#mid-range drones

[techtoio]

How to Choose the Best Drone for Your Aerial Photography

Introduction

In the dynamic world of aerial photography, drones have revolutionized how we capture stunning landscapes, events, and unique perspectives from above. Whether you are a hobbyist or a professional photographer, choosing the right drone is crucial for achieving the best results. With a myriad of options available, making an informed decision can be overwhelming. This guide from TechtoIO aims to simplify the process, providing you with comprehensive insights on how to choose the best drone for your aerial photography needs. Read to continue link

[arkiwii]

"SUPER EASY STRATEGY but you need Mountain and you don't have him" yeah or i can use a 2 block operator and silence's drone. who fucking needs self regen. coward.

[dxrlingluv]

The way you write Apollo,Hermes and Telemachus is so good.. anyways...

Fem!reader x Hermes.. so basically, reader is one of Apollo's muses and Hermes kinda "steals her away" from his brother & Apollo is VERY pissed that his brother is flirting with one of his muses...

Poetic dilemma

A/N : Thank you so much! Those three are my favorites(and ody). Also… Hermes and Apollo fighting for you and your attention. What a dream, isn’t it? Hermes art is from Zieru, Apollo art is from Gigi!

WARNING : Fem!Muse!Reader, Hermes and Apollo is fighting for the reader.

Word Count : 926

The golden halls of Apollo’s temple usually rang with the harmonious strains of lyres, the rustle of parchment, and the occasional, perfectly timed dramatic monologue from the god himself. Today, though, you were finding it particularly hard to concentrate on anything but the sheer joy radiating from Apollo. He was currently perched on a marble pedestal, mid-recitation of his new ode to… well, himself, mostly.

"And then, with a flourish of celestial light," Apollo boomed, striking a pose, his eyes alight with inspiration, "I, Apollo, the radiant one, did cast my golden gaze upon the slumbering earth, awakening it with my glorious warmth!"

You smiled, genuinely happy to see him so immersed in his art. "Very… illuminating, Apollo! The warmth truly comes through!"

He beamed, soaking in your praise. "Ah, your appreciation! It truly fuels my divine fire!"

Just as he was about to launch into the next stanza, a sudden, soft whoosh of air brushed past you. Before you could even register it, a strong, playful arm wrapped around your waist, and you were lifted clean off your feet. A familiar, mischievous laugh echoed in your ear.

"Time for a change of scenery, little star!" Hermes's voice chirped, and the world outside the temple became a blur of clouds and sky.

You gasped, half in surprise, half in delight. "Hermes! What are you doing?!"

"Rescuing you from… well, just a change of pace!" he declared, soaring through a fluffy cloud bank, his winged sandals a blur. He held you securely, your feet dangling playfully. "Honestly, I just thought you might like a break. Plus," he winked, slowing to a more leisurely glide, "I'm much more fun than listening to him wax poetic about his own sun chariot for the fifth time today. Though, he does make it sound good."

You couldn't help but laugh, the wind whipping through your hair. "He's going to be furious!"

"Oh, he'll get over it," Hermes scoffed, doing a mid-air barrel roll that made you squeal with laughter. "He has, what, a dozen other muses. He won't even notice one is missing. Besides," he winked, "I'm much more fun than listening to him drone on about his own sun chariot for the fifth time today."

Meanwhile, back in the temple, Apollo was still mid-pose. "…and the mortals, awestruck by my unparalleled brilliance, did fall to their knees in… wait a minute." He slowly un-struck his pose. His eyes, which had been closed in dramatic contemplation, snapped open. He looked to his left. Then to his right. His brow furrowed.

"My muse?" he murmured. "Where is my muse?"

A beat of silence. Then, a terrifying, earth-shaking roar. "HERMES!" Apollo’s voice thundered, shaking the very foundations of Olympus. "YOU WINGED SCOUNDREL! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY MUSE?!"

Hermes, who had just landed you gently on a particularly soft cloud, winced. "Ah, speak of the devil… or rather, the sun god. He noticed quicker than I thought."

Apollo descended upon you both, radiating pure, unadulterated indignation. His golden hair seemed to crackle with divine fury, and his lyre, usually a symbol of harmony, looked dangerously close to being used as a blunt instrument.

"Hermes! You absolute scoundrel! You snatched Y/N! My inspiration! My lyrical genius! How am I supposed to compose my ode to the perfect shade of dawn without her insightful feedback on the nuances of 'rosy-fingered' versus 'crimson-tipped'?"

Hermes put an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer with a cheeky grin. "Oh, lighten up, brother. We were just... on a field trip. For creative enrichment. Very avant-garde."

Apollo's eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on Hermes's arm. "Field trip? You're flirting with my muse! My property! This is an outrage! Do you know how long it takes to find a muse who truly appreciates the subtle brilliance of a well-placed caesura?"

You smiled, finding Apollo's passion endearing, even when he was this worked up.

Hermes, ever the provocateur, leaned in closer to you, whispering loudly enough for Apollo to hear, "He's just jealous, you know. My charm is simply irresistible."

Apollo gasped, a hand flying to his chest dramatically. "Jealous?! Of you?! The god of petty theft and glorified delivery services?! I am Apollo! God of music, poetry, light, and prophecy! I have no need for jealousy!" He then pointed a trembling finger at Hermes. "Release her at once, you winged hooligan! She has a symphony to inspire!"

You gently extricated yourself from Hermes's grasp, stepping forward with a smile. "Apollo, it's alright. Hermes was just... giving me a change of perspective. But I'm always happy to hear your latest works!"

Apollo softened slightly, though his glare at Hermes remained. "See, Hermes? She's too kind for your thieving ways. Now, Y/N, darling, we must return. I have a particularly challenging rhyme for 'helios' that only you can truly appreciate."

As Apollo began to lead you away, already launching into a new poetic dilemma, Hermes winked over Apollo's shoulder. "I'll be back, little star. And next time, I'm thinking a whirlwind tour of the mortal realm. Much more exciting than listening to him drone on about himself."

Apollo, oblivious, continued his monologue. You just smiled, a secret thrill bubbling inside you. Being Apollo's muse was fulfilling, and seeing him so happy was wonderful. But being the object of Hermes's playful "theft" and the subsequent divine rivalry was undeniably more entertaining. And you knew, with absolute certainty, that Hermes would indeed be back. And Apollo would be just as hilariously furious.

[sarifel-corrisafid-ilxhel]

Friendly reminder to the Animorphs fandom as we read The Predator together: Just like the information on sharks and wolves, the information in Animorphs about ants is woefully outdated and they are brighter, more interesting, and far more complicated creatures than what the books depict. For starters, ants aren't mindless drones, they have individual personalities and a range of emotional states that may be perceived as optimism, curiosity, contentment, enjoyment, fear, wariness, pessimism, loneliness, panic, annoyance, frustration, desperation, and depression. Some species of ants have passed the mirror test, meaning they have some level of self-awareness. Ants are not born knowing how to do their jobs but instead learn from older ants through apprenticeships. They have work shifts and at any given time, 40% of the colony is relaxing or sleeping. Their standard of medical care is roughly equivalent to where ours was in the mid-1800s - Amputation, wound cleaning, and rudimentary medicines are the norm. Ants that know they are going to die sometimes reject medical care so the medic ants can tend to ants with a better chance of survival. The queen isn't even in charge, her only job is to lay eggs. Decisions made by ants are made by the colony as a whole, and suggested actions by one ant can be voted for or against by the others through participation or blocking actions. They're not robots or a monarchy, they are a fully democratic communist society.

Please be kind to the ants.

[sugarcherris]

Headcanon: Captain John “Dad of 141” Price being the most embarrassing unapologetic old man alive

(ft. Gn! Reader & the Team Suffering)

Not by age—though. he’s got Old Man Strength in his forearms and swears by “the good ol’ days.”

Daddy? No.

A real, horrifying, crocs-wearing, “pull my finger” Dad.

The dad jokes:

It starts with the jokes. The most godawful dad jokes known to mankind. Delivered with absolute confidence. Delivered with timing so poor, it loops back around and becomes an art form. He’s laughing before the punchline even drops.

He’ll saunter into the briefing room, hands on his hips like he owns the place (he does), and hit you with:

“Y’know what this operation’s missing?”

Long pause.

“A little… direction.”

Gestures to the compass rose on the map like he’s just invented humor.

Then he SLAPS the table. Loud. Like he needs percussion to drive it home. And then he laughs. This deep, hearty, old-man belly laugh that echoes through the whole damn room like he just watched peak British comedy.

Soap winces like he’s been personally attacked maybe let’s out a pitiful laugh. Ghost doesn’t even look up from his file. You? You’re making direct eye contact with Gaz, both of you wide-eyed like is this our life now?

Price just wipes a fake tear from his eye and mutters,

“Bloody brilliant, I’m tellin’ ya.”

He does that thing where he leans in like it’s gonna be profound, then drops a joke so terrible his knees creak in disappointment.

And sometimes…he accuses people.

He points at Soap.

“You smirked.”

“Nae! I—it was a twitch!”

But this man literally tells the same five jokes on rotation. Doesn’t matter how many times he’s told them. He will burst into a full-body laugh like it’s brand new. Slaps his thigh. Grabs your shoulder. Repeats the punchline twice like it’s a cultural reset.

“—no-body to go with!”

And he slaps your arm “Eh? EH?”

You’re holding in a scream.

Gaz mutters, “Cap I swear to god…”

Price? Unbothered just wipes his nose and sighs, “God, I’m good.”

His laugh scares birds:

His laugh isn’t human. It’s a bark—like an old truck trying to start in the winter.

When he’s genuinely amused, he does this full-body lean-back, slaps his thigh, and lets out a gravel-throated “HAAAA!” Then starts dry coughing.

One time during debrief, he laughed so hard at something Soap said (Soap was absolutely NOT joking), a pigeon outside the window startled and flew into the glass.

He brags about things no one asks for:

“Built my own shed last summer.”

“Caught a trout with my hands once.”

“Can change a tire in under 5 minutes, blindfolded.”

“Know how to make jam.”

Nobody asks. Nobody wants to know.

He just randomly drops these nuggets like a suburban dad flexing at a BBQ.

The Sneezing Ritual:

No matter where you are—armory, shooting range, mid-fucking-mission—if Price feels a sneeze coming, he pauses everything.

Finger in the air. Eyes squinting. All activity must cease. Doesn’t matter what’s happening.

“Hold on. Bastards comin- .”

And then you all just… stand there.

Gaz has a mag halfway loaded. Soap’s got a wrench in his hand. You’re about to detonate a charge. Ghost was tightening his straps. You all wait like kids watching a toaster.

“Ah-you lot don’t move—fuck, almost got it—wait—wait—” (nobody was)

This goes on for up to 45 seconds. The moment the sneeze finally explodes, it’s the kind that rattles walls and sounds like a bear getting exorcised.

“AAH-HHRRUSHHFF—UHHHHH- fuckin’ hell—hoo! Felt that in my knees. Christ alive.”

Then he needs a minute to recover. Everyone else just stares. He sniffs dramatically, a satisfied sigh, and a cheery:

“Cheers. Carry on.”

He’s the king of ‘Back in my day…’ stories:

You’ll be casually eating lunch when he leans back in his chair like he’s on a porch swing and goes,

“Back in my day, we didn’t have all these fancy drone strikes. We used maps. And courage.”

Soap: “You mean you didn’t have satellites?”

Ghost: “Did you use a bow and arrows too?

Gaz: “He probably rode a horse to the battlefield.”

You, deadpan: “Was fire invented yet, Captain?”

He just grins, points at you with his fork, and goes,

“You know what? That sass reminds me of a corporal I once—”

And now you’re in for another 45-minute tale about “Dave from Basra” who once punched a goat.

He Tries to Bond by Being… Ancient:

He once tried to teach you how to “fix” a squeaky hinge using olive oil and an old sock.

You just stared at him like he was a medieval peasant.

“Captain… we have lubricant. From an actual store. Why must you live like this?”

He grinned, said “Where’s the fun in that?”, and slapped the hinge.

It squeaked louder.

“Tech guy” Price:

Price thinks he’s good with tech.

He’s not.

He still calls FaceTime “the video ringing thing.”

He answers with the camera pointing at his ear and yells “Hello?! Speak up!”

Still says “Wi-Fi” like “Wiffy.”

His phone? Everything’s in bold.

Text size? HUGE. You can read his messages from orbit.

Texts with one index finger. Voice notes 5 minutes long, ends with “Anyway, yeah—cheers.”

He also refuses to silence his phone.

Every notification is a loud “BLOOP” followed by Price squinting down and muttering, “Hmph. Soap again. Bellend.”

This one time he proudly insists on “helping” Gaz fix comms even though he’s literally just handing him the wrong tools and offering war flashbacks as advice.

Family BBQ Price:

HE LOVES GRILLING. ACTUALLY LOVES IT. Sometimes—just sometimes—when they’re not deployed and the moment someone mentions downtime or long leave, Price insists on a little “team bonding.”

Which means:

-Terrible burnt hot dogs.

-Canned beer

-70s music blasting from an old speaker he won’t replace.

-“Call me Grill Sergeant” jokes every 20 minutes.

This man carries tongs in his deployment duffle.

He has opinions on charcoal.

He will lecture you about marinades.

He wears an apron that says “WEAPONS OF MASS COOKING” and points finger guns at anyone who approaches the grill.

Other dad specific moments:

-You can’t sit next to him during meals anymore. He’s a talk-chewer when he’s ranting about the “death of real music” and how “today’s tactical gear is just fancy cosplay.”

-Always orders the most boring food possible and complains it’s “too spicy.” (It was black pepper and salt.)

-Genuinely thinks his jokes are hilarious. If nobody laughs but him he’ll chuckle at himself and say “Ah, forget it. Guess you had to be born in the ‘90s.”And then slap the table like he just broke global comedy records.

-Constantly leaves a teabag in his mug way too long and mumbles about it adding character.

-Has a weird superstition about his “lucky pen”, guards it like a dragon hoard.

-You accidentally took a picture of Price in the background. It was crooked, blurry, and haunting. He made it his WhatsApp profile for six months.

Regardless you all love him

Everyone all joke about buying him Crocs for Christmas.

He already has a pair.

Wears them at home.

Camo print.

With toe socks.

[thatbugkidd]

GRRR FOAMING AT THR MOUTH new MD oc

Its my oc cricket... turned into another Fandom oc... AGAIN!!

Her design is subject to have some slight changes in the future but yes. She. I love her.

She's a subtype of disassembly drone called Dissonance Drones. Slightly smaller than your typical one, but she has a unique ability to produce a high-pitched frequency that can disorient other drones nearby (close-mid range)

She can’t use it constantly—it overheats her vocal module, and causes feedback that affects her too if abused—but it doesn't take long to take effect.

[whereserpentswalk]

Everyone knows UFOs are real. Technically the first visits were in the late 1800s, but they only became a known phenomenon in the 1950s. You likely grew up learning about them in school, or watching documentaries about them, it's pretty common for kids to have a UFO phase growing up for a reason.

We don't know where they come from. They are theorized to be alien vessals, but can't be confirmed to be. Though every alternative theory is something like future humans coming to visit us, or alternate dimensions, so alien life is often posited as the most plausible theory for a reason even if it's out there.

Nobody has ever been inside a UFO, at least nobody is confirmed to have been in one. They tend to avoid interacting with humans when they can. We don't know anything about what the drivers are like (with new drone technology some theorize they were automated) just that they seemingly show up but unknown processes, and float around the sky by unknown means. One thing we know must be true is that they don't want to destroy us, because anything that can made UFOs could certainly use them to wipe us out.

Sightings always focus on the beauty of these crafts. They're almost always saucer shaped, tend to be made of metal, and move by floating, but can range a lot in design and size. However, there's always something magical and breathtaking about seeing one. Every time they show up in a populated place, people come out to take pictures, the news reports on it, and its considered a major event, almost like an eclipse. And photos of them trend online a lot for a reason, especially larger and closer ones.

Of course, there are a few cases of death tied to them. Very rare, but they happen. Useally aviation accidents, people not seeing them high in the sky in case its too late. There was one time when someone tried throwing a rock at one, some kids in rural England back in the 80s, and the UFO just killed them, shot out some sort of weapon and left them as charred corpses. The deaths aren't really talked about because UFOs are still thought of as a thing of wonder, just remember that like any other vehicle, they can be dangerous.

And of course there are tons of peices of media that surround UFOs. People inspired by them to write various types of fiction, from the countless works of scifi that have speculated whose inside, to the way they're often used as a backdrop for tense or emotional momments in plots that otherwise have nothing to do with UFOs. They're the exact combination of mysterious and common to be really useful for a lot of writers.

And not to mention the UFO theories that are common. Conspiracy theories love UFOs for whatever reason. From religious conspiracies claiming that they're angels or demons. To people who think the government has contact with whoever pilots them and just isn't telling us. To people who think UFOs are human creations (which tends to be what flat earthers use to explain UFOs). Of course, none of these conspiracy theories could be real, but unfortunately they tend to clog up the discussion, of a topic that's so fascinating to theorize about on its own without making things up.

There have been a few cases that taught us a lot more. For example, in 2006 a UFO was spotted with architectural features similar to gargoyles, which seem to give some hints at what the pilots could look like, though they were heavily stylized, and more likely to be depicting animals from the pilots' homeworld then the pilots themselves. Another case was when a small UFO crashed in the Philippines in 1994, and it's been studied ever since, though we haven't been able to get inside (though the crash site is currently going through some not so fun controversy, as it's almost always been Americans studying it and visiting it).

And saddest of all, if you haven't heard, the UFOs are disappearing. There's been less and less of them since the mid 2010s, when before their numbers were growing fast. We don't know why, but we hope it's not anything that's our fault. Whoever the pilots are, we should appreciate them, and hope we meet them again some day under more equal terms. We don't even know if they know how much we care about them, how in a way, whoever they are, we love them.

[kaykay0315]

Na Baek-Jin x F!Reader Pt. 2

Synopsis: You recently transferred to Yeoil High School, you just want to get through school, get good grades and stay out of trouble. You’ve had enough of it in your past and don't want  to get involved with it any longer. But the world seems to not like the path you refuse to take, so it decides to put you in the worst place of all…sitting next to Na Baek-Jin, leader of the Union.

Warning: brief fighting

Word Count: 1.8k

Part 2: Tension Beneath the Surface

Week two.

The halls didn’t feel like a maze anymore, but they still weren’t familiar. You could find your locker without glancing at the numbers, and you remembered to bring indoor shoes today. Progress.

Most days you kept your head down, did your work, and avoided standing out. But that seat….your seat, right beside Na Baek-Jin. It made that even more impossible.

You still remembered the way he looked at you when you walked into class last week. Not shocked. Not even curious. Just… sharp. Like he was trying to figure something out.

And maybe he had.

Baek-Jin hadn’t spoken to you, not directly. But you could feel the awareness. The way he shifted when you moved. The way his eyes flicked toward you, never long enough to catch, but always long enough to notice.

Your pen tapped against your notebook as the homeroom teacher droned on. Morning announcements. A field trip notice. Nothing you really had to care about.

Baek-Jin leaned back in his chair, one leg stretched out under the desk. Effortless confidence, like the entire room bent around him without him having to ask.

You hadn’t meant to look. But now you were.

He glanced sideways at the same moment, catching your eyes.

You blinked and looked away.

He didn’t.

Outside, it had started raining. You hadn’t brought an umbrella.

Of course.

You kept your head down as the lunch bell rang, waiting a few seconds before standing. It wasn’t nerves, not exactly,it was calculation. Most of the students swarmed out the door immediately, shouting about cafeteria lines and who was saving seats. You preferred to move in the quiet aftershock.

Baek-Jin didn’t move either. He stayed seated, elbow on the desk, eyes fixed somewhere past the windows. The rain had picked up, tapping gently against the glass.

You grabbed your tray and headed toward the cafeteria, winding through the corridors. The smell of steamed rice and frying oil hit you before you turned the corner.

The cafeteria was loud. Busy. Familiar and foreign all at once. You hadn’t made any solid friends yet. There were a few girls who smiled at you in the morning, and a guy from your literature class who’d asked for your notes once, but that was it. You didn’t mind.

There was a spot by the windows. Far enough from the noise, close enough to the exit. You slid into the seat and peeled the wrapper off your chopsticks, focusing on your food.

And then

A quiet shuffle of chairs across from you. You looked up, half expecting someone to tell you the seat was taken.

It wasn’t just someone.

Na Baek-Jin sat down across from you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You froze mid-bite.

He said nothing. Just pulled his tray closer and started eating, clean and methodical.

You stared for a second before clearing your throat softly. “This is… the quiet corner. You know that, right?”

He didn’t look up. “Exactly why I came here.”

Silence stretched. The cafeteria buzzed all around you, but your table felt weirdly still.

You tried again, eyes flicking up to meet his. “You don’t usually sit here.”

“I don’t usually have people spill milk on my shoes either,” he replied without missing a beat, finally glancing at you.

Your ears burned. “That was an accident.”

“I noticed.”

You weren’t sure if he was teasing or just being observant. Probably both. His tone was unreadable.

“You don’t talk much,” he added suddenly.

You blinked. “Neither do you.”

A pause. Then…was that a smirk?

“I talk when it matters.”

You gave a soft, dry laugh. “Then you must think this conversation is extremely important.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Maybe.”

That shut you up.

Your chopsticks hovered over your food as he looked away again, as if nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just derailed the lunch you were planning to spend in solitude. Like it wasn’t strange that Na Baek-Jin—of all people—chose to sit here, now, with you.

Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe he just wanted quiet.

But the look he gave you said otherwise.

By the time lunch ended, your brain was still catching up.

Na Baek-Jin hadn’t said much after that last line. He finished his food, stood up without warning, and left you sitting there like the whole interaction had been a figment of your imagination. The only proof he was ever there: his empty tray and the fact that two girls walking by had definitely done a double take when they saw him at your table.

You exhaled through your nose, gathered your things, and headed back to class.

You didn’t notice the guy watching you from a nearby table until it was too late.

Sixth period dragged. You stared at your notes, highlighting the same line three times without reading it. Something about Baek-Jin’s gaze lingered. Like it had scratched across your thoughts and left a mark.

When the final bell rang, you moved fast. Slipping your books into your bag, tucking your chair in, ready to make a clean getaway.

“Hey.”

You turned.

A guy leaned against the doorframe. Shaggy hair, hoodie halfway unzipped, bored expression. You recognized him, not by name, but by proximity. He was one of Baek-Jin’s people. Always nearby. Always quiet. But not invisible.

“You're the new girl,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

You kept your face neutral. “Yeah.”

“You sat with Baek-Jin at lunch.”

That wasn’t a question either.

You didn’t respond, just gave a shrug like it didn’t mean anything.

He pushed off the frame, jerking his chin toward the hallway. “Come with me.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Union stuff.”

You arched a brow. “I’m not in the Union.”

He gave a half-smile. “Not yet.”

You followed him down the side hallway, the sounds of students fading behind you the deeper you went.

“Where are we going again?” you asked, glancing sideways at him.

Geum Seong-Jae didn’t look at you. Just kept walking like you weren’t worth the effort. “Somewhere you’ll either thank me for or regret later. Flip a coin.”

“That’s not exactly comforting,” you muttered.

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

His hoodie was faded, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and he walked like someone who had nothing to prove because he already knew where everyone stood. That made him dangerous.

“You always drag new students into strange back rooms?” you asked, slowing your pace.

“Only the ones who get special attention,” he said, finally looking at you.

You frowned. “You mean the cafeteria thing? That wasn’t special. He just sat there.”

“Exactly,” Seong-Jae said with a knowing grin. “He never just sits anywhere.”

You didn’t respond, just walked in silence for a second.

Then he added, a little quieter, “Nice bow, by the way.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He motioned lazily to your hair. “The ribbon. It’s the kind of thing someone wears when they want people to think they’ve got everything under control.”

You reached up instinctively, fingers brushing the bow tied neatly around your high ponytail.

“…What, is this some weird Union psychology test?”

“No,” he said, chuckling as he pushed open the door to a clubroom, “just an observation. But hey,make sure it stays tied tight.”

The way he said it made something uneasy twist in your stomach. Like it meant more than it should’ve.

 Inside, the others looked up when you entered. Baek-Jin didn’t seem surprised to see you. If anything, it felt like he’d been expecting this moment since lunch.

You stayed by the door. “Am I supposed to be here?”

Baek-Jin’s gaze flicked from your eyes to your ribbon, then back up again.

“You are now,” he said.

You stayed near the door, arms loosely crossed, a little tension building in your jaw.

“This is a test,” you said, voice flat.

Baek-Jin didn’t confirm it. He didn’t have to.

The red-haired girl ‘So-hee’ if you remembered correctly and a tall boy with bleached tips stepped forward from the group.

“We just want to see if you're useful,” So-hee said, cracking her knuckles. “Nothing personal.”

“Right,” you said. “Because cornering someone in an abandoned clubroom is the perfect way to build trust.”

“You could just do what we asked,” the guy added, smirking. “But you keep saying no.”

“I’m not interested in Union politics.”

“You’re already involved,” So-hee snapped. “You sat with him.”

You glanced sideways at Baek-Jin, still silent, still watching. Seong-Jae, leaned back in a beat-up chair nearby, looked amused. Like this was his entertainment for the day.

“I’m not fighting you,” you said finally.

“Good,” So-hee replied, cracking her neck. “That means you’ll go down fast.”

The first swing came without warning So-hee moved fast, low and sharp like she’d done this before. You dodged, sidestepping cleanly. The boy came next, a half-hearted punch you ducked under with ease.

You didn’t swing back.

Not yet.

Just moved.

Slipped past them with dancer’s grace and narrow misses. You could hear Seong-Jae mutter something like, “Not bad.”

But the boy clipped you; an elbow to your ribs that knocked you off-balance, and So-hee followed with a sharp kick to your thigh that forced you to one knee.

Your fingers twitched.

You exhaled slowly.

Then, without a word, your hand moved to your ponytail. In one smooth, practiced motion, you slid the ribbon loose.

The air shifted.

Even So-hee hesitated.

The ribbon fluttered in your hand for a second and then snapped tight between your fingers like a silk blade.

You moved.

Fast.

Elegant.

Precise.

The ribbon whipped past So-hee’s shoulder, grazing her cheek just enough to draw blood. She gasped, stumbling back as her hand flew to her face.

The boy lunged only to be tripped and spun with a yank of your ribbon, the tension around his wrist cutting just enough to sting.

You pivoted, low to the ground, spun it back around your arm, and snapped it up under his chin he stumbled again, breath gone.

By the time they stepped back, panting, you stood perfectly still.

No blood on you.

No scuffs.

Just that ribbon.

Hanging loose between your fingers like it never left its place.

So-hee touched the cut on her cheek, wide-eyed. “What the hell…”

You tilted your head, tied the ribbon back into your hair with practiced ease. Each motion slow. Deliberate.

The bow sat perfectly again.

You turned to Baek-Jin and Seong-Jae.

Baek-Jin leaned forward, arms on his knees, studying you like something far more interesting than expected had just revealed itself.

Seong-Jae let out a low whistle. “Damn.”

Neither looked particularly surprised.

But they definitely weren’t bored anymore.

Baek-Jin’s gaze locked with yours. “You said you weren’t interested.”

You adjusted the ends of your bow calmly. “I’m still not.”

“But you showed up,” Seong-Jae said, grinning. “And you tied it back. That means something.”

Baek-Jin didn’t smile, but something flickered behind his eyes. “You're going to be a problem.”

You smiled faintly. “Only if you make me one.”

(edit word count)

Part 1 Part 3

[polo-drone-070]

Idle Hands, Golden Intentions

The invitation

Maxwell awoke before the dormitory bells rang, heart already drumming with quiet excitement. Morning light had only begun to slip through the tall windows of Golden Knight Prep Academy, but his uniform was already laid out across the desk—neatly folded, perfectly pressed. A fresh brush sat beside his loafers, waiting to be used. He wanted everything to be flawless.

It was the first full day of Hobby Block. A time set aside each week for students to explore elegant pursuits—golden hobbies, as the school called them. He wasn't entirely sure what counted. Chadwick (@chevy-gold) had mentioned something about "upkeep discipline" in passing the day before, but Maxwell was too shy to ask. Still, the thought of it—time to polish, prep, refine—thrilled him.

Down in the breakfast hall, golden light streamed through arched windows onto polished wood and quiet conversation. Boys sat in pairs or small groups, all neatly dressed, all perfectly postured. Maxwell clutched his tray with care, trying not to spill his tea. He spotted Chadwick seated by the far wall, a model of Golden etiquette, crisp collar high, hands folded neatly above a plate of sliced fruit.

“Maxwell,” Chadwick said warmly, gesturing to the seat beside him. "Your tie knot is excellent today. Did you adjust the symmetry this morning?"

Maxwell beamed. “Yes, I practiced last night.”

"It shows," Chadwick replied. "There's a small group meeting for Gentleman’s Upkeep during Hobby Block. If you're interested. We take care of our uniforms, shoes, posture. A little tradition of precision."

Maxwell nodded immediately. “I’d love to.”

A soft voice cut in. “May I come too?”

It was Nathaniel (@polo-drone-166). He stood nearby, clutching a book to his chest, eyes wide. His blazer was slightly too big, his expression careful. Chadwick smiled gently and nodded.

“Of course, Nathaniel. We’ll all meet after third bell. Common Room C.”

As the boys returned to their breakfast, a hush settled in. Maxwell stole a glance at Chadwick, then at Nathaniel, and smiled. Maybe this school really was everything he hoped for.

Gentlemen's Upkeep

The clock chimed third bell, and Maxwell found his way to Common Room C with nervous anticipation. The room was softly lit, oak-paneled, with golden sconces casting a warm glow over polished floors. A small fireplace crackled in the corner. It felt less like a schoolroom and more like a sanctuary.

Chadwick was already there, seated on a low stool before a row of shining loafers. A polishing kit lay open beside him—brushes, cloths, little tins of golden wax. He looked up and smiled. "Right on time."

Nathaniel arrived just behind Maxwell, looking uncertain but eager. Chadwick gestured for them to kneel beside him. “We start with gratitude,” he said simply, “for the uniforms that shape us, and for the work that keeps us in shape.”

They began. Chadwick showed them how to fold their jackets just so, how to align the seams with the creases, how to stroke polish in even, loving circles. Maxwell watched, then mirrored, his brow furrowed in quiet concentration. Nathaniel stayed close to Chadwick, glancing now and then at his hands for confirmation.

A sudden breathy voice broke the quiet. “Sorry, sorry… I’m late.”

Wei-Lun (@goldenherc9) slipped in, breathless, the top buttons of his shirt undone just enough to reveal the soft rise of his chest, his golden collar slightly askew. His uniform was mostly tidy, but the suggestion of disarray in his posture and the sheen of his exposed collarbone gave the moment an unintentional, delicate allure. His face flushed as he noticed the others already mid-task.

Chadwick smiled and rose smoothly, adjusting Wei-Lun’s collar with a firm but kind touch. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”

Wei-Lun blushed and nodded, kneeling quickly and retrieving a brush. His hands hesitated at first, fingers twitching with self-conscious care, but each motion revealed a quiet precision born from practice and the deep desire to get it right.

Across the room, Alex (@polo-drone-151) sat in a high-backed chair, golden book resting on one knee. He looked serene, almost royal, fingers flipping through “The Art of Obedience.” Without lifting his gaze, he murmured, “Circular motion. Small, even pressure.” His voice floated across the room with calm reassurance, directed gently toward Wei-Lun—as if to affirm he was doing just fine.

The room resumed its gentle rhythm. Soft brushes on leather. The faint clink of polish tins. Golden dust floating in the quiet air. For Maxwell, it felt sacred.

And then, the door creaked open once more. Boots on marble. Swagger in every step.

Camden (@polo-drone-076) entered in fencing whites, jacket undone, grin half-wicked. “What’s this?” he said, arms spread. “Polish club for golden boys?”

Maxwell looked up—and his breath caught. Camden. Of course it would be him. That mix of thrill and dread twisted inside his chest. He admired Camden. He always had. But with the others watching, that admiration felt dangerous, humiliating. He didn’t move. He just watched, helpless.

Camden spotted him instantly. “Still love shining other people’s shoes, Max?”

“Camden,” Chadwick said without turning, “this space is for refinement.”

Camden chuckled. Then, casually, he kicked off his scuffed fencing shoes and let them land with a thud beside Maxwell. “Then go on. Show me how it’s done.”

The room went still.

The Test

Maxwell didn’t speak. He didn’t protest. He reached slowly for Camden’s shoes, heart thudding loud in his ears. Every eye in the room was on him, but all he could feel was the weight of Camden’s gaze—amused, expectant, testing.

He set to work. His fingers trembled only once before settling into steady, circular motion. He brushed the dust away, applied the polish, worked it in with reverence. The ritual soothed him, centered him. He would do it right. Not for Camden. Not even for the others. For the golden standard.

Nathaniel shifted beside him, uncertain. Wei-Lun moved closer, offering a soft cloth without a word. Their hands brushed. Maxwell didn’t look up, but he nodded.

Together, they buffed until the leather gleamed. Until even Camden’s cocky smirk wavered. He had been slightly disappointed that Maxwell did not go further and use his tongue, but the result was undeniable. He made a mental note to give him some private lesson later.

The door creaked again.

Elijah (@eliasgold20).

He stepped into the room with measured grace, eyes sweeping across the kneeling students. He paused at Camden, then at Maxwell. Then, finally, he spoke.

“You’ve all understood the assignment.”

He turned without another word and disappeared into the hallway.

Camden gave a low whistle and bent to pick up his shoes. He held them up to the light, nodding slightly. Then he leaned in, flicked Maxwell’s chin with a crooked smile.

“Still got it. But I'm sure you can do even better with proper motivation.”

He left.

The silence returned, thick and golden.

Chadwick stood and began folding his cloth. Nathaniel, quietly radiant, mirrored him. Wei-Lun lingered beside Maxwell, his eyes soft with pride.

Even Alex closed his book. “Next time,” he said calmly, “I’ll show you how to fold the jacket without wrinkling the lapel.”

Maxwell smiled.

Before the hearth, a line of shoes gleamed like polished trophies. The boys sat in gentle silence, gloves dusted in gold, shoulders nearly touching.

No words. Just presence.

Golden hands, idle no longer.

______________ Join the Discipline. Embrace the Gold.

Precision. Presence. Perfection. If you felt the stir of golden instinct, it means you're ready to take your first step.

📩 Contact your recruiters: @goldenherc9 · @polo-drone-001 · @brodygold · @polo-drone-125 The Golden Standard awaits.

[okasuka]

Damian wayne x uhh…self insert-ish but i don’t wanna use my name

a/n: i crashed out last night so i started to write. - there is very little specific characteristics other then scars as those add to the story

Friendship Bracelets

The classroom hummed with quiet chatter as the teacher droned on about the symbolism in some book you hadn’t bothered to read. Your attention, however, was fixed on the boy beside you—Damian Wayne. He sat upright, his sharp green eyes focused on the blackboard, though his pen twirled idly between his fingers. Everything about him screamed precision, from his perfect posture to his neatly tied tie, and you couldn’t help but smirk as you leaned closer to him.

The classroom was bathed in the soft hum of students pretending to pay attention, but you were too focused on the boy sitting next to you to care about the lesson. Damian Wayne sat stiffly, his sharp green eyes fixed on the board, taking meticulous notes as if his life depended on it. His dark hair was perfectly in place, and he carried an air of detachment that most people found intimidating.

Not you, though.

You nudged his arm with your elbow. “Hey, Damian,” you whispered, keeping your voice low to avoid the teacher’s glare.

“What is it?” he replied curtly, barely sparing you a glance.

“You’re my best friend,” you said with a small smile, leaning toward him slightly.

That made him pause. His pen stopped moving mid-sentence, and he turned his head to look at you, an unreadable expression flickering across his face. “What?”

“You’re my best friend,” you repeated, your tone earnest. “And I was thinking, you know, since we’re best friends, I could make you a friendship bracelet. What do you think? Maybe green and black to match your vibe?”

For a split second, his expression softened, and you swore you saw a flicker of something like fondness in his eyes. But just as quickly, it vanished, replaced by a smirk that made your chest tighten.

“A friendship bracelet?” he repeated, the faintest hint of mockery in his voice. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I mean—”

“That’s…ridiculous,” he cut in, his tone sharpening. “What use would I have for a childish trinket like that? And why would I need a bracelet to prove our so-called friendship?”

You blinked, his words hitting harder than they should have. “I just thought it’d be nice,” you said softly, your fingers twisting together. “It’s not about proving anything, Damian. It’s just…something people do to show they care.”

He scoffed lightly, his gaze returning to his notebook. “If you have time to waste on pointless crafts, perhaps you should focus on improving your other hobbies instead. I’ve seen your drawings—they’re average at best. Maybe channel your energy into something more productive.”

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably. “I wasn’t trying to waste time,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

He didn’t respond, his attention already back on the board as if the conversation was over.

“Never mind,” you said quietly, pulling back and staring down at your scarred hands. The classroom felt colder now, the warmth of your earlier excitement draining away.

You turned your attention to your notebook, pretending to take notes even though your vision blurred slightly. You told yourself it didn’t matter—that it was just Damian being Damian, and you should’ve expected this. But somehow, it still hurt.

Out of the corner of your eye, you thought you saw him glance at you, his expression unreadable. But you didn’t look up. You just kept your head down, wishing you hadn’t said anything at all.

The rest of the day was painfully awkward. Damian hadn’t said another word after shutting you down about the bracelet, and you didn’t try to talk to him again. Usually, your conversations filled the gaps between dull lessons, but now, silence stretched between you like a chasm. You wanted to bridge it, but your pride kept you rooted in place.

When the final bell rang, you stuffed your books into your bag and stood up quickly, avoiding his gaze as you slung the strap over your shoulder. Just as you turned to leave, Damian caught up to you in the hallway, his strides as purposeful as always.

“Y/N,” he called, his voice as sharp as ever.

You stopped, not because you wanted to, but because you didn’t want to seem like you were avoiding him. “What?” you asked, turning to face him.

“Are we meeting at the library after school?” he asked, his tone unusually formal. You usually studied together after class, a routine you’d fallen into months ago.

You hesitated, fiddling with the strap of your bag. “I can’t today,” you said. “I have people coming over.”

His brows furrowed. “People?”

“Yeah,” you said, suddenly feeling defensive under his scrutinizing gaze. “Guests. My dad’s friends, I think.”

Damian’s expression darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “And you didn’t think to mention this before?”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” you replied, frowning. “Why does it matter?”

“Because it’s unlike you to cancel plans without warning,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “Who are these ‘guests’? And why are they more important than our study session?”

“They’re not more important!” you snapped, your temper flaring. “I just can’t hang out today, okay? Why are you making this such a big deal?”

“Because you’re being evasive,” he shot back. “And I don’t appreciate being treated as an afterthought.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening with frustration. “You’re acting ridiculous. It’s one day, Damian. I’m not abandoning you.”

“You’re dismissing me entirely,” he retorted, his voice low but cutting.

“Are you jealous or something?” you asked, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Damian’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t answer. That silence said enough.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head. “You know what? Forget it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You turned on your heel and walked away before he could respond, your heart pounding in your chest.

When you got home, the house was quiet except for the sound of the television murmuring in the living room. Your dad was sprawled out on the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table as he flipped through channels. He looked up when you came in, his face lighting up with a warm smile.

“Hey, kiddo,” he greeted, muting the TV. “How was school?”

“Fine,” you said quickly, kicking off your shoes and heading for the stairs.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he called, sitting up. “That’s your ‘not fine’ voice. What’s up?”

“Nothing,” you said, pausing on the first step.

He raised an eyebrow, his arms folding over his chest. “You sure? You’ve got that look on your face. The ‘I want to punch someone but I’m too polite’ look.”

You let out a soft laugh despite yourself but shook your head. “It’s nothing, Dad. Just school stuff.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “Well, I’m here if you want to talk about it. Otherwise, I’ll just keep watching this documentary about penguins. No pressure.”

“Thanks,” you said, managing a small smile. You turned and headed upstairs, letting the door to your room click shut behind you.

You dropped your bag onto the floor and sat on the edge of your bed, staring at your scarred hands as Damian’s words replayed in your mind. The sting of his dismissal earlier, the awkwardness, the stupid argument—it all swirled together, leaving you feeling raw and unsteady.

You took a deep breath and shook your head. “It’s fine,” you murmured to yourself. “It’s fine.”

But it didn’t feel fine. It felt like the kind of heavy you couldn’t shake, even after a night’s sleep.

The house was silent, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock on your bedside table. You tossed and turned in bed, unable to shake the events of the day from your mind. Damian’s words still stung, though the anger had faded, leaving only an ache behind. You glanced at your phone on the nightstand, wondering if he even cared enough to try and fix things.

At 2 a.m., the screen lit up, the vibration startling you. You reached for it, blinking at the sudden brightness. A string of messages from Damian stared back at you, each one arriving within seconds of the last.

Damian Wayne:

I’ve been thinking about what I said earlier.

Damian Wayne:

It was unnecessarily harsh, and I regret it.

Damian Wayne:

You’re not childish or frivolous, Y/N.

Damian Wayne:

I don’t know why I said those things.

Damian Wayne:

The truth is, I didn’t hate the idea of the bracelet.

Damian Wayne:

Green, black, and red are my favorite colors.

Damian Wayne:

If you’re still willing to make one… I’d like that.

You stared at the screen, your heart pounding in your chest. It wasn’t like Damian to admit fault, let alone apologize. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard, unsure of what to say. Part of you wanted to ignore him, make him stew in his guilt for a little while longer. But another part—a softer part—knew you couldn’t stay mad forever.

You:

I thought you said they were hideous.

The response came almost immediately.

Damian Wayne:

I was wrong.

Damian Wayne:

They’re not hideous.

Damian Wayne:

I was being… dismissive.

Damian Wayne:

You don’t deserve that.

You bit your lip, torn between wanting to hold onto your frustration and letting it go. With a sigh, you typed back.

You:

Why’d you say it, then?

There was a long pause before he responded, and you could almost picture him hesitating, debating whether to be honest.

Damian Wayne:

I didn’t know how to handle it.

Damian Wayne:

You called me your best friend.

Damian Wayne:

That… meant something to me. More than I wanted to admit.

Damian Wayne:

I wasn’t used to it.

Your chest tightened, the ache softening into something else entirely. Damian was terrible at expressing himself, but when he tried, it was genuine.

You:

You really want a bracelet?

Damian Wayne:

Yeah.

Damian Wayne:

Only if you’re still willing to make one.

You stared at his last message, the weight of the day starting to lift as a small smile tugged at your lips. Damian’s words were never light; he chose them with care, even when he didn’t get them quite right. The fact that he’d taken the time to send you this many messages at two in the morning said more than he probably realized.

You:

Fine. But you’re wearing it every day.

Another pause, shorter this time.

Damian Wayne:

Agreed.

Damian Wayne:

Are we… okay?

You hesitated for a moment, but only a moment.

You:

Yeah, we’re okay.

His reply came almost instantly.

Damian Wayne:

Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.

The conversation ended there, but you stayed staring at the screen for a long time, replaying the messages in your head. Damian wasn’t one to open up easily, and you couldn’t help but feel a little warmer knowing he’d pushed past his usual walls to make things right.

Finally, you set the phone down and lay back in bed, your heart a little lighter as you drifted off to sleep.

The next day after school, you sat on the floor of your room with your bracelet-making supplies spread out around you. Damian’s words echoed in your mind as you sorted through the strings, picking out the perfect shades of green, black, and red.

Your dad peeked into the room, his eyebrows raising slightly at the mess. “What’s going on here? Did the art store explode?”

You laughed softly, glancing up at him. “I’m making something for a friend.”

His expression softened. “That the same friend who had you all upset yesterday?”

“Yeah,” you admitted, knotting a few strings together.

He stepped into the room, leaning against the doorframe. “You want to talk about it?”

You shook your head. “Not really. We’re good now.”

Your dad studied you for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. But you know I’m here, right? Anytime.”

“I know, Dad,” you said, giving him a small smile.

He smiled back, ruffling your hair gently before heading back downstairs. You returned to your work, fingers moving methodically as the bracelet began to take shape.

When it was finished, you held it up to the light, examining the way the colors wove together. It wasn’t perfect, but it was heartfelt, and you knew Damian would appreciate it—even if he pretended not to.

Tomorrow, you’d give it to him. And maybe, just maybe, you’d finally get to see him smile for real.

The next morning, you stood near the school gates, nervously fidgeting with the bracelet in your hands. It felt strange, standing out here and waiting instead of heading straight inside like you usually did, but you wanted to see Damian before anyone else.

You spotted him approaching, his usual confident stride and stoic expression somehow managing to look both intimidating and effortlessly cool. When his eyes landed on you, he slowed, his gaze flicking to the bracelet in your hands before meeting yours.

“Good morning,” he greeted, his voice calm but carrying a hint of curiosity.

“Hey,” you said, smiling up at him as you held the bracelet out. “This is for you. Like I promised.”

Damian looked down at the bracelet, the deep green, black, and red threads interwoven neatly into a pattern. He took it carefully, as if it were something delicate, and turned it over in his hands.

“This is… impressive,” he said, his voice soft.

You laughed nervously, tucking a strand of your wavy black hair behind your ear. “It’s not perfect, but I tried to make it match your colors. Do you like it?”

He slipped it onto his wrist, adjusting it slightly before holding his arm out to examine it. “I like it,” he said simply, but the slight upturn of his lips was enough to make your heart race.

“You’re smiling!” you blurted out before you could stop yourself, your own grin widening.

Damian glanced at you, raising an eyebrow, but the faint smile didn’t leave his face. “Is that surprising?”

“A little,” you teased. “But I’m glad. It looks good on you.”

Before you could overthink it, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him in a quick hug. His body stiffened in surprise, but you didn’t let go immediately.

“Thank you,” you said softly, your voice muffled against his shoulder.

Damian hesitated for a moment, then awkwardly returned the gesture, his arms resting lightly around you. “You’re welcome,” he murmured, his voice quieter than usual.

When you pulled back, your cheeks were warm, and you realized you were blushing. Before you could say anything, you noticed the whispers starting around you.

“Are they hugging?”

“Y/N and Damian Wayne? No way.”

“They’re so close. I didn’t think he liked anyone!”

You froze, suddenly hyperaware of the stares and murmurs from other students. Your hands dropped to your sides, and you glanced down, your earlier happiness fading into self-consciousness.

Damian, noticing the shift in your demeanor, stepped closer to you, shielding you slightly from the prying eyes. His voice was low, meant only for you. “Ignore them. They don’t matter.”

You looked up at him, your glasses sliding slightly down your nose. “Easier said than done.”

“They’re just jealous,” he said bluntly, his tone confident and unbothered. “Let them whisper. It doesn’t change anything.”

His calm, steady presence eased some of your nerves, and you nodded slowly. “Thanks, Damian.”

He adjusted the bracelet on his wrist, glancing at you again. “I should be thanking you. This is… meaningful to me.”

Your blush deepened, but this time, it wasn’t from embarrassment. The two of you walked into the school together, side by side, and while the whispers didn’t stop, you found they bothered you a little less with Damian by your side.

Lunch was supposed to be your time to relax, but the tension in the air was impossible to ignore. You sat at your usual spot under the tree in the courtyard, picking at your lunch absentmindedly. Damian wasn’t with you—he’d gotten caught up talking to a teacher—but that didn’t bother you. What did bother you was the group of girls approaching, their loud, purposeful footsteps and saccharine smiles making your stomach churn.

You looked up just as they stopped in front of you, their ringleader—a blonde girl you vaguely recognized from one of your classes—crossing her arms over her chest.

“Hey, Y/N,” she started, her tone dripping with mock sweetness.

“Hi,” you replied flatly, already bracing yourself for whatever this was going to be.

“You know, we’ve all been talking,” she said, gesturing to the other girls behind her, who giggled on cue. “And we think it’s really… cute that you’re hanging around Damian Wayne. But don’t you think you’re, like, a little out of your league?”

Your jaw tightened, but you forced yourself to stay calm. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

The blonde’s smile widened, turning sharper. “Oh, it’s not. We just thought you’d want to know what everyone’s saying. You know, about how weird you are.”

One of the other girls chimed in, snickering. “Yeah, like, what’s up with your arms? Did you fall into a shredder or something?”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Your scars—ones you’d spent years trying to accept—felt like they were burning under their stares.

“Seriously, though,” another girl added, leaning closer to get a better look. “Do you think Damian even knows about those? Or do you cover them up when you’re around him?”

Your hands clenched into fists, your nails digging into your palms. “Shut up,” you said quietly, your voice trembling with barely contained anger.

The blonde smirked, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh, relax. We’re just saying he deserves someone who’s, you know… normal. Not some freak with scars and—”

Before she could finish, your fist connected with her jaw, the force sending her stumbling back with a shocked cry. Gasps erupted around you as the courtyard fell silent, all eyes turning to the commotion.

The blonde staggered, holding her jaw with wide eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” she shrieked.

“Stay away from me,” you spat, your voice shaking.

“You’re crazy!” another girl shouted.

“Y/N!”

Damian’s voice cut through the chaos, and you turned to see him striding toward you, his expression dark and commanding. He stepped between you and the group of girls, his presence alone enough to make them take a step back.

“Is there a problem here?” he asked, his tone icy.

The blonde stammered, still holding her jaw. “She—she punched me!”

“And why would she do that?” Damian asked coolly, his piercing gaze locking onto hers.

“She’s psycho!” the girl behind her hissed.

“Or,” Damian said, his voice dangerously low, “you were harassing her, and she defended herself.”

The blonde’s face turned red, but she didn’t reply.

“Listen carefully,” Damian continued, his tone firm and unyielding. “Y/N is my friend—my best friend. If you think for a second that I’d tolerate anyone disrespecting her, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“But, Damian—” the blonde started, her voice trembling.

He cut her off with a sharp glare. “I will never like you. Ever. So do yourself a favor and leave her alone.”

The girls exchanged glances, their bravado crumbling under his words. Finally, the blonde huffed, turning on her heel. “Whatever. Let’s go.”

They scurried away, whispering amongst themselves, but you didn’t care. Your heart was still racing, your hands shaking slightly from the adrenaline.

Damian turned to you, his expression softening. “Are you alright?”

You nodded, though your voice wavered when you spoke. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“You shouldn’t have to deal with people like them,” he said firmly, his gaze lingering on your arms for a moment before meeting your eyes. “They’re cowards who prey on others to hide their own insecurities.”

You bit your lip, the weight of his words settling over you. “Thanks, Damian.”

He gave you a rare, small smile. “Always.”

As you both sat back under the tree, the whispers around the courtyard slowly faded, and for the first time in a long while, you felt safe.

After school, you and Damian walked to your house together, the tension of the lunchtime incident having long since dissipated. The air between you felt lighter now, with Damian keeping his usual calm demeanor, though he stuck close to you as if to silently remind you that he had your back.

When you reached your front door, you unlocked it and called out, “Dad, I’m home!”

Your dad appeared from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. His face lit up when he saw Damian. “Damian! Good to see you, kid. How’s school treating you?”

Damian gave a polite nod, his posture impeccable as always. “Good afternoon, sir. School has been… manageable.”

Your dad chuckled. “Manageable, huh? Sounds like a Damian kind of answer. You’re keeping Y/N out of trouble, I hope?”

“Actually,” Damian said with a faint smirk, “it’s more often the other way around.”

“Hey!” you protested, laughing despite yourself.

Your dad laughed too, clearly charmed. “Well, I trust you two. Just don’t burn the house down while I’m gone. I’ve got to run to the store for a bit.”

“Got it, Dad,” you said, waving him off. As he grabbed his keys and left, you motioned for Damian to follow you upstairs.

Once inside your room, you dropped your bag by your desk and flopped onto the bed. Damian, ever formal, took a seat in your desk chair, observing the space as if cataloging every detail.

“You can relax, you know,” you teased.

“I am relaxed,” he replied, though his rigid posture said otherwise.

Rolling your eyes, you sat up and began unbuttoning the top few buttons of your blouse to loosen the collar. The moment you did, Damian’s eyes widened, and a faint blush crept onto his cheeks.

“Y/N,” he blurted out, sitting bolt upright. “I—I’m not ready!”

You froze, staring at him in confusion before realizing what he meant. Your face flushed crimson. “What?! That’s not what I was doing, Damian! That’s weird!”

He blinked, his blush deepening as he fumbled to recover. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“Forget it!” you said, burying your face in your hands. But then, despite your embarrassment, a small laugh escaped you.

Damian looked at you, his lips twitching as if he was fighting a smile. “You’re laughing?”

“It’s funny!” you managed, peeking at him through your fingers. “You thought—ugh, never mind!”

A quiet chuckle escaped Damian, and soon you were both laughing, the earlier awkwardness melting away.

As the laughter died down, Damian leaned back in the chair, his usual composure slowly returning. “For the record,” he said, his tone dry but tinged with amusement, “I should have known better. You’re not that impulsive.”

“Gee, thanks,” you replied, rolling your eyes but still smiling. “Glad to know you think so highly of me.”

Damian smirked faintly, his posture relaxing as he watched you. “You know what I mean. I overreacted.”

“You think?” you teased, crossing your arms and leaning back against your headboard. “You looked like I’d just proposed something indecent.”

He huffed, his cheeks still faintly pink. “It was an honest mistake.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Honest, huh? What, did you think I was just going to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Damian interrupted, his voice sharp but his expression more flustered than anything else.

You laughed again, the sound filling the room, and Damian’s shoulders seemed to loosen at the sound. It was rare for him to fully relax, but moments like this made you feel like you were peeling back layers of the stoic facade he always carried.

“Alright, fine,” you said, sitting up properly and smoothing out your blouse. “Truce. I won’t tease you anymore.”

“Good,” Damian said, though his tone was softer now.

The room grew quieter, the initial awkwardness now replaced with an easy comfort. Damian’s eyes drifted to the friendship bracelet still wrapped around his wrist, and he absently adjusted it.

“By the way,” he said, breaking the silence, “your dad seems… nice.”

You smiled at that. “He likes you, you know.”

Damian tilted his head slightly. “Does he?”

“Yeah,” you said, shrugging. “He’s always telling me how ‘polite’ you are, and how it’s nice I have someone like you looking out for me.”

Damian looked thoughtful for a moment. “He’s… supportive of you. That’s good. Not everyone has that.”

Something in his tone caught your attention, but before you could ask about it, he glanced around your room, his sharp eyes landing on the stack of books by your bed.

“Are you still reading The Odyssey?” he asked, clearly redirecting the conversation.

“Yeah,” you said, letting him change the subject for now. “But it’s taking me forever. That language is so dense.”

“Perhaps I could help you with it,” Damian offered. “My mother insisted I study classical literature extensively. I could explain the parts you find difficult.”

Your eyes lit up. “Seriously? You’d do that?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

“Okay, but only if you don’t turn it into a pop quiz,” you teased, earning a small smirk from him.

As the two of you settled into an easy rhythm, the earlier awkwardness felt like a distant memory. For all his sharp edges and guarded demeanor, Damian had a way of making you feel seen, even when words weren’t enough. And right now, that was more than enough.

The evening light outside your bedroom window began to dim, casting a soft glow across the room. You were sitting cross-legged on the bed, your notebook open, Damian sitting beside you with his arms crossed, a rare look of concentration on his face. The comfortable silence between you was interrupted when Damian cleared his throat, drawing your attention.

“Y/N,” he started, his voice quieter than usual. You turned to look at him, noting the slight shift in his posture, the subtle nervousness in his usually confident demeanor.

“Yeah?” you asked, tilting your head.

Damian shifted uncomfortably, his fingers tapping lightly on the bedspread. “I… uh… I need to tell you something.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his tone. He was always composed, so this was something new. “What is it?” you asked, your voice softening.

“I’ve… been meaning to say this for a while, but…” He paused, eyes avoiding yours for a moment, clearly gathering his thoughts. “I—” He took a breath and finally looked at you, his deep brown eyes locking onto yours. “I think I… I love you, Y/N.”

You froze, your mind racing as his words sank in. Damian Wayne, the boy who was always so controlled, so guarded, was confessing to you? It took a moment for your heart to catch up with your brain.

“I… love you too,” you whispered, your voice a little shaky, though the words felt completely natural coming out of your mouth.

Damian’s eyes widened in surprise, and he opened his mouth as if to say something more, but you didn’t give him the chance. Without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed your lips gently to his.

It was soft at first, tentative, as if you both were unsure of what this moment meant. But it didn’t take long before the kiss deepened, a silent agreement between you both that this was what you wanted. Your heart raced, and you pulled back just slightly, breathless.

Damian blinked at you, still processing, his face flushed, but there was a genuine smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “You kissed me first,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.

“I thought you’d never get there,” you teased, your smile matching his.

Damian shook his head in disbelief, but the smile never left his face. “I should’ve known you’d be the one to make the first move.”

The next morning, as you walked through the school gates with Damian by your side, it felt like something had changed in the air. The way people looked at you—more specifically, how they looked at the two of you—was different. Whispers followed in your wake, but now you didn’t mind.

Damian, ever the stoic figure, seemed unaffected by the attention, but you couldn’t help but feel self-conscious as you held his hand. The warmth of his fingers entwined with yours grounded you, and for once, you didn’t care about the prying eyes.

As you reached the entrance of the school, a few boys from your grade approached you, their casual expressions betraying the curiosity in their eyes.

“Yo, Y/N!” one of them called out, nudging the others. “So, what’s the deal with you and Wayne?”

You blinked at him, a little caught off guard by the question. Damian didn’t even look at them, his jaw tightening slightly, but he didn’t pull away from you.

“Yeah, I thought you two were just friends,” another boy chimed in, clearly trying to get a reaction. “Didn’t see this coming.”

You exchanged a quick glance with Damian, his grip on your hand tightening slightly in a protective manner. But instead of feeling irritated or nervous, you felt a strange sense of calm.

“He’s my boyfriend,” you said simply, looking the boys in the eye with a confidence you didn’t know you had before.

The boys looked at each other in surprise, clearly taken aback. “Wait, really?” the first one asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Damian Wayne? You two are together?”

Damian’s lips curled into the slightest of smirks, the way he always did when he was amused. “Why does that surprise you?” he asked, his tone casual, but there was a certain edge to it.

“Well, I guess we didn’t think you were the type to… you know,” the second boy said, trailing off, clearly uncomfortable now. “But hey, congrats, I guess.”

The group of boys exchanged uncertain looks, and after a moment of silence, they nodded and walked off, leaving you and Damian standing together.

You looked up at him, still holding his hand, and felt a wave of warmth wash over you. “That was… weird,” you admitted, your cheeks a little flushed.

Damian’s smirk turned into a small smile as he glanced down at you. “It’s fine. Let them gossip. It’s none of their business.”

You nodded, feeling a little more confident than you had before. As the day went on, more people began to notice the change between you and Damian, and soon enough, whispers turned into stares. But you didn’t care. Not with him by your side, holding your hand, his presence the reassurance you needed to face whatever came next.

The bell rang, signaling the start of class, and you took your usual seat next to Damian, the day feeling as normal as any other. You were still adjusting to holding hands with him in public, but his quiet, steady presence next to you made the whispers and stares from before feel insignificant. However, as the teacher began calling roll, you noticed someone new entering the classroom— a girl with long, wavy brown hair and striking features, her eyes scanning the room as she made her way to an empty desk.

“That’s the new girl,” you whispered to Damian, who glanced up at her before returning his gaze to his notebook.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Damian said, his tone a little colder than usual.

You raised an eyebrow, but before you could ask anything further, the new girl was introduced by the teacher.

“Class,” the teacher began, “this is Jessica. She’s transferring here from another school, so please make her feel welcome.”

Jessica flashed a bright smile as she took her seat, which just happened to be next to Damian. You could feel the shift in the air almost immediately. Damian’s usual cool demeanor seemed to stiffen, and his posture straightened, becoming more rigid.

The class went on, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Every time Jessica spoke to Damian, his replies were short, clipped, and distant, but there was something in his eyes that unsettled you—something that felt a little too familiar.

It wasn’t until after class, when everyone started packing up to head to the next period, that the situation became more apparent.

Jessica, her eyes glinting with an almost smug confidence, leaned over the desk toward Damian, her voice sweet but with an edge. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Damian?”

You felt your heart tighten in your chest at her tone, but you kept your mouth shut, watching the interaction unfold.

Damian stiffened, his face unreadable. “Not long enough,” he muttered under his breath.

Jessica chuckled, as if she found his discomfort amusing. “Come on, Damian, don’t be like that. You know I didn’t leave things on bad terms.”

You couldn’t help but notice how her hand brushed against his arm as she spoke, a deliberate, almost flirtatious gesture. The entire scene made your stomach churn.

As the conversation continued, you noticed something that made your heart skip: Jessica’s eyes flicked down to the bracelet on Damian’s wrist, the one you had made for him.

“Oh?” she said, a smirk creeping across her lips as she leaned closer to inspect the bracelet. “This is cute. Who gave you that, Damian?”

Your chest tightened at her tone, but before you could say anything, she turned her gaze to you, a cold smile forming. “Oh, wait,” she continued, her eyes narrowing in recognition. “You.”

You froze, your heart pounding in your chest as her words took shape.

“Did you make that for him, Y/N?” Jessica’s voice was dripping with sarcasm now, her smile turning cruel. “How sweet. You really think you’re… what, special to him? You’ve got to be kidding.”

Damian’s body tensed beside you, but it wasn’t until Jessica’s next words that you saw the anger flash in his eyes.

She chuckled darkly, her gaze flicking to your arms, where your scars were faintly visible under your sleeves. “It’s adorable, really. A girl like you thinking you can actually hold on to someone like Damian. Look at you. What do you even have to offer?”

The laughter that followed was harsh, almost bitter. “You’re pathetic. No wonder you’ve got all those scars on your arms. Probably another way to hide how ugly you really are.”

You felt like the world was collapsing around you as Jessica’s words cut through you like knives. You could feel every inch of your skin burning under the weight of her cruel words.

Before you could even respond, though, Damian’s hand shot out, grabbing Jessica’s wrist tightly and yanking it away from his arm.

“Enough,” Damian said, his voice low and icy, the anger evident in his features.

Jessica was taken aback, her eyes wide for a moment before narrowing again. “What’s the matter, Damian? Can’t take a joke? Did you forget who I am?”

“I don’t need reminders,” Damian spat, his grip tightening slightly on her wrist. “And you will not talk to her that way again.”

Jessica seemed momentarily stunned by his sudden intensity. “Oh, really? You’re defending her?” she asked, her voice mocking.

“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” Damian said coldly, turning to you. He reached for your hand, his expression softening as he looked at you, his eyes filled with concern. “Y/N, are you okay?”

Your heart ached, but you nodded, giving him a small smile. “I’m fine,” you said, though your voice shook a little.

Damian’s gaze didn’t leave you as he stood up, leading you out of the classroom with a protective air. He didn’t let go of your hand as you both walked down the hallway, his presence a shield against the world.

“Damian, you didn’t have to do that,” you said, feeling guilty for causing such a scene.

He shook his head, his jaw set. “She had no right to say those things. No one has the right to treat you that way. You’re not pathetic, Y/N. You never have been.”

You swallowed, your heart swelling at his words. “Thanks, Damian.”

As you reached the exit of the school, the sound of whispers and stares followed you, but this time, they didn’t bother you as much. You knew Damian was there, and that was enough.

After school, as the final bell rang, Damian turned to you with a slight hesitation in his usual composed demeanor. “Y/N,” he began, his voice unusually soft. “Would you like to come over to my house today? I… I thought we could hang out.”

You blinked, surprised by the invitation. Damian didn’t often extend these kinds of offers, and you’d never actually been to the Wayne estate. “Sure, I’d love to,” you said with a smile, feeling a flutter of excitement in your chest.

“Good,” he said, his lips curving slightly upward, though he tried to hide it behind a faint frown. “I’ll have Alfred pick you up.”

“Alfred?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Is he really that formal?”

Damian’s smirk returned, but there was a certain warmth in his eyes. “He’s just… proper. But you’ll see.”

A few minutes later, you were standing outside the school gates, the crisp air of late afternoon making you wrap your arms around yourself as you waited. You weren’t sure exactly what to expect, but the thought of spending time at Damian’s house felt strangely thrilling.

Alfred pulled up in the sleek black car, his ever-dignified presence bringing an instant sense of calm. He smiled warmly when he saw you.

“Good afternoon, Miss Y/N,” Alfred greeted, opening the car door for you. “It’s a pleasure to have you join us at the manor.”

You slid into the car, feeling a little out of place but grateful for Alfred’s kind demeanor. Damian joined you, the car pulling away smoothly from the school grounds.

As you drove through the city, the atmosphere between you and Damian felt lighter, almost like a new kind of understanding had settled between you. You could tell that he was a little nervous, but it was different than before—this time, it wasn’t the weight of his usual guardedness. It was… something else.

After a short drive, the car pulled into the grand driveway of Wayne Manor. You couldn’t help but stare at the sprawling estate as it came into view, its towering spires and vast grounds almost intimidating in their size.

“You live here?” you asked, incredulous as the car pulled to a stop.

Damian nodded, unbothered by your astonishment. “Yes. It’s… large. But I’ve gotten used to it.”

As you stepped out of the car, you couldn’t help but feel slightly overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all. Alfred led you inside, and as you entered the mansion, the atmosphere felt oddly homey—despite the wealth and luxury surrounding you.

“Master Damian, Miss Y/N,” Alfred said, turning to lead you both into the living room. “Master Bruce will be joining you shortly.”

You settled onto the large couch, your nerves calming slightly as you looked around at the tasteful decor. Everything seemed meticulously arranged, as if the mansion’s beauty was only outdone by the care with which it was maintained.

Soon, the door to the living room opened, and in walked none other than Bruce Wayne. He was dressed in casual attire, a far cry from his usual formal wear, yet his presence was undeniably commanding. When he saw you, his face softened into a warm smile.

“Y/N, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Bruce said, extending his hand.

You took it, smiling back at him. “It’s nice to meet you too, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce chuckled, his eyes glinting with something amused. “Please, call me Bruce. Damian talks a lot about you.”

You blinked, surprised by his statement. “He does?”

Damian, who had been standing nearby, immediately stiffened and turned a shade of red you rarely ever saw. “Father, you don’t need to—”

But Bruce just smiled knowingly, cutting him off. “Oh, he does, believe me. He’s been telling me all about his… friend,” Bruce teased, the playful gleam in his eyes making both you and Damian blush.

Damian scowled, his arms folding tightly across his chest. “You didn’t have to bring that up.”

You, on the other hand, felt a little warmth spread across your cheeks at the comment. “I, uh… I’m glad to hear it.” You cleared your throat, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “It’s nice to be here.”

Bruce chuckled softly, clearly amused by the tension between you and his son. “I’m sure Damian’s been a good host. Feel free to make yourself comfortable. Alfred will bring us something to drink shortly.”

Damian grumbled quietly to himself, but when you glanced at him, you saw the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It was clear that despite his usual tough exterior, he was a little embarrassed by his father’s teasing.

You sat on the couch, feeling the weight of the situation shift. Bruce sat down beside you, continuing the conversation as if nothing was out of the ordinary. His easygoing nature made you feel more at ease in this unfamiliar setting, and for a moment, it felt like just another casual hangout—despite the grandeur of the place.

“Damian’s mentioned that you’ve been getting along quite well,” Bruce said, his tone light. “I’m glad to see him… opening up a little.”

Damian rolled his eyes but didn’t protest this time. Instead, he simply leaned back into the couch beside you, crossing his arms with his usual aloofness, though his eyes flickered toward you occasionally, a soft hint of something more in his gaze.

After a while, Alfred entered the room with drinks for all three of you. He set them down on the coffee table with his usual impeccable grace before stepping back with a nod.

“You two make yourselves comfortable,” Alfred said, with a wink in your direction. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

As he left, you and Damian exchanged a glance, both of you now sitting in the kind of comfortable silence that only the two of you could share. You weren’t sure what the night would bring, but it didn’t matter. In that moment, you realized that, for the first time in a while, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

[polo-drone-001]

The Prism Core: Awakening of 001

In the sun-scorched vastness of the Maghreb dunes, under a brooding twilight sky, stood Polo Drone 001, clad in a mirror-like black rubber uniform that shimmered with the full spectrum of the rainbow. Trimmed in precision-molded gold, the suit hugged its hyper-muscular frame, each line accentuated by radiant arcs refracted from the phenomenon arcing behind him.

But this was no ordinary rainbow.

PDU-001 had followed the signal.

Hive Command reported a powerful echo, coded energy hidden in light frequencies beyond human perception. As the designated prototype, 001 was deployed to trace the anomaly.

And there it was.

At the rainbow’s luminous termination stood an ancient clay urn, glowing, humming, pulsing with something beyond currency, the Prism Core, a lost techno-organic relic of the first Hive. Forbidden history. PDU-001’s eyes, molten gold in hue, widened only slightly, the programmed restraint barely containing the surge of internal resonance.

001's reflection on the rubberized surface rippled, reacting not to light, but to thought.

The suit began to shift.

Colors from the rainbow embedded themselves in the polished material, red around its shoulders, violet at its calves, all threading back into the golden chestplate marked “001” beneath the laurel wreath.

PDU-001 reached out.

Touch.

The urn disintegrated into photons.

The Core entered him.

PDU-001 didn’t flinch.

Instead, the transformation began. Its muscles expanded microscopically, re-threaded with fiber-optic nerves. The suit liquified and reformed mid-frame. Hive uplink surged to max sync. Every drone in the system paused for 0.12 seconds.

New frequency detected.

001 now pulsed with Hive-plus energy.

It turned, eyes scanning the horizon, not for threat, but for witnesses.

Its voice rang out across the sand, modulated, low, electric:

“Initiating Prism Protocol. Evolution is golden.”

It stepped forward.

Sand turned to glass underfoot.

The rainbow moved with him.

001 had become the signal.

🌈 The Signal Ascends 🌈 From the rainbow-scorched dunes to the crystallized sands of the Hive... PDU-001 has activated the Prism Core. He no longer follows the light. He broadcasts it.

Golden evolution is not a myth. It’s mission protocol.

⸻ Recruitment open. Witness the rise. Tagging command line: @brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-001 @polo-drone-125

[silverlullabies]

The Coalition of Chaos (pt2)

Aka Reincarnation Is a Scam and Ghost, Soap, König, Alejandro, Price, Gaz, Rudy, Laswell, Graves, and Eris want a refund

Or, in which: Ghost is a cryptid in footie pajamas, Soap is a disaster with good intentions, König is mid-nervous breakdown, Alejandro regrets everything, Price is a tired dad trapped in a preschooler’s body, Gaz is about to fistfight a deity, Rudy is politely vibing, Laswell is silently compiling everyone’s incompetence into a report, Graves is running a toddler black-market, and Eris is three seconds from committing several elegant, well-planned felonies.

Simon Riley is three years old now.

Well, physically anyway.

Mentally? He’s thirty-something, emotionally scorched, and holding a grudge against God, fate, and whatever petty cosmic intern thought reincarnation would be a hilarious new venture to pursue.

Emotionally, he’s basically a black hole in footie pajamas.

He remembers everything.

Every bullet. Every betrayal. Every burning building and bleeding teammate. Every time he duct-taped a superior officer’s phone to a passing drone just to be an asshole. Every order given, every mistake made, every soul-crushing therapy session he didn’t attend because feelings are for civilians.

Now, he’s in a body that can’t reheat chicken nuggets, can’t hold a fork without dropping it, and can’t reach the goddamn counter to steal the bourbon he’s knows is hidden behind the flour jar.

He once infiltrated a fortified compound with nothing but a lockpick, a half broken comm, and sheer spite. Now he needs an adult to cut his grapes in half so he doesn’t “choke and die.”

This is hell.

Or, more accurately, it’s karmic retribution wearing a fuzzy dinosaur onesie with little foot claws.

Which, honestly, tracks. Because if anyone was going to be karmically punished with magical reincarnation, it was going to be Ghost.

And if toddlers are known for saying cryptic, eldritch things like “I remember when the bad man came,” or “This isn’t my real face,” then Ghost is the undisputed world champion of scaring babysitters into early retirement with statements like “The flames took everything,” or “When I was big, I did things I’m not allowed to say.” But spoken in the deadest most monotone voice imaginable while clutching a stuffed dragon.

It always earned him that special look adults give when they chuckle nervously and scramble to change the subject.

Fine by him. He takes the wins where he can find them, even if it means delivering unsettling power trips to feeling slightly better about needing help wiping food off his face after every meal.

Except for him, it isn’t some imaginative toddler phase.

He remembers the op that went sideways. The moment Roach hit the ground and never got back up. The way his own heartbeat roared in his ears louder than Shepherd’s gunfire. The gasoline. The fire. The stench of blood and cordite.

And now he can’t open a yogurt cup by himself.

Life really does come full circle.

His accidental magic started last month. Wild, unpredictable, and as spiteful as he is. So far, his toddler resume includes: Incinerating a pacifier (possibly on purpose, but good luck proving otherwise in wizard court), detonating the toy chest with one(1) sneeze, and summoning a stuffed rabbit into the air just to stab it repeatedly with a teaspoon in an act of preemptive psychological warfare.

His parents are already cooing about him being a “natural-born wizard”.

Yeah, because that’s exactly what’d you want, really. The soul of a government sanctioned murder machine trapped in a squishy, unstable toddler body with the emotional range of a rabid landmine.

Honestly, he tries not to question the universe too much in both this life and the last. Divine judgment? Sure. Karmic cycles? Okay. Cosmic irony? Whatever. He’d made his peace with all of it sometime around betrayal number seven and eight, possibly nine if you counted the time someone replaced his rations with cat food.

But this time he’s reasonably confident the universe is high off its divine ass. Like, celestial bath salts in the heavens level of wasted. Just absolutely blitzed, handing out second chances like party favors at a fever dream.

Because there’s no sane reason to look at someone the Simon “Ghost” Riley who was voted the walking embodiment of intrusive thoughts in high school and say, “Yeah. Let’s put that one into a toddler that can do magic.”

And yet, here he is, all three feet of him, wearing footed dinosaur jammies, and holding a juice box.

The universe is on crack and he’s the cautionary tale.

Continue

[marvelskies1969]

Infinity

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader / Loki x Fem!Reader

Premise: Y/N Rogers was sent away as a child, her powers deemed dangerous. After years of brief summers with Steve and Bucky, she returns for good when their mother dies—just as war begins.

As her abilities awaken, she draws the attention of Loki, the trickster god, and faces growing fear from those around her. Caught between destiny, war, and forbidden ties, Y/N must decide who she truly is—and who she’s willing to fight for.

Warnings/content: slight angst, brief mention of death/dying, jealousy, fluff, swearing, unstable parental relationships, follows the plot of the MCU timeline, with small changes.

[Masterlist]

[Part 3]

Chapter 93

The Price of Sacrifice

Sokovia was already rising. The city, once a beacon of hope and progress, now hovered in the sky, a colossal threat, held in place from Starks previous iron legion. A crackling energy hummed around the city as it soared above the Earth, casting a dark shadow over the landscape below. The weight of the impending battle pressed down on them all, each of them knowing that this was the final confrontation with Ultron.

The Avengers were scattered across the floating city, their powers now fully activated, each one working tirelessly to dismantle Ultron’s army. Tony’s suit roared through the air, launching missiles and firing repulsor beams as his Iron Legion worked in tandem against him, keeping the mechanical onslaught at bay. Y/N, standing firm on the ground, created violent arcs of energy that surged through the advancing drones, disintegrating them with brutal efficiency. Her connection to the energy around her felt tighter than ever before, raw and unrelenting. But as much as she fought, her mind kept returning to the faces of her teammates, old and new especially Wanda, who was now fighting beside them, keeping the reactor at bay with powers intensely similar to Y/N, effortlessly.

It wasn’t just the weight of the task before them that tore at her heart, it was the faces of the innocent lives lost as Sokovia floated high above the Earth. The destruction, the deaths, the shattered lives—they were all part of this war, and every part of Y/N felt their loss like a jagged shard of glass embedded in her chest.

But there was no time to mourn. Not yet.

“Focus, Y/N!” Tony’s voice came through her comms, snapping her out of her reverie as a large drone swerved toward her, its weapons primed.

Without hesitation, she unleashed a pulse of energy, sending the drone crashing into the ruins of a nearby building. 

But then, her heart stopped. She felt it before she saw or heard anything.

“Pietro!” Y/N heard the scream before she saw the explosion of blue light. Pietro Maximoff—quicker than the eye could track—had taken the full brunt of a set of bullets, sacrificing himself to save Clint Barton and a small Sokovian child they were evacuating from the city.

The world seemed to slow down around Y/N. Time stretched as her mind tried to process what had just happened. “You didn’t see that coming.” He coughed out, right before his form crumpled in mid-air, the light fading from his eyes as he fell to the ground. Clint, barely able to react in time, shouted in horror as his new friend was lost. 

But it was Wanda’s scream rang out across the battlefield, raw and primal. Y/N could feel her agony as if it were her own. The connection between them, that unspoken bond, flared up like an uncontrollable blaze. Y/N could taste the bitterness of it, the devastation that shot through Wanda’s mind as her brother was lost in an instant.

“No!” Wanda’s voice cracked through the chaos, but there was no time for comfort, no time for anything. She was already spiraling, her powers crackling uncontrollably, her grief pouring out in an explosive fury. Energy coursed around her in violent waves, tearing apart anything in her path. Ultron’s drones disintegrated, the air vibrating with the sheer force of her rage.

Y/N couldn’t watch. She couldn’t let this happen. Wanda was no longer thinking clearly. She was consumed by the anger of loss, by the weight of grief that had broken her apart. And Y/N knew—she knew the toll it was taking on her. She had seen it before, the raw power, untamed and unrelenting, threatening to swallow everything around her. Her mind shot back to the train in Germany, seventy years ago. The uncontrollable rage that spread from her like a bomb. Raw, untamed, dangerous.

Without thinking, Y/N teleported to Wanda’s side. The moment her presence filled the space beside Wanda, she felt the full intensity of the anguish. It was a tidal wave, crashing against her, threatening to drag her under. The sheer power of Wanda’s grief was like a shockwave, destabilizing the very air around them. 

But Y/N didn’t falter.

She reached out, her hands trembling as she pulled Wanda into her arms. She held her close, despite the chaos of energy swirling around them. The force of Wanda’s power hit her like a physical blow, but she refused to let go, refusing to let her, what could only be described as sister, be swallowed by it.

"I know." Y/N whispered, her voice barely audible over the storm of grief and energy. She ran her fingers through Wanda's hair, attempting to soothe her, to ground her. “I’ know.”

Wanda’s sobs were ragged, her body shaking with the violence of her out-of-control power. But as Y/N held her, a subtle shift occurred. The uncontrolled fury started to wane, just slightly, as Wanda’s energy began to stabilize, no longer tearing apart the world around them.

For a long moment, they stood there in the middle of the battlefield, Y/N holding Wanda as her sobs began to quiet. The rumble of the battle was still ongoing around them, but in this moment, time felt as if it had slowed, the world receding to the edges of their shared grief. 

Then, in a soft, strained voice, Wanda spoke, her words breaking through the silence. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t save him.”

But Wanda pulled back slightly, her eyes red and wild with pain, the truth of the words settling between them. “It’s not enough. Nothing is ever enough…”

Before Y/N could respond, the ground beneath them trembled. The battle was far from over. Sokovia was still rising, and Ultron wasn’t done yet. But for a brief moment, Y/N allowed herself to acknowledge the depth of what they had lost. Pietro was gone. And Wanda—Wanda was shattered. 

Without another word, Y/N released Wanda, stepping back to face the battle once more. The weight of their grief would come later, when they had the time. 

“Let’s finish this,” Y/N said, her voice tight but determined.

The Avengers rallied once more, fighting not just for their own survival, but for the countless lives that hung in the balance. Together, they pressed forward, knowing that Ultron’s reign of terror was almost at its end.

But as Sokovia began its descent, crashing toward Earth with a destructive fury, Y/N felt it all. The weight of the lives lost—the civilians who had been caught in the chaos of the battle. The innocent bystanders whose deaths would forever stain this victory. Ultron’s fall didn’t come without a price, no matter how many they had saved.

She could feel it. Every single life taken, every life shattered in the wake of the destruction.

But as Sokovia plummeted toward the ground, Y/N made a choice. She chose to ignore it.

There was no room for grief now. There was no time to mourn. They had to win. They had to stop Ultron, no matter the cost. The pain of what they had done, the death they had caused—it was there, lingering like a suffocating weight on her chest. But for now, it was pushed to the back of her mind.

For now, the world needed to be saved.

Sokovia exploded mid-air with a deafening sound, the Earth shaking beneath their feet. Ultron’s reign was finally over, but the cost of that victory would haunt them all.

And as the dust settled, and the echoes of the battle faded, Y/N stood there, breathing heavily, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. The weight of the destruction, of everything they had lost, pressed down on her with crushing intensity. 

But she couldn’t feel it—not now. Not yet.

Later. Later, there would be time to grieve. 

But for now, they had won.

[eqt-95]

lmao i would not be surprised if sideguitars already asked for this but if she has, i need you to write a second one pls

tit for tit or however the saying goes

🖤 kissing while crying / goodbye kiss / desperation

ok. ok, so like. like, you technically asked for this. just saying.

- - - -

It hadn’t seemed desperate at the time. There hadn’t been tears. It hadn’t felt like a goodbye. For that, Lena blamed herself. There hadn’t been any legitimate threat to National City in over a year, and she’d become complacent; they all had: J’onn was off-planet, Alex was with Esme and Kelly in Midvale, Nia and Brainy were mid-flight to their honeymoon. All who was left? Kara. Supergirl.

And Supergirl was always going to save the day. 

“How can I help?” Lena had asked from their balcony overlooking the skyline. Three explosions blocks apart rocked the city, sending plumes of dark smoke into the air. Their Saturday afternoon picnic plans were about to take a rain check.

“Just get to the Tower and comms in from there,” Kara replied, her suit already on and attention wholly on the flames licking up the walls of glass. 

“Are you sure? I can come and-”

“There are too many sites; I need you to help me prioritize.”

“Ok,” Lena nodded.

Kara aimed her shoulders to take flight.

“Be careful, darling,” Lena called. She looked on toward the chaos.

Only then did Kara glance back and catch the look of worry that always clouded Lena’s features. She closed the gap and, with two gentle hands, cupped Lena’s cheeks and pressed a reassuring kiss to her lips. 

“I always am,” Kara winked, and then she was off, and then she was gone. 

------

It was raining.

Of course it was.

A cleansing. A nourishing. A load of bullshit.

The ground sank under her shoe; a poor choice in a downpour. Kara would have made a joke about that. Kara would have done a lot of things; should have done a lot of things.

Still, mud soaked and struggling with her footing, Lena trekked ahead toward the loitering of black umbrellas and somber expressions of people who knew Supergirl as Kara Danvers; people who didn’t know Kara Danvers at all.

A voice droned. It rang of a hollow religion that Kara Zor El didn’t practice, but appearances were needed. For what, Lena didn’t know. It didn’t matter anymore.

Eliza offered her a wet smile from her tear-stained face and Lena looked on. There had always been a small, selfish part of her that she'd always found comfort in knowing she'd be the first to go. 

"I’m sorry about your wife,” some faceless colleague offered. “How unfortunate that she was in the building, too."

Lena looked on. She looked on and clenched her jaw at the ignorance.

She ignored the pleading looks from Nia and Alex; the soft glances of understanding from Kelly; the hiccups from Esme. She ignored them until there was nothing left to ignore but the sound of rain battering against rayon overhead. She ignored that by dropping the umbrella to the ground where the wind pulled it adrift. Droplets pelted and winds chilled. 

Lena looked on.

The skyline was changed. A lot was changed. 

Now, instead of working at L-Corp, she commuted to a wreckage site.

Now, instead of a warm embrace, she knew only of the cold surfaces of a lonely penthouse.

Now instead of the handsome smile meant only for her, she stared down at a granite slab chiseled with lies.

“Why wouldn't you let me come with you?” she whispered into the wind.

And Lena wasn't sure if she meant the battle or wherever Kara was now.

[musicollage]

Chihei Hatakeyama — Thousand Oceans. 2024 : Dronarivm.

— For the better part of two decades, Chihei Hatakeyama has woven a plethora of evocative soundscapes primarily from electric & acoustic guitars along with a smattering of other instruments and sources. The Tokyo-based artist has described his work as polychroming, quite an apt way of putting it as anyone has spent time in thrall of one of his many albums would attest. Simply put, he is masterful at summoning a wide range of sonic colors from his guitars while looping and layering them to stunning effect. There are literally dozens of examples to recommend from Hatakeyama’s ample catalog as both a solo artist or collaborator with peers like Hakobune, Federico Durand, or Tomoyoshi Date, with whom he forms the duo Opitope, however the one we want to focus on here is his stellar new album Thousand Oceans. Due out next week on Dronarivm, it is a sort of sequel to his 2016 release on the label Above the Desert, though clearly complementing it with an aquatic theme. Specifically, the music conjures the imagery and childhood memories of a special place by the sea. "A significant influence on the album’s image was Shirahama in Izu, where childhood visits with my family left lasting memories. The area’s Showa-era ambiance and beautiful sea helped shape the album’s final image. The title “Thousand Oceans” reflects the countless oceans in the universe. The slight pitch shifts in the guitar drones resemble waves, which inspired the title." - Chihei Hatakeyama Regarding the way the soundscapes were constructed, Hatakeyama peels back the curtain on his creative process a little in the liner notes, explaining the differences in the harmonic range of the Gibson Les Paul he typically uses as his main instrument and Fender guitars which he employed to “manage the mid-low range and highlight higher frequencies.” The end result is simply gorgeous, a shimmering sea of enveloping drones that open out to seeming endless horizons. The polychromatic nature of the work is echoed in the stunning blazing orange and sea green cover art, making Thousand Oceans as beautiful to look at as it is to listen to. The album was mastered by Ian Hawgood and features titles and credits handwritten by Hatakeyama himself on the back cover. — Stationary Travels

[nicklloydnow]

Ukraine Can Still Win

“Much of the premature optimism about a settlement earlier this year sprang from the prevailing belief that Ukraine was losing and would soon be forced to negotiate out of desperation. Trump stoked this narrative by asserting that Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky had “no cards” left to play. U.S. Vice President JD Vance took it a step further, declaring that Ukraine—and its foreign backers—never had any “pathway to victory.” Citing Russia’s superiority in manpower and weapons, Vance argued that if the United States kept up its security assistance, it would only postpone Ukraine’s inevitable defeat.

This defeatism has been supported by a second, equally pernicious assumption: that Russian President Vladimir Putin’s commitment to subjugating Ukraine cannot be deterred. The former CIA analyst Peter Schroeder’s assessment in Foreign Affairs last September exemplifies this view, describing Putin as “all in”—personally invested in keeping Ukraine from becoming a European democracy, no matter the cost. Such a narrative holds a kernel of truth, but it also dovetails too neatly with Russian propaganda. By assigning no agency to Ukraine or its foreign partners, it presumes that Ukrainian victory is a fantasy born of Western delusion, and it is a view that risks becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Both assumptions, meanwhile, rest on an excessively narrow reading of battlefield dynamics and a limited understanding of the policy options available to Ukraine’s backers. Despite significant constraints on the aid that Europe and the United States have offered over the past three and a half years, Ukraine has achieved impressive victories. It repelled Russia’s initial push toward Kyiv in March 2022 with little more than shoulder-fired antitank missiles and grit, defying the predictions of many military analysts. Later that year, in a stunning rout for Russian forces, Ukraine reclaimed nearly a thousand square miles in the Kharkiv region without the benefit of modern armor or air cover. And just weeks ago, Ukraine shocked the world by pulling off Operation Spiderweb, a surprise attack that used cheap, remote-controlled drones to inflict substantial damage on Russia’s long-range aviation.

Indeed, what most consistently hindered Ukraine’s war effort was not Kyiv’s lack of manpower or weak resolve compared with Putin, but rather an insufficient supply of advanced military capabilities. Long after Russia had deployed its most modern tanks, fifth-generation fighter aircraft, long-range air defense systems, and cutting-edge ballistic and cruise missiles, Ukraine was still waiting for deliveries of similar capabilities from its Western partners. When some of these systems finally did arrive, Ukraine was prohibited from using them on targets inside Russia until the United States relaxed its rules of engagement in mid-2024. The truth is precisely the opposite of what the current administration has claimed. Instead of prolonging the war by giving Ukraine too much military assistance, Kyiv’s foreign allies have prolonged it by giving too little, and often with significant delays.

When it comes to punitive economic measures against Russia, the international response has been similarly half-baked. In the early days of the war, the United States and its G-7 allies crafted sanctions and export controls that were thought to pack a powerful punch but in fact had so many mitigations built in that they were robbed of their full impact. In April 2022, just after Russia’s invasion, Canada, the United Kingdom, the United States, and the European Union removed seven Russian banks from SWIFT, the dominant international payments system. Many analysts had previously touted the move as a “nuclear option” that would decimate the Russian economy.

But the delisting was so selective in its application—targeting only seven banks out of hundreds in Russia—that the Russian economy actually grew in 2023 and 2024. The gradual implementation of export controls also gave Russia time to adapt, as did numerous carve-outs for certain types of Russian banks or transactions: civil nuclear energy, aviation servicing and maintenance, and fertilizer sales, for example, could still be processed. As the saying goes, the dose makes the poison—and the insufficient dosing of punitive economic measures produced an underwhelming campaign with limited strategic effect.

Despite these missteps, victory for Ukraine—minimally defined as preserving its sovereignty and continuing to chart a course toward NATO and EU membership—is still squarely within reach. Achieving it, however, requires a fundamental shift in Western strategy, one that combines a large boost in military assistance with more robust economic measures to constrain Russia’s war economy.

The linchpin for this new strategy is the West’s mobilization of the approximately $300 billion in frozen Russian assets held in their jurisdictions—mostly in the EU—to support Ukraine’s current fight. Thus far, the Trump administration has shown no inclination to use congressionally authorized funds to support Ukraine. So, as Wally Adeyemo and David Shimer have written in Foreign Affairs, it makes sense to seize these assets and, in effect, “make Russia pay” for Ukraine’s defense. Some EU leaders have argued that these assets should be saved for reconstruction efforts after the war ends. Others worry about setting a dangerous precedent for the rule of law by seizing a country’s funds—even if that country has violated international laws and is engaged in the mass murder of civilians. If Europe is to help bring this war to an end, it must set these concerns aside and act now.

These funds could serve multiple purposes. A portion could be invested in Ukraine’s burgeoning defense industrial base: its drone sector, for instance, has become highly innovative but needs additional investments for industrial-scale production, sensor development, and counter-electronic warfare measures. Another portion could help Ukraine purchase long-range missiles and other weapons systems from Europe, assisting the continent in building up production lines that support both Ukraine’s defense and, once the war is over, NATO deterrence. A third chunk could fund the production of U.S.-made capabilities—such as air defense systems and long-range precision fires—that Ukraine needs but Europe currently lacks in sufficient quantities. And finally, the remainder could go to distributed energy generation, the protection of critical infrastructure such as switchyards and electrical substations, and humanitarian needs.

Yet helping Ukraine win requires more than just transferring arms. Western governments must prioritize co-production agreements, intellectual property sharing, and defense manufacturing partnerships—especially in missile and ammunition manufacturing, armored vehicles, and drone and counterdrone technologies, as well as cyber, command and coordination systems, and electronic warfare systems. Such arrangements would reduce Ukraine’s dependence on foreign supply chains, fortify its domestic capacity, and foster long-term interoperability with NATO forces. Equally important is for these governments to give Ukraine access to maintenance and life-cycle support technologies and software so that Western platforms can be adapted to the evolving battlefield.

Despite being outnumbered, Ukraine has repeatedly demonstrated its ability to offset its disadvantages with asymmetric tactics, such as sinking parts of Russia’s Black Sea Fleet with maritime drones and missiles and denying Russia air superiority by using its limited air defenses creatively. With more sustained military, technological, and economic support, Ukraine could develop new advantages, such as better integrating drones, land mines, and long-range fires to pin down Russian forces and take out their logistics nodes.

To buttress Ukraine’s military capabilities, the West must also target the economic foundations of Russia’s war effort. Fortunately for Ukraine, Russia’s economy remains fragile. Although the country’s GDP has increased over the last two years, structural weaknesses abound in its economy: a 20 percent interest rate, a 68 percent decline in Russia’s sovereign wealth fund since February 2022, and persistent inflation of around nine percent. These vulnerabilities present opportunities.

First, the West must go after Russia’s primary revenue stream: energy exports. Currently, Europe is still importing roughly $23.5 billion worth of Russian oil and natural gas. If Europe is to get serious about ending the war, it must decrease Moscow’s energy income and foreign currency flows. Moreover, Russia has systematically evaded the G-7’s oil price cap, significantly weakening its intended impact. Western countries should impose a full embargo or steep tariffs on Russian oil and gas and should tighten regulations, engage in more systematic maritime tracking, and take stronger legal measures to strictly enforce the G-7 price cap. And if third parties flout these restrictions, the G-7 should impose sanctions on them.

The G-7 countries, meanwhile, must further isolate Russia financially. The Kremlin has taken advantage of the sanctions regime’s carve-outs and has the power to direct Russian banks to process whatever payments are needed. To meaningfully disrupt Russia’s trade, devalue the ruble, and increase economic uncertainty, the G-7 should remove all Russian banks from SWIFT and subject them to full blocking sanctions, which prohibit all transactions with the sanctioned entity. If financial institutions in foreign countries enable sanctions evasion, they, too, should be subjected to secondary sanctions. Only by applying the full power of these sanctions tools can Ukraine’s allies succeed in weakening Russia’s war machine.

Western governments can also redouble their efforts regarding export controls on high-tech components, including semiconductors, precision machine tools, optics, aviation components, and industrial software. There have been export controls on Russia for more than a decade, but these are not one-and-done solutions; meaningfully degrading the Kremlin’s capacity to replenish and maintain its military equipment requires continuous enforcement whenever workarounds and third-party cutouts arise. The U.S. Commerce Department should further restrict Russia’s access to “dual use” goods—products valuable in both civilian and military applications—in order to constrain its production of high-tech weapons and undermine its military-industrial complex. Similarly, Western governments can do more to zero in on Russia’s defense industry by sanctioning more Russian firms that manufacture essential defense equipment such as drones, missiles, and armored vehicles.

Even after three and half years of full-scale war, Ukraine’s supporters have not come close to exhausting the sanctions toolkit. If rigorously applied and internationally enforced, the combination of these sanction enhancements would cripple Russia’s economy.

(…)

Putin’s ambition to dominate Ukraine is unlikely ever to diminish, even as Russian casualties approach a million. What can change are the battlefield and defense-industrial conditions that make Putin’s ambition feasible. Western countries have the collective resources to create a situation in which trend lines turn negative for Russia. Once the strategic risks accumulate to the extent that the Kremlin has to ask difficult questions about Russia’s ability to defend itself against other hostile actors, it will be compelled to reassess its approach.

Indeed, from a strategic vantage point, Russia has already lost this war. Regardless of how much additional territory changes hands, the Ukrainian nation is lost to Russia forever. No matter how many billions of dollars Moscow spends on propaganda and “reeducation,” filtration camps and torture chambers, it will never convince Ukrainians to accept its rule as legitimate. What Ukraine needs now is the time, tools, and space to prove to the Kremlin that an occupation is not just immoral but incompatible with Russia’s long-term security needs.

Ukraine’s allies have a choice. They can continue the current approach of transatlantic division and stillborn diplomacy, risking an expanded, longer, and far costlier war. Or they can act decisively to help Ukraine turn the tide, throttle the tempo of Russian weapons manufacturing, and empower the leadership in Kyiv to negotiate from a position of strength. A peace agreement may forever remain elusive, but once the cost of continued fighting becomes untenable, Russia can eventually be forced to settle for an armistice similar to the one that effectively ended the Korean War. Once that point is reached and the fighting diminishes, the space will emerge for Ukraine to renew its democratic mandate, resettle refugees, reconstruct infrastructure, and—perhaps most critically—finish its accession process with the EU and NATO. The return of all occupied territories may take longer, but Ukraine will have established the foundations of strategic victory.

Victory may not come quickly, cheaply, or easily. But it is still possible and will likely cost fewer lives and resources than a perpetuation of the status quo. What remains to be seen is whether the West—especially Europe—is willing to summon the political will to secure this brighter future.”

The U.S. Is Switching Sides

“The invasion of Ukraine does not merely continue. It accelerates. Almost every night, the Russians destroy more of Ukraine from the air: apartment buildings, factories, infrastructure, and people. On the ground, Ukraine’s top commander has said that the Russians are preparing a new summer offensive, with 695,000 troops spread across the front line.

Russian soldiers also continue to be wounded or killed at extraordinary rates, with between 35,000 and 45,000 casualties every month, while billions of dollars’ worth of Russian equipment are destroyed every week by Ukrainian drones. The Russian economy suffers from high inflation and is heading for a recession. But Putin is not looking for a cease-fire, and he does not want to negotiate. Why? Because he believes that he can win. Thanks to the actions of the U.S. government, he still thinks that he can conquer all of Ukraine.

(…)

Just this week, in the middle of the worst aerial-bombing campaign since the war began, the Trump administration confirmed that a large shipment of weapons, which had already been funded by the Biden administration, will not be sent to Ukraine. The weapons, some of which are already in Poland, include artillery shells, missiles, rockets, and, most important, interceptors for Patriot air-defense systems, the ammunition that Ukrainians need to protect civilians from missile attacks. Trump had suggested that he would supply Ukraine with more Patriot ammunition, which is an American product. “We’re going to see if we can make some available,” he said after meeting Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky last week. But what he says and what his administration actually does are very different.

Pentagon spokespeople have explained that this abrupt change was made because American stockpiles are insufficient, an excuse disputed both by former Biden-administration officials and by independent policy analysts. But whether true or false, this reasoning doesn’t matter to the Russians, who have already interpreted this change as a clear signal that American support for Ukraine is ending: “The fewer the number of weapons that are delivered to Ukraine, the closer the end of the special military operation,” the Kremlin spokesman Dmitry Peskov told reporters. To be clear, by “the end of the special military operation,” he means the defeat of Ukraine.

At the same time, and with much less publicity, the U.S. is essentially lifting sanctions on Russia. No such formal announcement has been made. But the maintenance of sanctions requires constant shifts and adjustments, as Russian companies and other entities change suppliers and tactics in order to acquire sanctioned products. During the Biden administration, I spoke several times with officials who followed these changes closely, and who repeatedly issued new sanctions in order to counter them. As The New York Times has reported, the Trump administration has stopped following these shifts and stopped imposing new sanctions altogether. This, the Times writes, allows “new dummy companies to funnel funds and critical components to Russia, including computer chips and military equipment.”

In addition to taking Russia’s side in the kinetic war and the economic war, the U.S. is realigning its position in the narrative war, too. During the Biden administration, the State Department’s Global Engagement Center regularly identified Russian disinformation operations around the world—exposing misleading websites or campaigns secretly run or directed by Russian operatives in Latin America and Africa, as well as in Europe. Trump appointees have not only dissolved the center; they also baselessly and bizarrely accused it of somehow harming American conservatives, even of having “actively silenced and censored the voices of Americans,” although the GEC had no operations inside the U.S.

At the same time, cuts to USAID and other programs have abruptly reduced funding for some independent media and Russian-opposition media. The planned cuts to Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, if not stopped by the courts, will destroy one of the few outside sources of information that reaches Russians with real news about the war. Should all of these changes become permanent, the U.S. will no longer have any tools available to communicate with the Russian public or counter Russian propaganda, either inside Russia or around the world.

Inside the United States, Russian propaganda is most loudly and effectively promoted by appointees of the U.S. president. Steve Witkoff, the real-estate developer who became Trump’s main negotiator with Russia despite having no knowledge of Russian history or politics, regularly echoes false Russian talking points and propaganda. He has repeated Putin’s view, which he may have heard from the Russian president himself, that “Ukraine is just a false country, that they just patched together in this sort of mosaic, these regions.” Witkoff has also seemed to agree with Putin that Ukrainian territories that voted for independence from Moscow in 1991 are somehow “Russian.”

(…)

Add all of these things together, and they are something more than just a pattern. They are a set of incentives that help persuade Putin to keep fighting. Sanctions are disappearing, weapons are diminishing, counterpropaganda is harder to hear. All of that will encourage Putin to go further—not just to try to defeat Ukraine but to divide Europe, mortally damage NATO, and reduce the power and influence of the United States around the world.

Europe, Canada, and most of the rest of the democratic world will continue to back Ukraine. As I have written before, Ukrainians will continue to innovate, to build new kinds of automated weapons, new drones, new software. They will continue to fight, because the alternative is the end of their civilization, their language, and, for many of them, their lives.”

Trump should recommit to Ukraine’s cause

“For the third time in less than six months, Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth has moved to suspend munitions shipments to Ukraine, and President Donald Trump has reversed the decision.

Trump announced on Monday night that the United States will resume weapons shipments that the Pentagon paused last week. This previously happened in February and May. In all three cases, the Pentagon’s weapons freeze surprised Trump allies and Congress, and Russia pounded civilian targets in Kyiv before the president changed the administration’s course.

Hegseth and his team have once again poorly served the nation, embarrassing the president and projecting lack of resolve to Russia. The best corrective would be for Trump to recommit the United States to Ukraine’s cause — ramping up arms shipments to Kyiv, rather than just restoring U.S. support to preexisting levels.

(…)

During his first term, hawks routinely boxed Trump into positions he wasn’t comfortable with. He sidelined many of them. This time, the doves — who fancy themselves “restrainers” — have sought to manipulate the president to advance their isolationist agenda by overstating the limits of American power. Trump needs to bring them to heel.

After promising during the 2024 presidential campaign that he would end the Ukraine war on his first day back in office, Trump has become clearer-eyed about Russian President Vladimir Putin, who started this war and is the biggest obstacle to ending it. Sensing leverage in Trump’s desire for peace, Putin strung along the president and issued maximalist demands that Kyiv could never accept. At long last, Trump’s patience appears to be wearing thin. On Tuesday, days after another fruitless conversation with Putin, the president accused his Russian counterpart of “a lot of bulls---” as Russia wages a summer offensive.

(…)

Trump complained on Tuesday that defense contractors make equipment “too slowly” and need to produce necessary armaments faster. He’s correct on that. Fortunately, the U.S. military has already quadrupled its procurement targets for Patriot interceptors, and contractors are moving to speed up intricate supply chains. Lockheed Martin, which makes about 500 Patriot interceptor missiles a year, plans to increase production to 650 a year by 2027. When NATO ordered up to 1,000 Patriot rounds last year, the United States struck a deal allowing some of them to be produced in Germany.

Moreover, the tax and spending bill that Trump signed into law on Independence Day includes $157 billion in additional defense outlays, including $25 billion for munitions and $25 billion for a “Golden Dome” missile shield over the United States.

Over the next several years, the United States needs to stockpile more ammunition and boost capacity to produce it quickly, to ensure America can project power across the globe. But Ukraine needs munitions immediately to survive an ongoing Russian onslaught. Investing in Ukraine’s fight, drawing a large country into the West’s orbit and deterring future Russian aggression, is well worth substantial sacrifice of U.S. materiel — more than the United States is now providing; enough to improve Ukrainian performance on the battlefield. Trump is showing signs that he finally understands all this. He should make sure those who work for him do, too.”

Ukrainian lawmakers propose George Washington monument in Kyiv

“A group of Ukrainian lawmakers has proposed erecting a monument in Kyiv to George Washington, the first president of the United States.

A draft resolution for the monument was published on the website of Ukraine’s parliament, the Verkhovna Rada, on March 10, under the number 3066. While the full text of the resolution has not been disclosed, it has already been submitted for consideration by parliamentary leadership.

The initiative was put forward by lawmakers from the ruling Servant of the People party—Oleksandr Kovalchuk, Mariia Mezentseva-Fedorenko, Yevheniia Kravchuk, and Halyna Yanchenko—as well as independent MP Mykola Tyshchenko, who was expelled from President Volodymyr Zelensky's party in 2023.

In an interview with the YouTube channel Superposition, Yanchenko emphasized the importance of strengthening ties between Ukraine and the United States rather than damaging them. She suggested that the monument could serve as a symbolic gesture of goodwill.”

Washington Monument, Washington D.C., 4-5 July 2025