art as the main motifs.

“Forgive me for not greeting you properly, but I am not feeling very healthy today due to the infirmities of age.” Spencer excused himself and invited him to sit down with a wave of his hand. “Would you like some tea?”

Albert nodded. Spencer pointed to the teapot for him to help himself. He noticed him more aged than last time.

“I read your letter of resignation as Arklay's chief researcher and your application to the Department of Information, and both made me feel bad.” Spencer dramatized. “You've worked for me for twelve long years. You have never let me down and your resume is enviable, Mr. Wesker. That distressed me, because I felt you were leaving by the back door, and in my family, we were always strict about credit.” Spencer took a sip from his cup of tea. Albert, without touching his cup, remained expectant. “I wish to make you a proposal.”

Albert swallowed hard. Spencer would look upon him as a god would pity his faithful.

“I would like to continue to think that you are one of my most faithful employees, and that I can rely on you for tasks of greater consequence than serving as a simple clerk. I know you were at the military academy and, although you have no formal experience as a soldier, you are in good shape and do well at shooting and fighting with your hands; for that is, among other qualities, what I am looking for.” Spencer fell silent and glanced at the cups before regaining his composure. “I want to make you security chief at Arklay Lab. But being head of security won't mean taking care of idle employees and repelling unwanted visitors; my integrity and that of my daughter Alex while we're here will depend on you; that things work in this place and, above all, that you accept me as your sole authority.”

Spencer underlined ‘sole authority’ as if he could see that phrase shining on a blank sheet of paper.

“I accept.” Albert did not hesitate.

“Come to the laboratory next Tuesday at noon. You will be met at the main entrance, just down the stairs from the fountain. Good afternoon.”

Albert stood up.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Spencer.”

Spencer took another swig from the cup. Albert went to the door and grabbed the doorknob.

“Loyalty is the most graceful of virtues, my father used to say.”

He closed the door.

[1] Battle fought in Scotland in 1746 by Prince Charles Edward Stuart against the House of Hannover for the restoration of the Stuart monarchy in the United Kingdom. The prince was defeated.

[2] Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service.

[gunzlotzofgunz]

Mauser 98K-ZF41

30-06 Cal NORWEGIAN CAPTURE K98k ZF.41 CODED "duv 42" THE RIFLE STARTED OUT AS A K98k WITH MATCHING NUMBERS HOWEVER WHEN THE NORWEGIANS REWORKED THEM THE MILLED A FLAT ON THE LEFT RECEIVER AND APPLIED THEIR OWN NUMBERS. DUV( BERLINER LUBECKER) WAS INVOLVED WITH THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE ZF 41 LONG EYE RELIEF SCOPE SYSTEM SO THIS RIFLE WAS LIKELY CAPTURED AS SUCH BEFORE BEING REWORKED.