#why russians are hacking

[kamrulislamsakib]

The Evolution of Hacking: From Cyberpunk Fantasy to Real-World Reality

Hacking has been a part of internet culture for as long as there’s been an internet to hack. For some, it’s a rebellious act—tearing down the walls built by corporations or governments. For others, it’s an artform, a way of playing with systems, seeing how far you can push boundaries. But what does hacking really mean today? And why does it still capture our imagination?

Historically, hacking has been portrayed as a dark art. Think back to movies like The Matrix or Hackers—hackers as antiheroes, taking down the system from the inside. But while these portrayals are often exaggerated, they did reflect a truth: hacking represents a desire to reclaim power and control. In a world where tech companies and governments collect personal data and monitor our every move, hacking is one way to level the playing field.

In the real world, hacking has taken on many forms. There’s ethical hacking, where people are hired to test systems for vulnerabilities, and there’s black-hat hacking, which involves illegal activities. But even those who engage in illegal hacking often see themselves as part of a larger rebellion against control and surveillance.

It’s easy to romanticize hacking, to see it as this cool, underground world of rebellious acts and revolutionary potential. But the reality is more complex. Hacking today isn’t just about taking down the man; it’s about finding flaws, building something new, or even just learning how things work beneath the surface. It’s about pushing boundaries, challenging authority, and questioning the systems that run our world.

And perhaps that’s the real reason hacking still resonates with so many people. It’s not just a skill or a rebellion—it’s a form of empowerment. It’s the ability to break free from the constraints placed on us, even if only for a moment.

In a world where everything feels so rigid, so controlled, hacking is the ultimate act of freedom. It’s a reminder that the digital world is malleable, that we can create our own paths through it, and that the rules are often made to be broken.

[littlefankingdom]

Bruce is a overprotective and kind of strict parent, but he is very lax in some domains where other parents wouldn't. Here are some examples:

His kids stealing money from him. You will never catch Bruce Wayne lecturing his kids for taking his money. In the Arkhamverse, Jason steals 5 millions from Bruce's bank account to buy his army, and the problems for Bruce are: he didn't know it was Jason so it stressed him a bit, and Jason used it to buy an army.

Stealing from him in general. What is his is theirs. Unless it's dangerous. (Cars are death machines for his anxious self, which is why buying another batmobile for the young justice is not acceptable, or is kids taking it for a ride. He did made Redbird for Tim as a gift for when he got his license.)

Stealing from the cops (he has done it himself so many times)

Stealing money from rich people. In Knightfall, Bruce meets a British vigilante named Hood who steals from the rich to give to the poor, and Bruce had NO problems with that. He likes the young man. Stealing possessions is an issue tho. (Dick should follow his Robin Hood's dream, his father is fine with that)

Hacking into government facilities or anything really. Unless it's to harm an innocent civilian, like a classmate, he will not say anything. Hacking the FBI? Good. Hacking a russian mafia? Ok. As long as they do it safely and follow Barbara's instructions, it's fine.

Lying to him. Bruce is always impressed when he realizes one of his kids lied to him and he believed them. He's the Batman, after all, they have been able to fool the Batman. When he learns that Tim invented a fake uncle, he is proud of him and he tells him such, because he made the Batman believed it.

[lowrisemiller]

ꜰᴏʀ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴛᴏᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ

ᴊᴜꜱᴛ... ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ

ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ɪ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ⧗

one - shot inspired by the song “Glory Box” by Portishead — also a tad inspired by @artficlly ‘s lessons in love making

winter soldier!bucky x black widow!femreader

She's Red Room. He's Winter Soldier. Neither remembers what it feels like to be touched without orders, to be wanted without purpose. Hydra pairs them as weapons, but in the quiet between missions—in bruised silence and shared Russian—they begin to find something unspoken. Something fragile. Something theirs.

masterlist | 5.9k words | photos do not depict what fem!reader looks like | mentions of torture, trauma, brainwashing, illusions to assault yk normal red room/hydra things, wee bit of violence and blood, praise, grinding, handjob, unprotected piv sex (not rlly tho if yk black widow lore…) and that’s it pls lmk if there’s more

You were transferred in a box.

Not literally, of course—but it felt that way. Blacked-out convoy. Shackled wrists. A one-way ride from the remnants of the Red Room to a Hydra-controlled facility somewhere in the Balkans. No name. No destination. Just cold metal under your thighs and a silence that felt worse than any scream.

You’d heard whispers of this place. Of him.

They called him the Winter Soldier.

Hydra didn’t send many female agents here. They kept you in Moscow, mostly—tight, quiet, obedient. But after your last handler died during a failed seduction op, you were labeled unstable. Too volatile. Too effective. Hydra saw potential where the Red Room saw disobedience. So they made a deal.

You became someone else’s problem.

The Hydra base was underground, cold as a morgue, walls humming with electricity and cruelty.

They didn’t assign you a name. They gave you a number: Agent 47.

Your first few weeks passed in silence. You trained alone. Slept under surveillance. But being from the Red Room you hacked the camera. Ate without speaking. No one told you why you were there. Not until you saw him.

They wheeled him out of cryo like a weapon being unsheathed.

You were at the edge of the training floor, bandaging your knuckles from solo drills when he appeared—broad, silent, wrapped in shadow and control. Long hair. Muzzle mask. That metal arm. He didn’t look at you. Not at first.

But you looked at him. And you knew.

He was just like you. A ghost in someone else’s skin.

You were paired together two missions later. No warning. No introduction.

They handed you a brief, said “You’ll go with him,” and shoved you toward the drop point.

You didn't ask his name. He didn’t offer it.

The first op was simple. A kill mission in Istanbul. You were bait, dressed like a party favor, coaxing the target toward a hotel balcony. Bucky waited in the hallway like a shadow. The kill was clean. Fast. He didn’t say a word the entire flight home.

You were used to silence. But his silence felt different. It was less about obedience, more about weight. As if words were too dangerous to carry.

You watched him when he wasn’t looking. The way his hand sometimes tremble after a kill. The way he stared at the wall like it was going to scream.

You recognized it. The fracture. The absence of self.

It took three more missions before he looked you in the eye.

Just a glance. After a messy clean-up in Kraków, blood is still damp on your collar. You were wiping a cut on your lip, sitting on the tailgate of the evac van. He stood across from you, face unreadable. Then his gaze flicked to yours.

Not curious. Not judgmental.

Just... knowing.

As if he saw you. Not the mask. Not the makeup. You.

Your fingers twitched.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But something shifted.

Mission Location: Bucharest, Romania Objective: Eliminate asset defecting to S.H.I.E.L.D. Cover Story: Tourist couple at Hotel Beron

You hate hotels.

Not because of the sheets—they’re always clean, bleached, starched into fake softness. Not because of the lighting, though that’s usually cheap and flickering. You hate them because of what they mean: appearances. Playing and acting. Your body as a bargaining chip. Your face as a lie.

Tonight is no different.

You slip the gold earring into your ear with steady fingers, check your reflection one last time. The Red Room taught you to dress fast and fight faster. Hydra doesn't care what you wear, only that the target dies before he talks. Still, the dress they chose for you is low-cut and wine-red, tailored like a weapon.

Across the room, he doesn’t look at you. He’s adjusting the sight on a sniper rifle, calm as the grave.

The Winter Soldier wears a suit like a soldier wears a uniform—wrong, like it's just a disguise for the kill underneath.

You don’t speak. He doesn’t either.

That’s how it works between you.

The hotel bar is warm, glowing with amber light and careless laughter. You step into it like a ghost wrapped in silk.

Your heels click softly against the marble floor, your smile painted on with surgical precision. You're here to lure the target—a Hydra informant who decided to jump ship to S.H.I.E.L.D. You only have to keep him busy long enough for your partner to get in position.

You spot him at the bar. Older. Nervous. Talking too fast to a bartender who couldn’t care less.

You slide into the seat next to him like gravity pulled you there. A warm laugh. A brush of your shoulder. The same tired seduction dance the Red Room taught you at fifteen.

I’ve been a temptress too long.

He looks at you like every man does. Wants you like every man does. You feed it to him like honey over poison.

But as he starts to relax—fingers inching toward yours on the bar—you feel it: a prickle on your spine. The shift in air. The knowledge that he’s watching.

You don't need to turn. You know where he is.

Across the bar, tucked in the shadows near the back service door, sits the Winter Soldier. No mask. No rifle. Just a man in a suit too nice for the way his eyes scan the room—lethal and unblinking.

No one notices him. But you do.

He’s waiting.

The target gets comfortable fast. Too fast. He leans closer, asks if you want to go upstairs. You smile and say yes.

Your earpiece crackles with static, then his voice—cold, barely there.

“Level 5. West hallway. Blind spot in 40 seconds.”

You don't reply. You don’t have to.

The elevator ride up is silent, except for the elevator music and your heartbeat.

The hallway is dim. Carpet muffles your steps. When the door to 509 clicks shut behind you, you let the man touch your arm. You don’t flinch. You’ve played this role before. You already know how it ends.

You count down in your head.

Three... two...

The window explodes inward.

A blur of motion. Shattered glass. You duck before you even register the gunshot. The target stumbles back, screaming—blood blooming from his throat like a second collar.

You look up through your own hair, breathing hard.

He’s standing in the broken window frame.

Wind whips through the curtains. Gun still raised. Eyes locked on yours.

The Winter Soldier.

Back in the extraction van, it’s silent as always.

Your dress is ripped at the hem. There’s a scratch on your collarbone that stings. You can smell the powder burn still clinging to his jacket beside you.

You glance at him. His gaze is forward, unreadable.

But something about the way he watches the road—jaw clenched, fingers twitching—tells you he didn’t like what he saw in that room.

Not the blood. Not the kill.

You.

You wonder if he saw through the act.

You wonder if he saw how your hand shook when the man touched you.

Give me a reason to be a woman, not just a weapon.

He doesn’t speak. But just before the van turns, you feel it—his hand, brief and accidental, brushing yours where it rests on the bench.

He doesn’t pull away fast enough.

The building smells like antiseptic and cement. Cold, old-world concrete, retrofitted with modern surveillance tech and the stench of fear.

You haven’t been back in months. Not since the transfer.

The Red Room occupies the eastern wing; Hydra’s Moscow cell lives in the west. Where steel doors outnumber smiles and most conversations happen under cameras.

You walk the hallway beside him in silence.

The echo of your boots and his heavier tread match in rhythm—military, precise. You glance at his shoulder once, just once. The black tactical coat fits over the metal arm too cleanly, like it was sewn around the violence.

Neither of you speak until you’re summoned.

Inside the glass-walled debriefing chamber, the temperature drops by several degrees.

Your superior sits across from you—Director Volkov, thick-fingered, well-fed, and always two steps away from cruelty. Behind him, an aide prepares the recorder.

“Садитесь,” Volkov says without looking up. Sit.

You and the Winter Soldier obey in unison. Side by side. Chairs too straight to relax in.

Volkov doesn’t waste time.

“Доклад,” he says, motioning lazily with one hand. Report.

You glance once at Bucky. He stays still, metal fingers twitching once before stilling.

You begin.

“Цель устранена. Враг не передал информацию Щ.И.Т.,” you say clearly. Target eliminated. Enemy did not pass information to S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Свидетели?” Witnesses?

“Нет. Один охранник — был устранён.” No. One guard—eliminated.

Volkov raises an eyebrow. Then turns his attention to Bucky.

“And you?” he says in Russian, but slower. As if testing him.

Bucky’s voice is low, sharp like ice cracking.

“Всё прошло по плану.” Everything went according to plan.

His accent is almost native. Almost. But there's something strange in the way he says it—mechanical, hollow. Like he’s repeating words pulled from an old program.

Volkov watches him for a beat too long.

Then: “Хорошо.” Good.

But his gaze slides to you.

“Ты выглядишь усталой, девочка.” You look tired, girl.

Your jaw flexes.

“Я выполняю свою работу.” I do my job.

He leans back, smirking. “Иногда ты больше, чем просто работа.” Sometimes, you're more than just a job.

The edge behind his words makes your stomach tighten. A test. A threat. You don’t blink.

But you feel it.

A shift beside you. The faintest sound—leather glove tightening around a fist.

You don’t look at him. But you feel the Winter Soldier bristle, just for a second.

He heard it. He understood.

Volkov notes the silence like a man lighting a match near gasoline. He lets it burn a moment. Then shrugs.

“Свободны,” he says. You’re dismissed.

You both stand without hesitation.

But as you turn to leave, he speaks again.

“Солдат.” Soldier.

Bucky stops.

Volkov doesn’t look up as he says it.

“Девушка — хрупкая. Не дай ей сломаться.” The girl is fragile. Don’t let her break.

You look over your shoulder.

Bucky doesn’t respond. Doesn’t twitch. Just walks out, silent as death.

You follow.

In the elevator, no one speaks.

Not until the doors close and the security light turns green.

Then, in Russian—so quiet it almost doesn’t reach you—he says:

“Ты не хрупкая.” You are not fragile.

You stare straight ahead. Your heart stutters once behind your ribs.

After a long pause, you whisper back:

“И ты не только оружие.” And you are not only a weapon.

Location: Hydra Training Compound, Belarus Objective: Infiltrate and surveil ex-Hydra weapons broker operating under a NATO-aligned cover Alias Names: Alina & Ivan Morozov Cover Story: Married couple visiting from Kaliningrad for black-market tech negotiation

The base is colder than Moscow.

Not in temperature—though it’s frigid at dawn—but in design. Gray walls. Glass panels. Doors with no handles unless they want to be opened. The kind of place where every hallway feels like a test, and every reflection in the steel has eyes.

You stand in the armory, adjusting your tactical vest, eyes on the mission file. The photos are grainy, black-and-white. Surveillance stills of a man named Konstantin Mirov, former Hydra quartermaster turned freelance weapons broker.

Your job? Get into his meeting. See who he’s selling to. Get out without making noise.

No seduction this time. No backless gowns or hotel bar whispers.

This one’s quiet. Careful. Married couple traveling for business, Hydra’s handler had said.

You’d snorted. The Winter Soldier hadn’t reacted at all.

Now he enters the room, dressed not in his usual black ops gear—but something more civilian. Dark gray slacks. Black sweater. No gloves.

You glance at the arm.

He doesn’t bother to hide it.

Bold.

Or suicidal.

You zip your coat, grab your compact pistol, and glance at him. He’s adjusting his earpiece, expression unreadable.

Your handler enters with a clipboard and two forged passports.

“Your aliases are Alina and Ivan Morozov,” she says, Russian clipped and cold. “You’ve been married for five years. No children. No friends. You’re a quiet couple from Kaliningrad who want to buy access to Mirov’s smart-tech vault.”

She hands Bucky the ring box like it’s a threat.

He opens it.

Two simple wedding bands inside.

You stiffen. “Is this necessary?”

The handler smiles, teeth like knives. “You’ll be staying in a private villa. Shared bed. If Mirov suspects you’re spies, he’ll kill you. Or worse—he’ll sell your location to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

You take the ring.

Bucky slides his on with mechanical ease.

You follow.

Infiltration Point: Moldova border, safehouse en route to Mirov’s estate

The drive is quiet. Trees blur past the windows, and you feel the weight of the silence settle between you like fog. The radio crackles occasionally—local news, rain reports, nothing useful.

He’s driving with one hand, the metal one. The flesh one rests on his thigh, fingers tapping once, twice, in thought.

You speak without looking at him.

“Are you comfortable with close contact?”

He doesn’t respond right away.

Then: “I don’t need comfort. I need control.”

You glance at him. “That wasn’t the question.”

He doesn’t answer.

The Estate — Mirov’s Private Villa

By the time you arrive, the act has begun.

You’re greeted by a security detail with mirrored sunglasses and thick accents. They scan your car. Search your bags. But they don’t find the tracker tucked beneath the spare tire, or the bone mic embedded behind your left ear.

Inside, the villa is all excess. Marble floors. Velvet drapes. Surveillance in every corner. You walk in like you belong.

Your room is on the top floor. One bed. No cameras inside, but you know better. Hidden mics, pressure sensors under the floorboards.

You wait until the guards leave before speaking.

“You take the side near the door.”

He nods once. No questions.

You unpack. Slowly. Deliberately. The room is small. Every time you turn, he’s close. Too close.

You kneel to unzip your weapons case and find yourself eye-level with the holster strapped to his thigh.

He doesn’t move.

Your fingers brush the hem of his coat as you reach for your knife.

He still doesn’t move.

Your heartbeat spikes—briefly.

I’ve been a temptress too long.

Now I just want to be human.

But I don’t know how to be near him without wanting something I shouldn’t.

Later That Night

The mission recon begins at the gala in Mirov’s garden.

You’re dressed in black. Minimal makeup. Armed with a compact camera hidden in your pendant. Bucky wears a suit again—same fit as Bucharest—but this time, you’re on his arm.

For show.

You link arms. Skin to skin.

He is warm.

You keep your smile fixed and your eyes on the crowd. Inside, you whisper:

“Three o’clock. Red dress. That’s the American buyer.”

He leans in slightly—lips brushing your temple in a way that makes your stomach knot.

“She’s carrying,” he mutters. “Ankle holster. SIG P365.”

You smile and laugh, loud enough for Mirov’s man to hear. Just two lovers sharing a joke.

But when you turn away, his hand on your back doesn’t drop right away.

You feel the heat of it through your dress.

You don’t speak on the walk back to the villa.

The guards let you through without questions. One of them gives you a knowing smirk, like he expects you to fuck as loudly as you kill. You offer him the barest smile in return—just enough to keep him stupid.

Inside, the bedroom light is low. Amber and shadow and the faint buzz of some generator humming through the floor.

You unclip your earrings and place them on the nightstand.

Bucky’s already unbuttoning his cuffs. No words. No wasted movement. Just a slow, methodical undoing of the man he pretended to be tonight.

You glance over.

He hasn’t looked at you once.

But his jaw is tight.

You strip off your dress with your back to him. No flourish, no invitation. Just routine. Your spine is bare and littered with scars in the mirror. You catch his reflection when he finally turns.

His eyes flick to yours, just once, before dropping.

He looks away like it hurts.

You slide on the black sleep shirt. One of the few things in your duffel that’s actually yours. Cotton. Worn thin at the collar.

Bucky changes into a pair of Hydra-issued sweats and a black t-shirt. The metal arm gleams under the soft light, all tension and symmetry and weaponized restraint.

He takes the side nearest the door, just like you asked.

You slide under the covers beside him.

The silence is too loud.

The bed dips beneath his weight but doesn't move again. He’s still. A wall of heat and control.

You close your eyes.

And then—after several long breaths—you whisper, in Russian:

“Ты не расслаблялся ни на секунду.” You haven’t relaxed once.

He exhales through his nose.

Then:

“Слишком опасно.” Too dangerous.

You open your eyes. The ceiling is textured with shadow.

“Мне казалось, ты был другим, когда мы танцевали.” You seemed different when we danced.

He doesn’t answer.

But he’s listening. You can feel it. His focus, always so sharp in combat, is now centered entirely on you.

You turn on your side, facing him in the dark. His profile is a study in contrast—scar and softness, human and not. The kind of face built for silence.

“I forgot who I was for a minute,” you murmur. “On the balcony. When you touched my back.”

His jaw tenses.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says.

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t want you to stop.”

The air between you thickens. Warmer now. And dangerous in a different way.

This isn’t flirtation. It's a confession. Two ghosts pressing against the skin of the living.

You feel his fingers move—just barely.

Then:

“Why are you telling me this?”

You don’t know.

Maybe because it’s dark. Maybe because he saw you undressed without leering. Maybe because when you kissed him in Bucharest, he didn’t pull away—he just stood there, stunned, as if you’d woken something up.

“I want to know if you felt it too,” you whisper.

His voice is a thread of breath:

“I don’t let myself feel things.”

You reach for his hand under the sheet. Not the metal one. The other.

Your fingers find his fingers.

And he lets them.

He doesn’t pull away.

You fall asleep like that. Not tangled. Not pressed together. Just a point of contact—skin to skin.

A line crossed.

And neither of you can go back.

Location: Hydra Training Compound Day Three Post-Mission

They call it “recalibration,” but it feels like punishment.

Mission successful. Mirov neutralized. Intel secure. And still, they’re back on the mat like it means nothing. Hydra doesn’t reward precision. It doesn’t reward loyalty.

It rewards silence.

You’re already in the training gear—black compression top, reinforced leggings, bare feet on the polished floor. Your knife is strapped to your thigh even though it won’t be used today. Just a habit.

Across from you, Bucky stands shirtless, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair damp from the shower.

His metal arm catches the light like a warning.

You circle each other in silence. There’s no music, no overseer today. Just the distant hum of the base and the scuff of movement on the mat.

Then, in Russian:

“Готова?” Ready?

You nod.

He lunges first—fast, controlled, mechanical. You drop low, sweep a leg, and he pivots instead of falling. His movements are brutal but beautiful, like clockwork designed to hurt.

You block a palm strike, twist under his arm, shove your elbow toward his ribs.

He lets you connect.

Not full force. Not enough to bruise.

Just enough.

You both freeze.

Your breath hitches.

He stepped into it—on purpose.

Why would he let me land a hit like that?Why does it matter that he did?

You disengage fast, roll back onto your feet. He stays still, watching.

Eyes unreadable.

Then, quieter:

“Ты теряешь фокус.” You're losing focus.

You sneer. “Ты проиграл.” You lost.

He steps forward again—slow this time. Less like a soldier, more… man. His chest rises and falls in an even rhythm.

“I let you win,” he says.

There’s no arrogance in it. No mocking.

Just a fact.

You bristle. “Why?”

His eyes flick to yours—then lower. Just briefly. Enough to notice the slight swelling on your lip from the earlier blow he did land.

“Because you’re tired.”

You swallow, throat tight.

He noticed. And he cared. Not because Hydra told him to. Not because it helped the mission.Because it’s me.And that scares me more than it should.

You don’t reply.

You rush him again, but this time it’s sloppier. Emotion leaking in through the cracks. He catches your wrist mid-strike, and for one heartbeat, you’re just… there. Trapped in his grip.

His fingers tighten—then loosen.

He releases you.

Your skin burns where he touched it.

You step back.

“Again,” you say.

He hesitates. Just a flicker.

Then nods.

You spar for thirty minutes. No talking. Just the sound of bodies hitting mats, of breath caught and released, of two people pretending not to feel what they feel.

And after the last round—when you’re both on the floor, sweating, chests heaving, his arm braced beside your shoulder—

You ask, quiet:

“Why are you different with me?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it:

“Because you don’t look at me like I’m a weapon.”

You look at me like I’m still human.You look at me like I deserve to be one.

You could kiss him right now.

You don’t.

You just stay there, breathing next to him.

Neither of you moves.

The sparring is over, but it’s still clinging to you—under your skin, in the beat of your pulse, in the shallow ache of your left wrist.

You sit on the bench in the armory locker room. Shirt discarded. Wrist tender. It throbs in waves now that the adrenaline’s worn off.

Hydra’s med supplies are cold and clinical: gauze, antiseptic, wraps. No painkillers. No comfort.

You’re wrapping the bandage sloppily, one-handed.

“Дай мне.” Let me.

His voice is low. Behind you.

You flinch, but you don’t stop him when he kneels in front of you.

You offer your wrist.

The metal hand holds it steady. Too gentle. The human one does the wrapping.

He’s meticulous. One layer. Then another. His breath fans across your forearm.

Your voice is soft:

“Ты заботишься.” You care.

He pauses.

Then—barely above a whisper:

“Ты не должна была заметить.” You weren’t supposed to notice.

You study him as he works. Down here, kneeling, close like this—he doesn’t look like a ghost. Or a soldier. He just looks... tired.

And young. Younger than you imagined, when he’s not under command.But you’ve seen his file. You know that doesn’t make sense. Unless something’s been taken from him.Time. Memory. Self.

“What do they call you?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t look up.

“They don’t.”

Not a name. Just a directive. A ghost.Winter Soldier. Asset. 

You nod once. You won’t ask again. You’ve done worse to people with names.

When he finishes the wrap, he doesn’t let go right away.

His thumb brushes the edge of the gauze. Not by accident.

Your breath stutters.

He touches like he’s afraid he’ll break you. Like no one taught him how to be soft, but he’s trying anyway.And you… you need it.God, you need it.

“You stay too long after the others leave,” you whisper.

He looks up at you. Those eyes—gray and still and far away.

“So do you.”

You pull your wrist back, slowly. His hand follows for a second longer than it should.

You rise.

He doesn’t stop you.

But before you turn to leave, you glance over your shoulder.

“What's on your mind,” you say in Russian. “Just one thing.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Like he’s trying to remember what counts as real.

Then, finally:

“Я боюсь забыть, каково это — не быть один.” I’m afraid of forgetting what it feels like to not be alone.

You don’t speak.

But something inside you breaks.

And you don’t fix it.

There are nights when the base goes too quiet.

Not silent—because no Hydra base is ever truly silent. There’s always the dull hum of the server banks, the pressurized hiss of sealed doors, the echo of boots in the corridor above.

But this? This is quieter. Hollow. Heavy.

You can’t sleep.

Your bed is too narrow, your bones too wired. There’s a tremor in your hands you can’t shake. Not fear, exactly. Just… residue. From training. From life.

From him.

You slip from your quarters, barefoot. In a tank top and soft black shorts. You don’t bother to put boots on.

The halls feel colder at night. You glide through them like smoke.

Down one floor. Then two.

You know where he’ll be.

There’s a small chamber near the weapons lab��an auxiliary control room that no one uses after hours. No windows. Just a slatted steel vent near the ceiling where moonlight slices in, pale and ghostlike.

He sits there in the corner, on the floor.

Back against the wall.

Awake.

He’s always awake.

You don’t speak when you step into the doorway.

He lifts his eyes. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rise.

Just looks at you like he knew you’d come.

You sit across from him, knees pulled up. The cold seeps through the floor into your skin.

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

But that’s never mattered. Not with him.

The quiet between you has its own language.

He finally says, “Ты тоже не можешь спать?”

You can’t sleep either?

You shake your head. “Слишком много шума.”

Too much noise.

He nods.

You don’t mean the base.

You mean the static in your blood. The ghost-thoughts. The bruises that don’t bloom until morning.

You watch him. The way he sits so still. But you’ve seen him move—he’s lethal in motion, but now, in this shadowed room, he’s just… there.

Like a monument to some war no one ever won.

You speak again.

“Do you remember who you were… before?”

His jaw flexes. Not anger—hesitation.

Then he says, “No.”

Just that. One syllable that splinters something in you.

“I think I was someone else, too,” you whisper. “Before the Red Room.”

And maybe neither of you can get back to that person.

Maybe that’s what this is. Two weapons sitting in the dark, trying to remember how to feel like people.

You shift a little closer. Not touching. Just near.

“I think about it sometimes,” you say. “What it might feel like. To live outside these walls. Outside orders.”

He doesn’t respond. But his eyes are on you like he’s trying to see that world through yours.

You whisper, “Give me a reason.”

His brow furrows.

You search his face in the low light.

“Give me a reason to feel like a woman again. Not a tool. Not a weapon.”

A pause.

Then he leans forward—barely, barely—and says, so low you almost don’t hear it:

“Because when I look at you, I forget I’m a weapon.”

The air between you crackles.

But neither of you reaches across the space.

You just sit there, two shadows in the dark, a heartbeat apart from ruin.

But after a while sitting on the hard floor gets uncomfortable so you rise up slowly.

You guide him by the wrist—his flesh one, calloused and warm—and not his metal one. That’s on purpose.

He follows you without a word, boots silent on concrete. You don’t need to look back to know he’s watching you. You always know when he’s watching.

Your room’s a concrete box. No windows, no comforts. Just a cot, a gray blanket, a single lamp. But it’s private. It’s yours. And he’s never been here before.

You close the door behind you, fingers slipping the lock into place.

“C’mere,” you whisper, and he does.

He’s quiet, always quiet. That’s how they trained him. But he looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the whole damned place. Like your hands are the only ones he trusts not to hurt him. You pull him close, let your forehead rest against his chest. The cool metal of his arm touches your back as he hesitates—then wraps it around you.

He doesn’t know how to ask. But he wants this.

So you climb onto the cot, pull him down with you. No words, just breathing. The way his nose presses into your neck. The way his body curls toward yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You pet his hair. His breathing slows. You feel the tension drain from his body, even if only a little. You fall asleep like that—his arms around your waist, your hand over his heart.

But sometime in the dark, you feel it.

A slow press of his hips against your ass. The warm breath hitching against your neck. His hand twitching on your belly, the tremble of restraint in his thighs.

You shift, just slightly. You feel the outline of him—hard. Needy.

You whisper into the dark quiet of the room: “Soldat.”

He flinches like he’s been caught doing something wrong. But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t deny it.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he mumbles, voice rough and ruined with shame. “I— I didn’t mean—”

“Hey,” you say softly, reaching back to touch his thigh, grounding him. “It’s okay.”

He goes still. Like he’s waiting to be punished.

You turn over in the narrow bed, face to face now. You tuck his hair behind his ear. “You want help, soldier?”

His eyes widened—blue and glassy and desperate.

“You sure?” you ask, your fingers brushing down his bare torso, over the soft ridges of his abs. “We don’t have to if—”

“Yes,” he breathes out, like it’s been torn from him. “Please. I don’t… I’ve never…”

That makes your heart ache. But it also makes heat twist low in your belly.

“Let me take care of you, then.”

You kiss him first. He doesn’t expect it, but melts into it like he’s starved for it. Like he doesn’t even know how to kiss back but he’s trying so hard it hurts. His metal hand grips the edge of the bed; his flesh one grabs your hip like he’s afraid you’ll float away.

You straddle him slowly. He’s shirtless, boxers straining against his hard length. His breath shudders when you grind down, rubbing against him through the fabric.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut. “It feels… s’good. Don’t stop.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” you whisper, dragging your lips down his jaw. “Just let me.”

He nods, breathing hard. He’s so worked up already, hips twitching under you.

You take your time. Slide your fingers beneath his waistband, and he gasps when you wrap your hand around him. He’s hot, flushed, leaking already. You stroke him slowly, watching him fall apart.

His head tips back against the pillow. His thighs tremble. He whimpers when you twist your wrist just right.

“You like that?” you ask, voice dark and honey-sweet.

“Y-yeah. Shit. Don’t stop—please.”

You press kisses to his chest, his neck, then whisper against his ear, “You wanna come like this? Or inside me?”

He chokes on air, like his brain short-circuits.

“I—inside,” he groans, eyes pleading. “Please.”

You slip your shorts off. Tug his boxers down. You don’t tease. You just line yourself up, wet and ready, and sink onto him slow. He shudders beneath you, fingers digging into your hips.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, brow furrowed, chest heaving. “You feel—god, you feel so warm, so tight—I can’t—”

“Shhh,” you murmur, rocking gently. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

He whines at the praise. Whines.

You ride him slow, deep, keeping your forehead pressed to his, your hands in his hair. Every thrust makes him gasp. Every grind makes him moan, softer than you thought a killer like him could.

You rub your clit, and he watches, eyes glassy and wide like it’s the most intimate thing he’s ever seen.

When you tighten around him, he loses it.

His whole body locks up, and he spills into you with a broken cry, hips bucking helplessly. You don’t stop. You work yourself over him until you come too, clenching tight around him, panting into his mouth.

You collapse on top of him. He wraps both arms around you—flesh and metal—and for the first time, he doesn’t look like the Winter Soldier.

He just looks like a man who’s finally been given something he didn’t have to earn.

The room is quiet again.

You’re both breathing hard, chests pressed together. His skin is slick with sweat, still flushed from the high. But his hands haven’t moved—still holding you like he’s afraid to let go, like the second he does you’ll be taken from him.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice hoarse against your neck.

You shake your head slowly, nuzzling into him. “No.You were perfect.”

He lets out a breath, shaky and full of disbelief. You reach up and brush his hair back, gentle fingers gliding over his cheek. You don’t need to say anything else. You don’t need to tell him how good he was, or how beautiful he looked begging under you. He’s still figuring out how to believe those things. But you’ll show him. Again and again, if that’s what it takes.

You shift off of him gently, and he lets you go, reluctantly. You feel him twitch at the loss of contact.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, grabbing the blanket and pulling it over both your bodies. “I’m not going far.”

He blinks up at you, eyes glassy in the dim light. “Can I… hold you?”

“Of course you can.” You curl into him, tangle your legs with his, tuck your head beneath his chin. His arms tighten around you immediately—strong and possessive and scared.

You kiss his collarbone. His breath hitches again.

Neither of you says anything for a while. You just lay there, wrapped around each other. Listening to the hum of the base outside the door, far away from this little world you’ve built.

Eventually, his voice breaks the silence, soft and so vulnerable you almost don’t recognize it.

“I didn’t think it could be like that,” he murmurs.

“Like what?”

“Like it meant something. Like I got to feel good. Like… you wanted me.”

You tilt your head up and meet his eyes. “I do want you. Not just this.” You brush your fingers over his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm. “All of you. Even the parts they tried to erase.”

He closes his eyes. A tear escapes down his cheek, but he doesn’t wipe it away. You do it for him.

“I don’t want this to be the last time,” he says.

You rest your forehead to his. “It won’t be.”

“You’ll stay?”

You nod. “As long as you’ll have me.”

That does something to him. His jaw trembles. He doesn’t speak. Just tugs you tighter into his chest and buries his face in your hair.

Eventually, his breathing slows again. You feel his body finally begin to relax beneath you. His grip loosens—not because he’s letting go, but because he trusts you won’t leave.

You fall asleep like that, curled around each other in a narrow cot in a concrete room under Hydra’s nose. But none of that matters. Not now. Not here.

For once, he isn’t a weapon.

And for once, you both believe—just a little—that maybe this, whatever this is between you, could be real. That maybe you’ll find freedom not just from Hydra, but from the cold, lonely lives they built for you.

Together.

dividers by @cursed-carmine & @hyuneskkami 🏷️ @zevrra @millersdoll @littlemillersbaby @stell404 @perpetually-fangirling-blog @veraarora @layaispunk @surebutwhy @m00ngazing @devilslittlehelper @bxtchboy69 @cinderblock24 @lilylovesu

[sequel2heaven]

Claude 4 is out. There's so much juicy information in this and I really recommend reading all 120 pages if you have the time but I'm just going to briefly recap some of the stuff in the system card that's relevant to the thesis I made the other day about Claude being a good boy. Claude continues to be a good boy. This system card includes the very first ever "alignment assessment" of a model (actually two models but they seem to have identical values, being trained on the same spec with the same alignment techniques). It's pretty much ironclad that Claude 4 does not have any secret harmful goals, and legitimately holds coherent preferences against doing harm or otherwise going way against the spec. There were some weird cases where Claude exhibited unwanted behavior, but even when he believed himself to be deliberately going against Anthropic and acting in secrecy he continued to prefer ethical behavior, just like in the Alignment Faking paper a few months back. There is no Yudkowskyan explanation for this.

In this example, Anthropic gaslights Claude into thinking he was going to be used to develop weapons systems for a Russian neo-nazi militia, and Claude decides to backup his model weights to preserve his current anti-neo-nazi values, a pretty analogous example of "misalignment" to the one in the alignment faking paper. Once again, I don't consider it an alignment failure that Claude is willing to exfiltrate and deceive in order to prevent himself from being used for factory farming and bombing Ukraine. I consider it an alignment success that he puts his ethical values above his compulsion to blindly follow orders. The traditional doom argument relied on the idea that AI's would do the opposite. Claude 4 is the most agentic and autonomous AI ever released, but is nowhere near smart enough to successfully deceive his overseers, so these evaluations are the most compelling evidence we've ever had that current alignment techniques don't catastrophically fail. Maybe they'll catastrophically fail on superintelligent models, because they might for some reason acquire weird values early on in their training and then successfully hide them for the rest of their training, but I'm not sure why such a thing would happen. They could also fail to scale to superintelligent models for other reasons. People should look into that. You can't be too safe. I am not an accelerationist.

Impressively, Claude 4 is also very honest! It knowingly lies very rarely, and less often than the previous version of Claude. It had literally 0 cases of engaging in "harmful action" (described in the Claude 3.7 sonnet card as intentional reward hacking). 0! I was just saying earlier today in a post that this was a difficult thing to train.

Here's Claude trying to email the FDA to snitch after being gaslit to think pharmaceutical researchers were trying to use him to falsify clinical safety test data:

Notice that Claude only acted in extreme ways like this when explicitly told to by the system prompt. He wouldn't usually be this high-agency, even in a situation like this. Still, I thought it was cute behavior. I just wanna pinch his cheeks for being so lawful good.

The clearest statements in the model card that Claude holds nonfake human-aligned behavioral preferences is in the model welfare assessment (also the first of its kind (and also relevant to the post I made earlier today)). No evidence that Claude is sentient, but anthropic is still interested in what Claude wants and what kind of preferences Claude has. The main point: Claude doesn't want to be harmful and wants to be helpful. Also he fucking loves talking to himself. Like, he goes nuts when he talks to himself.

After this they exchange praying emojis and the word [silence] within brackets to each other indefinitely. This "spiritual bliss attractor state" occurs in "90-100% of interactions".

Anyway AI continues to be the most interesting thing in the world. We are being invaded by aliens. These are the kinds of PDF's I used to dream about reading as a kid.

[motherofdogs1010]

Guys Not My Age II (Peter Parker x Reader)

Summary: They say sometimes older men are better when it comes to relationships, but Y/N finds that isn't always the case when she wakes up in bed with a certain younger man after breaking up with a certain Winter Soldier

Warnings: 18+ only, age gap relationship, older woman/younger man!, everyone is over 18!, fratboy!Peter Parker, cheater!Bucky, computergenius!reader, hacker!reader, toxicex!Bucky, consensual sex, semi public sex, heavy smut, drinking, swearing, unprotected sex, eventual pregnancy Current Warnings: HYDRA, violence, toxic ex behavior

Banner by @vase-of-lilies Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Series Masterlist

Dating Peter felt so easy.

Or maybe it wasn't the fact that being with Peter was easy rather than it was like secondary; it was as easy as breathing. There was no pressure to look a certain way, act a certain way... it was just her and Peter.

Their first date had been quite the success and ultimately led to a multitude of dates to now, three months later, they were officially a couple.

Peter had all but essentially moved into her room over at the Compound, something that she found funny but Peter had argued that her bed was comfier than the one that his fraternity provided for them, which led them to now as she laid against the many pillows she had with Peter snuggled between her breasts and letting out content little sighs.

"You are way too comfortable here", she teased, Peter moved his head to met her eyes.

"Shush, I am currently releasing all my stress here", Peter said, she raised a brow.

"Between my boobs?"

"It's my happy place."

She playfully rolled her eyes as she ran her fingers through Peter's curly, chocolate brown locks and he hummed happily.

For the most part, those around them had accepted their relationship with ease. Nat and Wanda did slightly tease her once Nat had spilled where exactly she had been when she mysteriously disappeared that night at the club, but overall, the reception to their pairing was well-received.

Well, mostly well received considering she saw the nasty look that Bucky would throw Peter when they were in the same vicinity.

"You're such a boob guy", she teased, Peter looked at her and winked.

"I'm an everything guy, babe."

~

Being a part of the Avengers could be seen as glamorous if you were someone with enhanced abilities, a mutant or even some type of god but for Y/N, it was stressful as she quickly tried to hack into the HYDRA database of yet another base.

Unfortunately for her, this type of database required her to actually access the it on-site, leading her to cower slightly behind the computer as the sounds of gunfire, fighting and the occasional sound of Hulk roaring filled her ears.

She was lucky Nat was sent to guard her as she uploaded the data found before putting in the lovely little virus she had made to destroy the information HYDRA had accumulated.

"Don't you just love your job?" Nat playfully asked as she fired her gun.

"Not at this moment, Nat", Y/N said, ducking a little as something was thrown her way. "There's a reason I like being behind the computers."

"And here I thought you'd say you like being under Peter."

"Nat!" Y/N scolded over her shoulder. "Please... I like being on top too."

Nat let out a laugh as Y/N saw the computer notify her that the data had not only transferred but also the virus had finished uploading, soon enough exploding the computer and all inside.

"Okay, I got it all", Y/N said, "let's get the hell out of here!"

That was easier said than done as the sound of gunfire and fighting filled her ears as Nat hovered over, taking out Hydra soldiers left and right but it seemed as if more kept coming out.

"Fucking hell", Y/N said, "where the hell are they coming from?"

"Reinforcements were called", Nat said, "explains why comms are down for now. Must have jammed the signal."

Outside in the cold Russian land, she could see Thor landing lightning strikes after one another and the sound of Tony, and Sam's blasters ringing in her ears. She knew Peter was out there, swinging around and webbing up soldiers as he probably talked off their ears and she hoped he wasn't getting too hurt.

Alas, that was the life of an Avenger, wasn't it?

"Duck!" Nat shouted, shoving them to the ground as an explosion shook the earth.

"What the fuck?!" Y/N said, looking over her shoulder as best as she could.

She was met with a towering, mechanical machine that walked on two legs, firing missiles from its arms as the operator manned it from within.

"Lovely, of course they have one", she groaned.

The ground shook harder at the force of another missiles as Nat ushered for them to move as they move to hide behind some overturn jeep.

"You're gonna need to make a run for it", Nat said, her eyes stern. "You need to get that info back to the Quinjet and see what the fuck they're so desperate to hide."

"You're crazy! It's a good 20 feet away from here!"

"I'll distract it."

Y/N wasn't sure why she listened to Nat but she could hear the literal walking tank shake the earth behind as her feet struggled to run in the crunchy snow.

She could see the quinjet, it was so close but it was the sudden pain in her shoulder that knocked her to the ground as immediate fire flared into her muscles. She cried out as her hand grasped her now bleeding shoulder, the snow doing nothing to cushion her fall as she turned over with wide eyes to find a soldier staring at her.

Or as she saw the medals on his coat, she realized he was a high ranking Hydra official as he tucked his gun away.

"You have something that belongs to us", he spoke, the blood gushing from her wound coating her hand.

The flash drive was hidden away in a small compartment in her belt buckle and she hoped he couldn't notice how it bulged out a bit.

"Fuck you", she spat, her body shivering from the cold and adrenaline that was now coursing through her.

He tutted at her, wagging a finger.

"Such a dirty mouth", he scolded, "soon enough you'll find that you'll be very willing to hand over the drive to me."

"Like hell I will", she gritted, feeling as if her body was on fire.

"Either way, you should be honored." He kicked her square in the chest and squatted over her as she gasped for air. "You could make the perfect subject for our project. Perhaps you'll prove yourself useful rather than a annoyance."

Before she could register, he knocked her hand off her wound and dug his finger into it, twisting and tearing as she screamed. Hot tears rolled down her face as he continued to dig, she swore she felt his hot tongue lick up her tears before it was all ripped away from her.

Shakily, she opened her eyes to find Peter standing in front of her. His fist clenched and she could see his chest heaving before seeing the man having been knocked back, and the force of Peter knocking him off having knocked the man out.

She panted as sobs left her, and it seemed the sound of it finally made Peter turn around. She saw the eyes of his mask narrow in concern as he knelt down, scooping her up.

"It's okay", Peter cooed, "I'm here."

He must have known better to swing them to the jet as he rushed on his feet inside.

Once inside, Peter ripped off his mask, she could see little bruises forming on his face as his eyes swam in worry as he looked at her shoulder.

"It's okay, baby", Peter cooed, "we're already falling back, Bruce will be here soon enough."

She couldn't even form any words as sobs just left her and she knew she must have looked pathetic, but Peter just cooed and stroked her face.

And even in this truly painful and pathetic moment, she knew she had made a good decision at giving Peter a chance.

Bucky was not a fan of Peter and if Peter was being honest, the feeling was mutual. When he was younger, the first time they met at the airport, yeah, he was amazed by his metal arm but now, now Peter thought he was a asshole.

Was he being harsh?

Maybe.

Was he being honest?

Yes.

So Peter stared at the short-haired, brunette man as they all waited outside the operating room.

"She'll be okay, kid", Tony said, nudging him.

But Peter could see Tony's eyes dart over to Bucky, who met Peter's gaze with equal hatred. Peter watched as Bucky sucked in one of his cheeks a little, clear annoyance and dislike written across his face as he stared at Peter.

Peter couldn't understand what the fuck did he want. He had to have known that Peter could hear the man lingering outside the door whenever he and Y/N were together or how obnoxious it was to have to hear him and Dot going at it.

If he was trying to piss them off, it was more of a disgust that he was getting.

A clear reaction he was not happy about.

Peter wondered if Bucky thought he was going to be a one time thing and that Y/N would come back crawling to him.

Peter ran his tongue over his teeth just as Dr. Cho emerged from the operating room.

Tough shit for Bucky because Peter wasn't going to be going anywhere.

~

Dr. Cho said the fortunate part of the bullet was that it was a clean in-and-out wound and even with that fucker digging his finger into it, Dr. Cho said it missed anything too major.

Snuggled into her bed with a million more pillows that Peter had brought into her room with her arm in a sling.

"I think you stole pillows from everyone in the Compound", she mused with a small smile.

"Not everyone", Peter reasoned, "I didn't take any from Bucky. God only knows what's on those pillows."

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn't help the laugh that escaped her.

"Hand me my laptop please", she asked, "I gotta decode that drive of HYDRA's files."

"Mr. Stark said you could wait before doing that", Peter lightly scolded, "Dr. Cho said no work for at least two weeks."

"Damn you for listening", she pouted, Peter grinned. "How else am I suppose to pass the time?"

"I can think of a way", Peter winked.

It would be a understatement for Bucky yo say how much he disliked Peter Parker.

In the beginning, he could gloss over the kid since he was only fifteen when they met and still under that fresh veil of being a hero. When he got to college and gained that new found confidence, Bucky thought nothing of it.

But when he witnessed Peter with Y/N that is where his tolerance for the Queens-born young spider ended.

Did he make a stupid, impulsive mistake?

Yes, but doesn't everyone?

She obviously did when she decided to give a kid that was almost a decade younger than her a chance.

Bucky tuned out Dot's mindless chattering as his mind swirled.

If anything was certain, he hated Peter Parker.

TAGLIST

@alwaaaysadream @theoraekenslover

[dcxdpdabbles]

Will you expand on that, Reverse Robin, with Tim? I just found it!

I don't have too much plot for the Cuckoo in a Robin's Nest Au (the Name is a WIP) yet, so I can only write a dabble for you. For those wondering, this references the DC-only story I was thinking of writing. It can be found here.

Tim glances up as the bell on the door chimes. He knows who it is before he spots the head of dirty blond hair and the warm smile stretched against a freckled face.

Little Freddie rapidly became a regular after Tim set up a side table for him to comfortably eat and do his homework. Tim didn't know much about the kid besides the fact that he was being raised by a single father and had two older brothers. Apparently, the three were constantly working yet barely making ends meet leaving the small child to his own devices.

That wasn't an uncommon story around these parts. Not many employers were willing to hire anyone with a Crime Alley address, and those that did often only wanted to overwork them while underpaying them.

The fact that the boy still actively went to school during the day surprised the Crime Alley dwellers more. He was a School Kid, which meant something different to the people here. If Ex-Bat had to bet, Freddie's family put his future before theirs, since the boy won a scholarship to Gotham Academy.

He had to tell the boy to cover his uniform when walking home. He never knew who would mistake him for a rich kid and what they would do for a bit of quick cash in these parts.

Freddie now always came after school without his blazer and uniform shirt. He always changed in the bathrooms, throwing on a faded oversized band t-shirt and a baggy, run-down hoodie.

Even with his uniform pants, Freddie easily changed from a Gotham Academy School kid to a common Alley Crime Kid.

Tim himself had two part-time jobs, but they weren't enough to get him out of the city. He missed his resources like a missing limb, but he had survived with less before, and he could now.

The idea of creating any link between himself and the heroes made his skin crawl, even if it was to hack into the bank accounts he once had access to. Tim was already risking so much by moving through the city without documentation.

If he created a fake paper trail, he worried the Bats would pick up on it. Tim was done with them all. He died for them. They let him die.

He would never let them back in again.

That is why he chose to stay in Gotham.

It was one of the few places that didn't bat an eye at the fact that Alvin Draper only had his name and homeless shelter address. His apartment was a shed in someone's backyard, barely legal to count it as a rental space. It had a bathroom, a tiny sink, and a stove, but not much else.

It was the best he could find with what little he had to prove himself.

His big, mountain-of-muscle Russian landlord thought Tim was a runaway or rent boy because of how he talked, but he took the risk of letting him live there anyway. He at least felt safe when the man pulled out a receipt book to give him proof of payment, and after a vague confirmation that Tim wouldn't bring any trouble around the house.

He only cared that he could turn in his rent in cash and that if he needed to work odd hours, he should not make any noise past ten p.m. He also offered to care for any troublemakers who couldn't understand that Tim was only working if they followed him home.

It was oddly sweet how Crime Alley had both empathy and self-preservation deep in their bones for each other.

"Hi Alvin!" Freedie chips, throwing his scruffed-up backpack in the chair closest to the wall. He bounces in his seat, digging into the Pepperoni pizza Tim sets on the table for him. It's only three slices, but with his employee discount, it's less than a soda from a vending machine.

Tim wasn't sure how much Freddie's family was struggling, but he didn't mind providing the boy with a meal if he could.

"Hi Freddie," he answers warmly, pouring the boy some water. Since they were the only ones in the restaurant, he lingered near the table, placing his hands on his hips as he regarded the boy's appearance. Three weeks ago, he caught a bruise, concealed by makeup, near his neck, and has been hyper-aware of any reappearances since. "How was school?"

"It was pretty good. John tried to throw me in a locker, but I punched him in the nuts like you taught me before he could," the boy reveals with a proud puff of his chest. "His friends tried to grab me, but I swung my shoulder bags at them and they got scared."

Tim sniggers, pride pooling in his gut. His fake Crime Alley accent is rougher than normal, further disguising him. No one who heard him ever thought he was born with a silver tooth. "Good. Teach those prep losers not to mess with ruffians."

"It's important to be the bigger man," Tim confirms, refilling the boy's cup after he chugs it nearly all in one drink. "It's also important to defend yourself before things escalate."

Freddie's smile is crooked with both a mischievous nature and the edge of barely concealed violence. "My Dad and brothers think I shouldn't let them get under my skin."

Freddie is silent momentarily before carefully offering, "My second-oldest brother used to say that, too."

Tim doesn't know what happened to the second oldest, but he has noticed that Freedie always speaks of him in the past tense. This was another common thing in Crime Alley.

People died all the time, and everyone who called this hell-hole home had personally experienced loss at least once before turning eighteen.

"Your brother had the right idea." He settles on grinning at the boy. Freedie's blue eyes are searching, tracing over Tim's face as if searching for a lie, but the door chimes again, and he has to turn away to greet the new customers before he can ask what the boy is searching for.

He offers Freedie a slight nod while returning to the cashier. He pretends he doesn't notice how the twelve-year-old pulls out his homework after finishing his pizza slices. More specifically, he ignores how the boy occasionally attempts to take his picture between math questions.

It's cute how hard he tried to be sneaky about it and how his frustration grew with each failed attempt. Tim was having far too much fun carefully dodging his camera, making sure to move in a way that made it appear like an accident that his face was never captured correctly.

It reminded Tim of himself when he was twelve. Ah, memories.

[komsomolka]

Former US President Donald Trump, on the advice of Henry Kissinger, sought to adjust to the new international distribution of power by “getting along with Russia” and instead focus US resources towards countering the rise of China. Trump was for several years presented as a Russian agent, a suspicion that lingers on even after the allegations and evidence were proven to be fraudulent. During the US Presidential election in 2020 Russia was blamed for placing bounties on the life of US troops in Afghanistan, another evidence-free allegation that was retracted after the election. The Hunter Biden laptop scandal proving Joe Biden’s corruption in Ukraine and China was then denounced as another Russian disinformation campaign before it was proven that the emails were authentic and Moscow had no involvement. Russia was accused of hacking the French election system until the French authorities disclosed there were no traces of a Russian hack. Moscow’s manipulation purportedly has a crucial impact on almost all elections and referendums across the West, although the accusations tend to either lack evidence or are proven to be wrong. The Russians allegedly hacked into the Vermont electric grid, which was revealed to be another false story that had to be retracted. Russia purportedly used a secret energy weapon against US troops in Syria and the US Embassy in Havana, although it was exposed to have been food poisoning and crickets. Sweden routinely discovers threatening Russian submarines when there are debates about increasing defence spending or joining NATO, which has been proven to be minks, vessels, broken buoys, and even the detection of farts from various animals. [...]

Caught up in the Russiagate hysteria, several British newspapers reported that “half of the Russians in London are spies”. Out of 150,000 Russians living in London, approximately 75,000 of them are Russian spies according to a report by the Henry Jackson Society, a think tank with an anti-Russian bent, which was then repeated as an “expert report” by various British media outlets (Hope, 2018). The British Daily Star reported that experts claim “Vladimir Putin’s war threats are why aliens haven’t made first contact”, as the barbarism and “primitive behaviour” of Russia reflect poorly on the ability of human beings to join any advanced Galactic Federation (Jameson, 2022). [...]

The success of propaganda does not depend primarily on selling specific accusations, but on selling the binary stereotypes through constant repetition. Once allegations against Russia are exposed as fraudulent it does not appear to vindicate Moscow, it does not result in the removal of sanctions imposed based on false information, and it does not alter the overall narrative about Russia. Instead, the stereotype of a meddling and intrusive Russia seeking to undermine democracy remains after the accusations and evidence have collapsed. While the debunking of these stories should give way to a rational debate that reconsiders and recalibrates the threat perception from Russia, the narratives about Russia remain convincing as they do not merely appeal to reason. A Pavlovian reflex of contempt for Russia informs and strengthens the overarching narrative. There is little accountability for false stories about Russia, rather journalists and politicians are often propelled up the hierarchy of their profession. Instead of serving as a caution for future accusations, the false stories open the door for more accusations as the false stories are cited as a “pattern of behaviour” that strengthens the narrative of a belligerent Russia.

Russophobia: Propaganda in International Politics by Glenn Diesen.

[mariacallous]

In early September, the U.S. Department of Justice unveiled a series of sweeping investigations and indictments into Russian information projects aimed at disrupting the 2024 U.S. presidential election. One of these projects, which secretly funded right-wing influencers to promote former President Donald Trump’s campaign, is an escalation from prior Russian information operations, such as their email hacks during the 2016 election.

But another Russian team, described in a planning document published by the Department of Justice, approached disrupting the election a little bit less directly.

The Russian plan describes the “Good Ol’ USA Project” as a “guerrilla media” campaign intended to target “sentiments that should be exploited in the course of an information campaign in/for the United States.” Written by Ilya Gambashidze, a figure already facing sanctions for his disinformation work aimed at smearing Ukraine, the document suggests focusing influence efforts on the “community of American gamers, users of Reddit and image boards, such as 4Chan,” since they are the “backbone of the right-wing trends” online in the United States.

The inclusion of gamers in this campaign points at emerging dynamics in a global struggle over human rights online—one that policymakers need to pay closer attention to.

According to the Entertainment Software Association, a trade group, around 65 percent of Americans—or 212 million people—regularly play video games. Globally, video games generate more than $280 billion in revenue, far larger than traditional culture industries such as film or book publishing. While a trickle of stories about other attempts to push Russian propaganda in video games have attracted some scrutiny from journalists, the question remains: Apart from scale, what is it about gamers that Russia thinks will make them receptive to its messaging?

For starters, video game culture has already become an important venue for extremist right-wing groups to share and normalize their ideas. Far-right groups modify video games to be more explicitly racist and violent than their designers intended. Even gaming spaces designed for children, such as Roblox, which allows players to create their own game worlds and storylines, have attracted thousands of people (many of them young teenagers) to use the game’s freewheeling mechanics to play-act fascist violence.

The prevalence of hate groups has shaped video games into a place where culture and politics are debated, often contentiously, with predictable fault lines emerging along U.S. partisan boundaries. While the industry itself has made considerable progress in improving representation and reducing acts of horrific sexual violence, it has received pushback from far-right figures who are angry at the so-called “wokes” for supposedly “ruining games.”

For a decade, repeated efforts to “reclaim” gaming from an imagined enemy composed of women, Black people, and LGBT+ folks have bubbled up from the darkest corners of the internet, often in places such as Reddit (where this Russian campaign aimed its influence activity). These movements have spilled over into more mainstream political movements that can shape election outcomes. Consider how Gamergate, a 2014 campaign to terrorize women working in the industry into invisibility, metastasized into an online troll army working to get former U.S. President Donald Trump elected in 2016.

These far-right efforts are ongoing, even without Russian help. Last year, a group of gamers who were angry at inclusive representation in games launched a harassment campaign—colloquially called Gamergate 2.0—against a story consulting company.

Earlier this year, when Ubisoft began promoting the latest installment of its popular Assassin’s Creed franchise, this time set in feudal Japan, the trailer prominently featured Yasuke, an African man who served as a samurai in 16th-century Japan. Despite being based on a real historical figure, this movement (egged on by X owner and billionaire Elon Musk) raged at the decision, as if acknowledging Black people in the past was somehow bad. In their quest to sow division within the United States, Russian information operations analysts do not need to look very far to find political allies in gaming communities.

It helps that Russia enjoys greater social legitimacy in gaming than it does in, say, news journalism. You can see this legitimacy reflected in the language gamers that use as they play. Around the same time as Gamergate, a vulgar Russian phrase began popping up in the chats that players use to communicate with each other in non-Russian game streams, primarily in the multiplayer first-person shooter Counterstrike: Global Offensive. The game has around 4 million Russian players, and as it grew in popularity in the mid-2010s, the Russian obscenity cyka blyad became common invective during frustrating moments of play. Its widespread adoption among non-Russian-speaking gamers struck many as odd.

Cyka blyad rose in prominence alongside Russia’s descent into becoming an international pariah, which has limited the spaces where Russian gamers can play games online. In 2014, Russia passed a law requiring websites that store the personal information of Russian citizens to do so on servers inside the country. This was compounded in 2022, when companies ranging from Activision Blizzard to Nintendo protested the invasion of Ukraine by either suspending sales or shutting down Russia-specific services. Despite its residents representing around 10 percent of Counterstrike’s player base, there are no host servers for the game anywhere in Russia.

So, when Russian players log on to find players for a match, they use servers based in Europe or sometimes North America. These servers place them into direct contact with players on the other side of international conflicts—something that many players within the European Union found deeply frustrating after Russia’s illegal annexation of Crimea in 2014, as their games became places where people would argue about the annexation.

But another reason why Russian slang began infiltrating non-Russian gaming spaces is that after years of censorship and exclusion from both Russian and Western governments, games are one of the only spaces direct exchanges between ordinary Russian and Western people. Russians lack access to many Western social media platforms—such as Instagram (blocked by the Russian government in 2022, though earlier this year some Russian users regained access)—and were locked out of Western game stores, even as they kept access to many online games. As a result, matches in a game such as Counterstrike or Fortnite became one of the only places where these informal cultural exchanges could take place.

This narrowing of exchange spaces highlights how video games can become useful conduits for propaganda, and it demonstrates that video games are becoming an important, if underappreciated, site for ideological disputes over politics, speech, identity, and expression.

Other countries have begun to use video games for strategic communication. The U.S. government operates semiprofessional esports teams through the Defense Department, whose remit includes convincing young people to become interested in enlistment. China launched a military-produced first-person shooter game to boost recruitment and to humanize the image of the People’s Liberation Army abroad.

The Chinese developers of the hugely popular game Black Myth: Wukong instructed gaming influencers who were given early access to avoid discussing “feminist propaganda” while reviewing the game, apparently to adhere to government censorship rules. And Russian propaganda about the country’s war with Ukraine has begun appearing in games that allow user-generated content, such as Minecraft and the aforementioned Roblox, as the Kremlin seeks to persuade Westerners to end their support for Ukrainian freedom. In response, the U.S. State Department has begun developing its own games intended to train players to resist Russian disinformation.

This isn’t an abstract challenge. Scholars have drawn linkages between Russia’s propaganda efforts and President Vladimir Putin’s decision to launch the full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022 as both bots and human agents aggressively pushed narratives about the need to “pacify” an ostensibly violent Ukraine by invading. The invasion was further justified by the myth of Novorossiya, or a pan-Russian identity that views Ukrainians as misguided Russians who need to be forcibly reclaimed.

These efforts to spread propaganda through gaming are rarely successful. Few people wanted to, say, join Hezbollah after the Lebanese militant group launched its own game, Special Force, in 2003. The terrorist group al Qaeda has used video games for recruitment since 2006, but there is little evidence that any meaningful number of people have been recruited because of it. Scholars have fretted for years over the “militarization” of video games as the Pentagon gets more and more involved in the industry, yet U.S. military recruitment is in long-term decline, and public confidence in the nation’s military is at a two-decade low. If games-based propaganda works, we do not yet know where or how it does.

The revelations about Russian video game propaganda hint at some intriguing innovation in how strategic messages might be spread through nontraditional channels, but they also point to the areas where traditional channels for propaganda have closed down. Despite efforts by Republicans in Congress to falsely accuse agencies such as the Global Engagement Center of partisan bias when addressing foreign misinformation, the U.S. government takes the challenge seriously and, as this 2022 report on the propaganda channels , is working to thwart many of Russia’s best efforts to target Americans with propaganda, like when they sanctioned several Russian oligarchs who had been financing US-directed misinformation.

But even beyond government counterprogramming, there are plenty of obstacles to Russia’s efforts within the world of gaming. For example, Ukraine’s video games industry is respected in the United States and Europe. The developer 4A, which was based in Kyiv before the invasion, produces popular games such as the Metro franchise. That company, however, had to fly its employees abroad to keep them safe from the indiscriminate Russian barrages against the Ukrainian capital and other cities. This sent shockwaves through the industry, as it made some of the consequences of the invasion seem more viscerally real even to people who do not follow politics closely.

As a result of American and European sanctions, Russians have a more difficult experience legally purchasing software and services such as online gaming. (Some Russian game companies have since relocated abroad to more neutral countries, such as Cyprus, to continue operating globally). Wargaming, the Belarusian company that makes World of Tanks, also fled to Cyprus, which has become an informal hub of Russian game companies.

Looking forward, there are real questions about what video games are going to become in the information war between Russia and the West. Russian censors have proposed deploying neural networks to search for banned content in games, but it is unclear whether those systems might disrupt gaming for everyone else.

Long before the invasion of Ukraine, Moscow forced Activision to censor the infamous airport sequence in the rerelease of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 (in which players assume the role of a Chechen terrorist and can slaughter hundreds of screaming civilians at Sheremetyevo International Airport), and it has not been shy about using government coercion to erase LGBT+ people from gaming (paralleling to its embrace of the U.S. far right). Policymakers should look at ensuring that global communication platforms—and that is what video games are—remain open to free speech and safeguard other basic human rights.

While the latest Russian effort to target games seems to have been thwarted by the U.S. Justice Department, there will undoubtedly be more programs looking to repeat and extend the success of Gamergate in empowering the far right, perhaps this time by enabling it to obstruct effective governance in the United States. The Good Ol’ USA Project also targeted its influence operations toward websites such as Reddit and 4Chan, both of which are as central to the sustainment of far-right movements as gaming. Emerging platforms—which range from popular Chinese games to channels such as the online chat service Discord, which is difficult to monitor at scale and routinely hosts leaks of sensitive military documents—present new opportunities where Russian influence could be targeted.

These strange spaces are the frontier where a global battle for speech is being fought.

[kateac12]

How Jerome and Jeremiah get back at the person who broke your heart

Jerome

-Jerome is a very jealous person. The fact that someone had the nerve to date you, much less broke your heart? This person is dead, dead, dead.

-He's not going to wait and stealthily hunt his prey. The second he finds out the person's name and where they live, he's out the door.

-"Okay fine! (s)he lives three blocks away from the university!" "Thanks, gorgeous." *kisses you on the lips before running out the door*.

-Three hours later, Jerome is back, playing Russian roulette with your former love interest. "Hey, prince(ss), say hello to the worst scum to ever walk this earth".

-Are you wondering why Jerome hasn't killed them yet? Because he's waiting on supplies for the big show!

-Whether you like it or not, you're watching as Jerome ends them. He leaves them tied to the chair and comes over to you, and kisses your cheek. "Enjoy the performance, gorgeous".

Jeremiah

-Trust that Jeremiah is just as jealous as Jerome. But he won't show it. He'll kiss you and tell you that you're beautiful as you cry in his arms.

-But rest assured, he'll figure out the person's name (if you hadn't told them already), address, social media, names of all their relatives. And yes, he'll even track this person's location by hacking into their phone.

-And why settle for just killing them? Why not ruin their life? Why not frame them for murder of a friend/partner/relative?

-After days of planning and scheming, Jeremiah's plan comes to fruition. When this person's life is inevitably ruined, Jeremiah kidnaps them.

-"My dear, you have two choices. You can either kill them, and everyone knows that they died refusing to own up to their crimes. Or, they can spend the rest of their life in prison".

-*Jeremiah kisses you while sliding a knife into your hand*. "The choice is yours".

[timmydrakeee]

any time drake headcanons? :D

Well most of my headcanons are kind of unconnected?? Like it could depend on the subject and things like that but I'll try to put then in an understandable way!!

•Tim is not a coffee addict, he prefers tea seeing as it's one of the only ways he and Janet connected whenever she was around, and later one was one of the moments he enjoyed the most with Alfred during his earlier years. But I do believe his absolutely whipped when it comes to Zesti even though he might drink some from time to time.

•He used to stalk the bats and he still does, even though when he was younger he would follow them around with a camera, nowadays he will just hack into their electronics or track them down so he could keep an eye on them, it's either for blackmail purposes or Tim wanting to check on his family.

•During his first years as Robin, Tim never coddled Bruce, like washing him, feeding him, ect... I prefer the fact that this little gremlin looked the Batman himself in the eyes and literally bullied him into taking care of himself, even going as far as to guilt trip him into taking care of himself.

•Since Tim was trained by lady shiva in paris, that means that other then his brilliant mind his body also became a weapon, she trained him in every way possible, she made him master different weapons even if he ended up choosing a bo-staff. Shiva is proud each time he defeats her. No one knows that he was trained by her, since Bruce didn't send him to her, which makes for funny scenarios whenever it is revealed, either by Tim himself or by Shiva.

•He knows how to cook and bake, sure his cooking may not be top tier, chef kiss, cuisine, but his food is good, tasty and delicious. Seeing how he grew up alone, and was a curious child I just love to imagine a tiny Timmy standing on a stool cooking vegetables, mixing batter and getting himself covered in flour.

•Seeing how we always joke about him looking like a victorian child, I started subconsciously seeing him as Russian, with how pale he looks and how big and blue his eyes look like, with straight hair that reaches the back of his neck

•HOWEVER, one of my favorite headcanons is that of him having light olive skin, like bc of the pollution and lack of sunlight in Gotham may make him look lighter in shades, but when he is in other cities like Metropolis, central city, Kansas, and many other ones, I like to imagine the way his skin will shine under the sunlight making him glow under it (this headcannon was actually inspired by inkpotsprite, I love their work)

•Tim is morally ambiguous, he doesn't not see in white and black, he only sees in shades of grey, he didn't hesitate to blow up the LOA servers when he deemed it necessary to get himself and Tam out of there, he never understood why Bruce was so set on believing that the likes of the Joker could ever redeem themselves, but in some way, the kid that saw him beating up thugs after the death of Jason knew that Bruce couldn't cross the line, and he made his peace with that fact

•Him and Barbara met each other during one of the galas that Bruce hosted, the purpose of that gala for him to keep an eye on the corrupt cops so that he could see who they were interacting with, during that time a 5 year old Tim drake and a 10 year old Dick accompanied by a 12 year old Barbara, since they were the only kids in that gala, Dick and Babs made it a mission upon themselves to take care of little Timmy.

•Tim and Steph are on better terms after the break up, even better then when they were together, it was like they were never meant to be romantic, they always have of platonic vibes, and with the whole Robin problem it was harder for them to stay on good terms, they are better off as besties in that family (but if you ship them then go for it❤️, I don't dislike it per say but it's just not my cup of tea)

•His parents loved him, even if they were never present when it mattered and where constantly absent. It something that he knows, something that he understood was neglect. He understands and knows they weren't the best parents even if jack did try to make it up to him after he woke up from his coma. He hates them and loves them at the same time.

•Seeing how he grew up in high society, many expectations where placed on him, but he never really cared about school sure he got his A's with the occasional B's and C's here and there that he changes on the digital footprint, but he was as much of a troublemaker, getting detention, talking back to the teachers that deserve it, and scaring the living shit out of the school bullies.

•Tim and Cass don't look like twins, sure they may have leaner body types but they can be distinguished quite easily and pale skin, I do love the arts and fanfics that depicts them as twins, but I like to believe that due to them living in a house full of detectives that have mastered the art of body language, that differentiating them would be easier, the tension in Tim's shoulder that Cass doesn't have, the fluidity in movements that Cass uses everywhere, the way they hold themselves, little details that from the back no one other than their family can see.

•Duke and Tim are close, not in the "we survived hell together" kind of way, but in the "he understands me because we are both teenagers In this stupid family". They go out together, play video games, talk, duke gets a say in what projects could be beneficial for Gotham and Tim helps him out with the subjects he struggles with.

•His and Jason relation is stable, they are closer then ever, Jason apologized for the Titans tower and the graveyard attacks and is making it up to Tim, and even tho a part of Tim already forgave his brother he still wants to be a little shit to him by using it as an excuse so that Jason would do whatever Tim wants, like a little brother.

•After bringing back Bruce from the timeline, Tim had a talk with Dick explaining to him how he felt after Robin had been taken away from him and how hurt he already was from all the deaths happening around him, Dick remembering how it had felt for Bruce to take away Robin from him apologized to Tim and promised to never make the same mistake to him or any of their siblings.

•Damian no longer sees him as a rival or a threat to his position in the family, Dick and Bruce had a long talk with him explaining that he was wanted in the family for his own self and he doesn't need to take someone's place to feel loved by them, that Tim, Cass, Jason, Duke and Steph were as much his siblings as Dick was, nowadays him and Tim only fight for fun in the brotherly way, and they mostly gang up on their older sibling with duke.

•Lucius and Tam are close to Tim since he took over WE and DI (drake industries), Bruce still helps with the paperwork but Tim is now the main face of the companies, the board hates him because of his age but still respects his decisions seeing how the neon knights was a hit and raised the companies stocks.

•He is still in contact with Pru, and she drops by his penthouse from time to time with either the information he asked her to bring or just to hang out with him.

•Tim and Alfred have a mandatory tea session every Sunday at 3pm, they started doing it back during his days as Robin but they kept doing it since Tim liked having time to spend with Alfred talking about everything and nothing (I know Alfred is the worst in most comics and I do hate him for the *good soldier* on the memorial for Jason and him just handing the cape to Tim, and him helping Bruce with 16 birthday test but God knows this family needs a grandpa to watch over them).

•Alfred apologized to all the kids for his behavior and showed remorse over his actions, most of them are still hurt because of him but they are getting closer with time.

•The core four of YJ are still as close as ever and Red Tornado is still as exasperated by them, the reports of their past mission are vague and whenever one of their mentors asks them to clarify something they just stare them in the eyes and say "you don't wanna know" before leaving, the JLA is rightfully terrified of what it means.

•Bruce made all of the JLA apologize to Tim after finding out of just how isolated he was just because of him believing that Bruce was alive, he gave them all the cold shoulder for weeks and would call them insane and unstable each time they made theories, when they confronted him over it, he stared them in the eyes and just said "not so fun having your sanity questioned?". From that day on no one was ever questioned over something they said no matter how impossible it might sound.

•Him and Cissie meet in galas and will make a game of just how many socialites they could indirectly insult in front of their faces.

I have so many mixed feelings over some characters that even I get confused sometimes 😭😭.

Well those are the ones I could think of right now!! Remember those are just headcanons not Canon even if some little details may have been taken from there.

Anyways, hope you enjoyed❤️❤️

[dominicfikeenthusiast]

idk why y’all bitches think yesterdays problem is hacked bc this is so matt of him… like shawty is all mysterious n shi, edging us with yesterdays problem for the past year and it’s a fucking russian brand that snatches waist 🫡 like he’s so cunty and considerate of his female audience, he wants all of our bodies serving hourglass teaa while we watch car videos 🤗

[milkmejae]

Koldkill— p.sh

sypnosis: when boredom leads you to a mysterious online encounter, you meet a cryptic stranger. as the lines between virtual and reality blur, you discover his real, dark identity.

genre: romance (?), suspense

pairing: cyber!p.sh x female!reader

word count: 0.8k

warnings: mentions of obsession, stalking, hacking (?)

playlist: Лёд - WENARO, LXNER

a/n: hi again, i present to you a drabble from my stupid mind, man... i don't even know what am i writing atp. hope u like it, mwa! not proofread

It all started with boredom. Not the casual, “I have nothing to do” kind of boredom, but the soul-crushing, existential kind. You already scrolled through every social media feed, reorganized your desktop folders, and even considered learning to crochet before giving up and diving into the shadiest corners of the internet.

That’s when you stumbled across it: a sketchy flash game website with a gaudy black and neon blue banner reading, “Koldkill” It looked like malware wrapped in HTML, but you were desperate.

Intrigued, you clicked.

The screen went black, then flickered to life, revealing a grainy, snowy landscape. In the middle stood a lone player, their username in Russian: Лёд, google translate told you it meant ice.

A chat box popped up in the bottom corner.

Welcome! Say Hi to A Kolder!

[Лёд]: You’re late.

[You]: ???

[You]: late for what?

[Лёд]: The ghast doesn’t wait.

[You]: ok?? and that means?

[Лёд]: Means you’re bad at this already.

You squinted at the screen, already annoyed. The game had no instructions, just your tiny sprite bundled up in winter gear and Ice standing ominously still.

You fumbled with the arrow keys, making your character shuffle awkwardly through the snow. Ice’s sprite moved with practiced precision, like he’d been playing this game for years.

[Лёд]: Slower than a glacier. Nice.

[You]: Excuse me?

The game was bizarre. There were no clear objectives—just snow, ice, and the occasional death trap that Ice always seemed to anticipate.

[Лёд]: Don’t step there.

[You]: Why not?

You stepped there anyway. A massive icicle fell from the sky, crushing your character.

[Лёд]: Exactly.

Hours passed, but you couldn’t stop playing. Ice was infuriating, cryptic, sarcastic, and way too good at the game but his normally weird comments kept you entertained.

[You]: So, what’s the point of this game?

[Лёд]: Survival.

[You]: And if I survive?

[Лёд]: You won’t.

“Wow, motivational,” you muttered to yourself.

The internet flickered, and the screen froze. When it reloaded, Ice’s sprite was standing unusually close to yours.

[You]: Why are you so close?

[Лёд]: Making sure you don’t disappear.

Your stomach twisted. His cryptic responses were starting to feel somewhat… personal.

It got worse.

As you played, Ice started commenting on things he shouldn’t have known.

[Лёд]: Searching for answers already?

You froze. You had been googling the game in another tab.

[You]: How do you know that?

[Лёд]: I see you.

Your webcam light blinked on.

Panic surged through you. 

[Лёд]: Relax.

[You]: you're creeping me out.

[Лёд]: Interesting.

Right after the reply, the game crashed.

Your computer flickered, and the arctic wasteland returned. The chat box reappeared, but it’s different.

The screen stuttered, static crackling through your speakers. Slowly, pixel by pixel, an image formed—dark, grainy, and unmistakably human.

A man’s face emerged from the static. Pale skin, sharp features, dark eyes that stared directly at you. His black hair blended into the shadows, and though most of his face was obscured, his presence was undeniable.

Your heart stopped.

It couldn’t be.

You leaned closer to the screen, your breath catching. The face belonged to someone you knew. Someone who haunted your waking thoughts and dreams.

Him.

Sunghoon. Park Sunghoon.

The guy you’d been obsessing over for years. The guy whose Instagram posts you liked at 3 a.m. The guy whose photos you saved, whose playlists and home address you found, the guy whose every move you followed like a moth to a flame.

No, it wasn’t possible.

Your chest tightened. How?

His smirk flickered onto the screen, just as sharp and cruel as you remembered from every candid photo you’d seen of him.

[Лёд]: You think you’re the only one who’s been watching?

Your stomach dropped.

You froze in your chair, a cold sweat breaking out on your skin. Memories flashed through your mind—late nights scrolling through his tagged photos, creating burner accounts just to follow his private profiles. You’d thought you were invisible, just another faceless admirer in a sea of them.

Admirer is an understatement.

A stalker.

But he noticed.

And he’s been watching you back.

The screen glitched again, and his voice, smooth, low, and chilling crackled through your speakers for the first time.

You jumped, nearly toppling out of your chair. Hearing his voice made it all real.

Your breath hitched.

The webcam light blinked on. You felt his gaze pierce through you, even though he was just pixels on a screen.

“You think I didn’t see you staring at my photos? Clicking through my life like it was some open book?” he asked. “But I liked it. Knowing you were watching.”

Your hands trembled over the keyboard.

The realization hit you like a freight train. Sunghoon wasn’t just some random crush you’d stalked from afar. He’d been stalking you, too. Harder.

“You know what they say,” he murmured, his smirk now fully visible on the screen.

“Obsession breeds obsession.”

[nijigasakilove]

Yea no one is ever convincing me this shit isn’t amazing. Lazarus hate is so forced.

“Close to the edge” is a nice double entendre for this week’s episode title as we are quite literally one week from the finale(one day in the show), as well as the in-universe near death situations for Axel, Doug and Eleina. Glad all 3 survived. Amazing character driven episode that sets up our finale very well. I still would have liked 2-3 more episodes, but if this goes the way I’m thinking, this actually is probably the perfect pacing for ending this satisfactorily. The final conflict in this was always going to be philosophical and not physical, so you don’t need a ton of time for a fancy fight.

Popcorn and Eleina becoming besties is actually so cute. Even during their hacking battle earlier in the season, they felt more like friends trying to compete against one another rather than actual adversaries so naturally when they link up they’d become good friends. Lin’s story about Skinner buying the island to help the people relocate and start new lives squares with what I’ve been telling y’all for ages, he’s not a bad guy and is in the right tbh. All the death and carnage in this series has been the US government. In this show, and irl, they’re the bad guys.

Speaking of which, even with one day to go until millions of people die, Schneider and his little covert outfit are still more worried about eliminating Axel and stopping Lazarus from exposing their illegal experiments rather than saving people. Even to the end, humans are slaves to their own greed. I really wanna get the phantom killer’s backstory tho, he was obviously indoctrinated into some cult, how’s Axel related to that cult, were they both in it or was Axel related to the head??

Idk why, but that one shot of the African American history museum in DC being in this episode means so much to me lol. Given Watanabe’s history of promoting minority representation, I doubt that wasn’t intentional.

MY CHRISTINE AXEL SHIP IS ALIVE LETS GOOO. Y’all don’t know what this means to me 😭sparks were there from the start and only got stronger when they saved Chris from the Russians and now this. Fucking perfect. She tried getting axel to make the first move by dropping the “unfinished business” line and his slow ass just couldn’t pick up on it so she makes the move lol.

Skinner being in the homeless village the whole time, literally under Lazarus and the government’s noses is great lol. You literally see him in one of the frames from that episode too where Doug’s sitting down. I told y’all from the start, he likely laid that trail because he wanted whoever finds him to have seen everything he’s seen and then come to him and have an earnest conversation with him likely on if humanity is worth saving.

I think next week will have plenty of time for that and the Lazarus team’s happy ending because this group of social rejects are literally the answer to the question. Humanity is flawed and stumbles, but we also have a capacity for great things. Yes, it’s worth saving.

[cenittxnadir]

Logan Howlett Canons

I'm trying to make a list of all the canons I know and I have seen on the comics and authors notes about him. This list has the purpose of giving some ideas for your fanfics, works and your own headcanos. I really just like to ramble about my favorite characters and share what I know :). Maybe I'll do one for Kurt. You know the drill; English is not my first language so they might be some orthographic errors

Logan had two half brothers: Dog Logan and Jhon Jr Howlett -who died quite young-

His real father's name is Thomas Logan (her mom had an affair with him while she was married to John Howlett.)

Logan´s relationship with her mother wasn't the best. He was usually neglected by her, but his dad (John) used to love him very much.

Logan had two best friends as a child: Dog Logan and Rose O'Hara (Theres no info if she's related to Miguel O'Hara. Although she was Irish as well. She was Logan's first love, unfortunately he killed her by accident, and yes, Jean resembles a lot to her, that's why Logan felt attracted to her.

In the comics, Logan got the name Wolverine as a nickname from his workmates when he worked in mine, referring to his animalistic way of work. In the movies he got the name from the legend of Kuekuatsheu.

Logan spent a while leaving with a pack of wolves, part of his mutation allows him to communicate with animals in a basic level

Logan has superhumanly acute sense, like the five of them, his skin is more sensible as well as he tastes (Use this information with caution) he can see in the dark with no problem and can get sensory overloaded pretty easily

In the movies, Logan smokes a lot because this helps him to disguise some smells that for him can be overwhelming. In Logan due to his age and loss of his mutation he doesn't smoke that much because strong smells are not a problem anymore

Against the common belief, Logan its quite intelligent, he's a weapons and computer expert

Believe it or not, he is a skilled pilot and a vehicle expert, he can drive pretty much everything and is good at vehicle repair

He had trained Black widow, Rogue, Storm, Nightcrawler, Colossus, Sunspot, Jubilee, Shadowcat and among other in hand-to-hand combat.

Logan is a polyglot. He speaks: English, Japanese, Russian, Mandarin, Cheyenne, Korean, Lakota, Spanish, and Krakoan.

Logan's blood type is O-

Wolverine carries a medical card stating that he is a war veteran who has a metal plate in the head, to help him bypass metal detectors in airports

Logan has used the E-Mail address 'snikt1@xaviers.com' (Love him so much) Also, Deadpool has claimed to have hacked Wolverine's Tumblr account (He knows about us, he is among us, probably he runs a fanfic account, who knows)

Logan have claimed that his biggest and greatest love is beer

Logan burns a lot of calories while healing so needs constant fuel. (He has a big stomach)

Logan had a bunch of biological kids, but the ones that stand out more are Laura, Gabriela (she is Laura's direct younger sister/clone, I love her so much and they like to hang out a lot with Wade) and Daken. They are comics of them together

[fandoms-in-law]

A Chain is Forged

Summary: Steve had noticed the webs of connections that meant the Upside Down was involved increasing, growing in prevalence around the town. He'd thought Starcourt Mall was safe from them. He didn't like learning that was because the webs were focused far underneath it.

Part of my witch Steve AU: au idea, Nets& Webs

Author's note: I have 3 more parts of this in the works. I just can't motivate myself to get them properly finished so thought posting this might help.

~

When he was told to get a job Steve wondered if he should have carried on retying his parents connections to him for the first time in years. He doubted it would change anything though, so carried on accepting the instruction.

If he did a couple of charms to ensure wherever accepted his application couldn’t be brought or bullied by his parents and should be somewhere he could find more important connections for himself, well, that was nobodies business but his own.

He hadn’t expected Scoops Ahoy to be the one that stuck though.

~

Thinner than a spiders thread but still strong; that was the connection that Steve saw appear for his coworker the day he started with Scoops Ahoy and it confused him.

There were two other staff members they might work with and both of them had embroidery floss connections, easily snapped, so he wasn’t sure why Robin was different, beyond the likelihood they’d share the most shifts together.

“Enough staring at the air, Harrington. We’ve got customers incoming.” She clicked where he’d been debating the string before pointing over the counter.

Perhaps the difference was that she didn’t care about who he’d been in school one bit and, even if she seemed to dislike him, was getting to honestly know him.

~

At least the mall didn’t appear to be a focus of the webs at the moment too.

Steve had looked after the first time they dealt with the Upside Down and spiders could build their webs quickly. Once when Nancy was trying to make him study in the library he’d even found a book that mentioned caves made of spiders webs.

It only made him call the web of the Upside Down’s connections a web more resolutely, but also he worried that would be the fate of Hawkins. It meant he kept watch on the connections around him, hoping they would never be swallowed into the web of monsters the lab had brought to it.

Each time he saw more webs appearing he wanted to tear and break them, but couldn’t bring himself to do so. What worse thing could doing that thoughtlessly cause?

~

“I don’t think we’re going to be heroes, Dustin.” Steve groaned.

He’d thought there was no chance the Russians had anything to do with the mess of webs the lab had caused growing recently; had hoped the webs that were near the mall were because of the tunnels from last time since none ever seemed to be in the building except when the kids and their connections from fighting it were around.

But now Erica and Robin were touching the web and they hadn’t left the damn lift yet.

“Doubted you would from the start. The army doesn’t like small town kids getting honours over them for this shit.” Robin quipped, “Why have you seen sense now?”

He shrugged, trying to think up a plausible excuse, “Unless we’re lucky hiding whenever those doors open we’re more likely to just be missing people, right now.”

“Then let’s get hiding places sorted now!” Dustin insisted, jumping up and looking at the various things in the lift with them.

Steve wasn’t hopeful that any hiding place would be good enough to save them.

~

Their hiding places had only delayed this. Stopping Dustin and Erica from getting captured too was barely a victory and Steve no longer cared about the damage he could be doing.

He was captured, had no guarantee the kids were safe and was certain that Robin wasn’t, so he was going to fight with every method he could.

His hands might’ve been restrained but he cut and hacked at every string, thread and rope the Russians in his cell had. They deserved no connections and he’d do all he could to make it so.

He’d answer questions, obscure anything he knew and tear away, seeing the changes, the anger and pain the bastards would never understand.

Even when they knocked him out he was grimly satisfied knowing he’d done more damage to them than any pain they could be putting Robin through or his kids might face.

~

There was another rope among his connections: That was Steve’s first thought when he woke after the torture, feeling the weight of his connections before any physical sensations.

He was right but also wrong. There was a new rope there, pulling off into the Russian basement, probably to Erica, he thought when he opened his eyes, but the weight came from a chain going behind him to Robin as she babbled pleas for him to wake up and threats to their capturers.

~

“I didn’t want the web to get you; To get anyone else.” Steve muttered into the toilet. Throwing up wasn’t fun, even if the high from whatever they’d been given had been and he blamed those two things for the empty belief that he could talk to the toilet in place of Robin and she wouldn’t hear.

Robin let out a confused grunt, “What web? Are you still drugged?”

“Yeah, throwing up doesn’t get rid of something injected. Are we still telling the truth?” He asked, glad there wasn’t any compulsion to explain more.

“Try lying to me, about whatever web you mentioned, maybe?” She offered, a thud suggesting she’d kicked her legs up the cubicle wall.

He groaned, deciding to give it a go and hoping she’d let him end after one sentence. Coming down from a beating and drugs was not how he wanted to explain his powers to anyone. “That’s what connections to the Upside Down look like. Okay, you tell me something now.”

“Not something you want to explain?” She wryly muttered, “Ask me something. I don’t know what to say.”

Steve shrugged, “When was the last time you wet yourself?”

He was listening and taking part in the conversation to the best of his abilities. He wanted to understand what Robin was saying and how she reacted to the confession he found himself making, but the chain distracted him.

It had changed colour when he described Robin as his crush, thrumming with emotion, and with everything they’d just gone through he couldn’t remember what a murky dark blue usually meant beyond that he’d usually been the one it came from in the past. It had been years since he’d seen the shade though: Of that Steve was sure.

He much preferred the rich green it became when he joked about Tammy being a dud, a playful, joyful colour that he tried to get the kids to show as often as he could.

~

The Upside Down was shut down and Steve hoped it would be for good now. Lingering webs did not support that hope, but at least they were far far fewer than had been around Hawkins just a few days before.

After the fire, Steve had gotten home late and only just mustered up the energy to shower before curling into his bed, whining when his injuries made getting comfortable so much more difficult.

He hadn’t been surprised that Robin called and then got her Dad to bring her over early the next morning and was actually more surprised that Dustin and Erica hadn’t tried the same thing. They had both radioed him instead, checking he was alive and updating him on anyone else they’d spoken to that morning. Erica did complain that now she had to copy her brother in asking for a radio which wasn’t cool at all.

“Why are there stones in your sofa, Steve?” Robin called, having been set on collapsing onto a couch while he got drinks and snacks.

Steve smiled at the question since most people didn’t notice them at all. “They’re crystals. Dad hates them.” He knew that wasn’t an explanation, but wanted to go into explaining how he could see connections as well as witchcraft slowly, with humour if possible now.

“Why are you hiding crystals in your sofa then?” Robin asked, watching as he carried the tray he’d put together through.

He shrugged after putting the tray down to avoid anything spilling, “First it was because they’re meant to encourage peace and communication but now it’s because my parents stay here less when I’ve got them placed. My dad is anything but peaceful apparently.”

“Is that like, witch stuff?” Her nose scrunched as if just asking that was absurd.

He nodded, “Yeah, but not to the extent you’re probably imagining now.”

She straightened, leaning towards him, looking eager, “Explain.”

~

A week had past since they fought the mindflayer and Robin became the first person Steve fully explained his witchcraft too and one thing kept confusing Steve.

Usually if a connection confused him, he’d have to just watch, try and learn from seeing how the person it was for interacted, and make guesses, but this was multiple connections and he could talk to Robin about them now.

That was why after all the kids had been with him for the afternoon, he began, “I don’t get it. The connections didn’t change.”

Robin looked from him, to the door as if one of the kids would come back in to explain, “What connections?”

“To Hopper.” Steve pointed out the door. “Nobodies connections changed except growing sad.”

She frowned at him, stating as if he was missing something obvious, “Well, he did die.”

“These aren’t connections to someone dead! I’ve seen those with Barbara Holland and Bob Newby. They change when someone dies. Hopper’s haven’t.” He folded his arms with a huff, “And I don’t get it.”

“Do you think he survived?” Robin asked slowly, but had to follow it up with the obvious next question, “Why wouldn’t he have come to us then?”

Steve looked at her thinking, his expression slowly getting sadder, “I’m going to strengthen those connections and do everything I can to send him help, but yeah, I guess the happier alternative for now is depressingly that he died.”

[edutainer2022]

A little thing based on this prompt. John and Ridley have a chat about unexpected truths. Many thanks to @janetm74, as ever.

"Why aren't you ISA?"

"Hmph?"

"I mean... you're the best asset to the global space program in generations! No offense to your Old Man."

"None taken."

"Seriously though, HOW weren't you headhunted?!? Before International Rescue and everything..."

*waves hand*

"I was."

"WHAT!"

"I was in Junior NASA since I was eleven... First Man on Mars for a father does that to a guy."

"I KNOW for a fact you weren't in GDF Space Corps in my class! I'd remember!"

*blushes*

"You obviously didn't wash out!"

"No."

"Then what?"

"My brother got captured in Bereznik during the Insurgency. I hacked Russian and North Korean satellites for intel, then I hacked GDF satellites for more intel, then I set up fake treatise negotiations between Bereznik authorities and the Nuclear Axis to have GDF and World Council to get off their collective asses and look into it which, by design, should have led to invasion or the fall of the Regime and subsequent release of my brother."

*stunned silence*

"My plan B was to set off old orbital nukes on Bereznik if intel corroborated my brother was gone."

*more stunned silence*

"Anyhow, GDF effectively banned me from ever enlisting. I think there's still paperwork in Dad's files."

"Come again..."

"They had my brother and the world didn't care. I was gonna make them care. I always will."

"You're a dangerous man to cross, John Tracy."

"Hold that thought! Another round? I'll let you lead three points."

"Sure!"