when i can't identify a piece of computer technology from my show 🤪🤪🤪
i was just like hey. i never noticed the printer! or i did and forgot. i know i've wondered about it, if they had one. but now i'm like hey. that's pretty small and streamlined for ~2007-2008, i wonder what it is. surely i can figure it out...
reverse image search didn't get me much but did stumble into the hp deskjet 450 on the way and it is close! but too round! look up a review on the 460 to see what it looks like and it mentions a canon prixma ip90v so i go look for that and!
the ip90 was first available in 2005, ip90v in 2007 - i think they look the same though - and pretty slick for the time. i can rest easy now that mystery is solved 😌
my tag for screenshots of their computer screens on spn lol
Look I saw both the law student reader, hear me out IT student reader who works with data and has access with her bf's data, and people got surprised with the drivers sudden better performance and he yaps about his wonderful gf who helps his data make sense and suggest improvements. Idk which driver feel free whoever but maybe the ones who showed improvement the past few races like ollie, kimi, alex, carlos, etc.
WRITTEN (+ smau)
Girlfriend Buff, Activated
Carlos Sainz x gf!reader
(IT student!Reader)
When you, an IT student accidentally analyzes your boyfriend’s telemetry, Carlos Sainz goes from struggling to unstoppable and the paddock wants to know what, or who, flipped the switch.
__________________
__________________
Normally, you’d be in the paddock, hidden behind the screens, waving at Carlos when he looked your way, stealing moments in the motorhome. But this weekend, with midterm deadlines and projects piling up, you had to stay on the opposite side of the country.
Still, thanks to a very specific reason, you weren’t completely disconnected is that Carlos had registered you as an approved remote data observer. A fancy name for what it actually was, you observed and helped his team build a secure monitoring tool for personal driver data during your summer internship.
It was supposed to be temporary. You were supposed to lose access once your internship ended.
However your boyfriend may have convinced the tech department to keep your login active.
“It’s useful” he had said, shrugging innocently. “She understands systems better than most.”
The engineers laughed but they kept your access.
So even though you weren’t physically there, you had live telemetry, driving inputs, throttle mapping, brake pressure, differential settings, tyre performance and full chart logic patterns. Basically, the raw skeleton of his driving.
You weren’t on the engineering team. But you could see everything.
Laptop balanced on your knees in your apartment. And to be honest You didn’t mean to look at it.
Well… maybe you did. Just a little. For fun. And besides, you were an IT student. Flowcharts, logic paths, system behavior, debugging, all that stuff had rewired your brain to recognize pattern failures instantly.
So when you peek and see the data, it tells you the whole story.
Without even seeing a single broadcast feed, you knew Carlos had a terrible day.
Inconsistencies everywhere and Turn-by-turn responses that made no logical sense and a throttle spike patterns you never saw from him. A diff behavior out of rhythm
The data in front of you practically screamed frustration. You couldn’t help whispering to yourself “this…is not him.”
A normal girlfriend might have panicked. Might have texted him, asked what was wrong.
But you weren’t like that. You were an IT student with a brain that treated everything like a logic tree waiting to be debugged. Systems, patterns, inputs and outputs. It all made sense to you in ways you couldn’t explain without sounding insane.
You spent an hour analyzing his FP1 and FP2 combined data, building quick comparisons, checking flow patterns until you finally saw the issue.
It wasn’t because he’s having a mental problem, it’s not him.
It’s the timing logic between diff settings and throttle modulation.
And once you saw it? It was impossible to unsee and to stay quiet and surely you’ll tell everything to him.
Fortunately, Carlos always video calls you after practice. It was your ritual. His voice soothed you, yours grounded him. So when your phone vibrated at 9PM, you answered with a smile.
But Carlos sounded defeated.
“Mi amor… today was horrible.”
You exhaled softly. “I know.”
He blinked. “You watched, bebe?”
“No…But, I looked at your data.”
He froze then groaned dramatically. “Bebe, you’re an IT student. That’s not the same as the car data.”
You rolled your eyes. “It’s literally the same backbone. A system misbehaves, I trace what breaks the flow. Debugging is debugging, code or telemetry.”
He rubbed his face. “You’re telling me coding can diagnose an F1 car?”
“What do you think a diff response is?” You smirked. “A conditional logic branch.”
“…what?”
“A conditional logic branch that’s mistimed, and you keep compensating for it manually, which throws your entry off three corners later.”
He stared at the camera. “Did you just say that like it was normal? like you’re talking about JavaScript?”
“It is normal” you said. “I looked at your Turn 9, 10, 11 sequences and… baby? Your diff shifts are lagging.”
His mouth fell open. “You figured that out?
“That’s what I study, remember?”
You shrugged. “Systems and behaviors. Patterns. This is just… a moving flowchart with tires.”
He blinked at you like you had just spoken a spell. “…explain it to me.”
So you did.
Slow, clear and precise.
You explained the chain reaction. The lag. The overcompensation. How he could anticipate it instead of fighting it. Where to time his corrections. How to keep the system stable instead of chasing it.
When you finished, he whispered “If this works, I’ll marry you.”
You laughed softly. “You should think that even though I didn’t explain things”
He smiled tiredly, but his eyes were alive again.
“Si, bebe, Gracias.”
Next morning, you sat cross-legged on your couch the, laptop open, watching the FP3
Sector 2 turned purple.
Then another and the third one is green but it's an improvement.
And then commentator, exaggerated as ever “Look at Carlos, consistent but are we gonna see a full purple sector?!!!”
Qualifying arrived fast, Lap by lap, he trusted your logic more. The corrections landed.
There wasn’t magic, not yet. But he was fast, calm. In control.
His rhythm synced and his car became one with him. Every adjustment you suggested the night before showed in his execution.
P6 to P4 to P3 and by the time he crossed for his final lap, he was inches from perfection.
“Why is he like this suddenly?” Charles asked his race engineer in the radio
You watched as he set each corner to perfection.
P2
“Carlos is behind me??? Seriously? Did Williams do an upgrade?” Lando questioned on his radio and next came George “This is witchcraft. Straight witchcraft! I was P2!”
And on screen, he looked directly into the camera and mouthed
“Good advice.” You almost dropped your laptop and even hugged your pillow because by little, you know he improved. Because of you.
His engineers praised him. Commentators were confused. He finished far stronger than expected.
Basically, his performance lit the paddock on fire.
Across garages, screens, and hospitality suites, people were confused in real time. Because it wasn’t just a little improvement.
It was a different driver.
Carlos was hitting apexes like he drawn them himself. His acceleration charts were cleaner than some teams’ simulations. His consistency graphs were so stable the engineers joked they looked fake
Even Albon, usually unbothered, blinked twice when he saw the final FP3 sheets.
“… since when are you this fast?” he muttered, leaning over the screen
Carlos shrugged without looking up.
“I slept well.”
“You slept well?” Albon repeated slowly, like Carlos had answered in ancient Latin.
“Sí” Carlos said, biting back a smile. “And my girlfriend explained something.”
Everyone stopped. Your name had never been said in the garage so casually.
Never with this much pride.
“Your girlfriend?” Albon asked. “Explained… what? Like, psychology? Breathing? Your chakras?” he said jokingly
“No” Carlos said simply.
“Telemetry”
You weren’t even there, but your name rippled through the garage like a glitch in the Matrix.
Two Williams engineers exchanged looks, one Ferrari strategist that passinf by slowly turned around.
A data analyst whispered “Wait, doesn’t she study…codes?”
But Carlos was already walking away, helmet under his arm, like nothing was strange at all.
Because to him, none of it was strange anymore becauss you made sense to him. More than any race engineer ever had.
He went straight to garage and after greeting his team he went to get his phone to facetime you, hair messy, smile lazy.
“You fixed me” he said, Albon saw Carlos video calling someone so he tried to peek but Carlos hid it, using the corner of the garage
“Stingy” Albon said and Carlos just shrugged
“What was that? and no bebe, you fixed your system” you corrected.
He tilted his head with a teasing smile “No. You debugged me.”
user: nah the improvement is actually suspicious
user: IKR LIKE WHATTTTT THE HECK HAPPENED OVERNIGHT
user: Williams👏👏👏
user: I'm just happy Carlos qualified P2🥺
user: he sounded so frustrated just yesterday at fp1 and 2 then sudddenly he qualified p2 today, it's crazy😭
user: HAVE YOU SEEN GEORGE'S RADIO? HE SAID WITCHCRAFT😂
user: it's becoz he was P2 then so suddenly Carlos overtook him easily😭🙏
After the call, Carlos went straight to the post interview and of course after qualifying P2, his best in months, the interviewer looked like she was dying to ask.
“Carlos” she said brightly“ amazing turnaround today! Fans are saying it’s like someone flipped a switch. What happened?”
Carlos gave the softest, most devastating smile. “My girlfriend talked to me before the race.”
The crowd screamed while the interviewer was confused. “Oh? So she, uh… motivates you?”
“No” Carlos corrected politely. “She told me how to fix my diff response.”
The interviewer stared, eyes wide. “Your… what?”
“My diff response,” he repeated patiently. “And my braking offset. And she noticed a problem with my throttle curve yesterday, so she called me to explain.”
“Your girlfriend…” The interviewer swallowed. “Helped you interpret… telemetry?”
Carlos nodded like it was the most natural thing on earth. “She’s an IT student” he added proudly. “She sees patterns faster than anyone.”
“But isn’t this kind of data not in an IT program?” She asked, wanting to know how it happened
Carlos responded, smiling “Well, yeah but she told me she understood it”
“... and you trusted her?
“Yes. I did”
The internet unravelled like a glitching server
But you… weren’t focused on the viral.
You were buried in your laptop, coding as usual while your boyfriend is on call with you on your cellphone convincing you to attend tomorrow
“Bebe” you sighed. “I want to be there, but I’m backed up with assignments. I can only help from afar.”
Carlos groaned dramatically. “You break my heart.”
“Carlos-”
“I am suffering.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I am Spanish” he corrected. “Suffering is my native language.”
You laughed, covering your face.
Then he softened. Quiet, warm, intentional.
“… come. Please. I want you here.”
Your chest tightened.
“I can’t just fly.”
“I’ll send a jet. I’ll send twenty jets. I’ll send the entire Williams garage to pick you up.”
“What? stop” you said laughing but his serious face made you stop
“I want you with me.”
You swallowed.
He rarely asked for anything so directly. He rarely sounded so… sure.
So you took a breath.
“.. Fine. I'll book a flight. See you tomorrow Spanish boy”
And just like that, your spanish boy made you booked a flight.
-
You arrived Sunday morning, pass clipped to your hoodie, exhaustion making everything feel unreal and the moment you stepped into Williams hospitality, all conversation stopped, A few engineers stared like they were seeing a monster.
One whispered “…that’s her.”
Another elbowed his friend. “Telemetry Girlfriend.” and a third actually saluted you.
And at this point, you wanted to evaporate because what are these people talking about...
You're about to speak but before you could, someone grabbed your arm.
Albon.
He looked at you like you held state secrets. “Explain” he demanded.
“Explain what?”
“How you made him fast again.”
You looked confused. “Uh… it’s not that complicated-”
“DON’T SAY THAT” Albon snapped. “NONE OF US UNDERSTOOD.”
Behind him, Charles raised a hand that just came in, visiting the Williams
“Hi, can I book a session? My sectors are trash.”
Then Lando popped up from behind “Wait, no, I want to go first, my corner exits needs advice and your team itself afe trash, Charles”
Carlos materialized behind them like an avenging angel. “Hey. Back off.”
“She’s our friend!” Lando argued.
“She’s my girlfriend” Carlos emphasized, pulling you into his side” and she is not fixing your driving.”
Lando raised an eyebrow. “Are we sure she’s not the one driving the car?”
“OUT” Carlos barked, shooing them all away like pigeons.
You laughed into his shoulder as he dragged you into the garage.
The mechanics worked around you, engines humming, but it all faded as Carlos took both your hands.
He looked at you like you were something holy.
“Thank you” he murmured. “For seeing things I couldn’t. For helping me understand what the car was saying.”
You squeezed his fingers
“I didn’t do anything magical. I just saw patterns and it wasn't your job, it's the engineers bebe.”
“No, still.” he corrected. “You saw me. That’s the part that changed everything.”
And then, softer “I drive better because you’re in my head now. In the best way.”
Your breath caught but still tried to keep it calm
“I should be always in your mind though? ” you said, smiling but then you whispered “Go win”
His smile sharpened “Let me see what I can do.”
Grand prix arrives, the real deal and Carlos drove like a man possessed.
Every corner. Every acceleration window you told him to adjust. He executed everything perfecty, precise, effortless.
An intense battle between Carlos and Lando, a wheel to wheel and at this pount every audience, even the mechanics of each team watches, confused of how come a williams car goes wheel to wheel with mclaren?
One more turn, the checkered flag is waving and to everyone's suprise,
Mclaren did not win. It was williams, it's your boyfriend and the garage erupted when he crossed the line.
“CARLOS SAINZ WINS THE GRAND PRIX! FOR THE FIRST TIME OF THE YEAR, WILLIAMS IS IN THE TOP!!!”
Fans are jumping, screaming, and one of mechanis girl hugging you without asking.
But Carlos
He drove straight past the celebration area, parked right in front of the garage, and jogged toward you still wearing his helmet. When he finally reached you, he removed his helmet, His smile was pure sunshine.
And without hesitation, he cupped your cheeks and kissed you, hard, like the world was just the two of you.
The garage screamed. The cameras caught everything and probably already on the trending search bar.
When he pulled back, breathless, he grinned.
“Bebe” he murmured, brushing your forehead with his. “When you finish school… come work for Williams with me.”
Your heart stopped and Your entire future tilted.
But you leaned in, lips brushing his. And with a small, teasing smile, you whispered
❤︎ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ﹕ you and ellie are the bestest of friends, but you're dating this guy (who's a complete asshole, he's manipulative, etc) and ellie and you get more closer . . . then the asshole finally dumps you (thank god.) and you and ellie, abby and dina decide to have a girls night.
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ᢉ𐭩 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ﹕CUNNILIGUS, reader has a bush and happy trail, reader wears glasses (so nerdy!reader), men mentioned, wlw, chubby!poc!reader, reader being fatshamed by their boyfriend, reader's insecurity for having a little more meat on their bones reader has a (bigger) clit fluff and smut!!
𓍼𓍯 '𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀'𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆… inspired by the song "sugar talking" by sabrina carpenter, sometimes being with a woman and having self care is better than a toxic boyfriend . . .
the hum of your server rack was the only sound in your apartment until ellie kicked her boots off, letting them clatter against the hardwood. your small living space was a sanctuary of soft chaos—piles of graphic novels, half-finished code sprawled across dual monitors, and the warm, golden glow of fairy lights tangled in the curtains.
you sat on your velvet sofa, your glasses sliding down the bridge of your nose as you tried to focus on a script. you were wearing your favorite oversized hoodie, the fabric hugging the soft curve of your stomach—a body that you had spent months being told was ‘too much’ by a man who didn't deserve to breathe the same air as you.
"you’re doing that thing again," ellie said, her voice rough and familiar. she hopped over the back of the couch, landing beside you. she smelled like pine needles and the crisp, cold air of the pacific northwest. "the thing where you squint at your monitor like it’s personally offended your ancestors."
you laughed, a soft, self-conscious sound. "i’m just debugging, ellie. it’s not that deep."
"it is when you haven't eaten since noon," she countered, tossing a box of takeout onto your coffee table. her green eyes softened as they landed on you, taking in your frame. she never looked at you with the critical, scrutinizing gaze he used. she looked at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered. "and we’re having a night. officially. strictly forbidden to look at that screen for the next six hours."
you felt a pang of guilt. you knew he would hate this. he’d been texting you all day, a barrage of passive-aggressive comments about how your ‘lifestyle’—the gaming, the coding, the hanging out with her—was going to make you end up alone. he called you lazy, he made jabs about the way your jeans bit into your hips when you sat down, he made you feel like you were lucky he was ‘willing to overlook’ your size.
but then, the chime of your phone cut through the air.
your breath hitched. you felt the familiar sting of tears, the way your chest tightened, the way your insecurity about your softness—the way your thighs rubbed together, the way your belly spilled over your waistband—threatened to drown you.
ellie saw the shift. she saw the way your shoulders slumped, the way your gaze dropped to the floor. she snatched the phone from your hand before you could stop her. her eyes scanned the screen, and the way her jaw tightened was terrifying. she didn't yell. she didn't even swear. she just looked at you, her eyes burning with a protectiveness that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
"that’s it," she said, her voice low. she tapped your screen, then tucked your phone into her pocket. "he’s done, y/n. you’re done with him. and we are going to make sure he knows exactly how much of a mistake he made."
two hours later, the apartment was a sanctuary of retribution.
you, ellie, dina, and abby were sprawled across the living room floor. abby was sharpening a pocket knife with practiced rhythm, dina was laughing while typing away on her phone, and ellie was sitting between your legs, her fingers gently tracing the curves of your calves.
you had forgotten how it felt to feel safe. when you had told the group chat what he said—about your body, about your worth—they hadn't reacted with pity. they reacted with iron-clad rage.
"you’re a goddess, y/n," abby said, her voice stern. "if he wants to talk about bodies, he should look at his own pathetic existence."
dina chimed in, "sent him the screenshot of his own gym membership confirmation. told him he’s officially reached his limit for being a total piece of shit."
the atmosphere was electric, a mix of nail polish fumes and the intoxicating feeling of being defended by the people you loved most. you let out a shaky breath, the weight of the last six months finally sliding off your shoulders.
"he’s gone, y/n," ellie whispered, turning around to face you. she reached up, her thumb skimming the rim of your glasses before sliding them off your face. "he can't touch you anymore. he can't talk to you anymore. he’s nothing."
you leaned into her touch. "i just… i spent so long feeling like i had to shrink."
"you don't shrink for anyone," ellie said, her voice dropping an octave as she leaned in, her forehead pressing against yours. "especially not for someone who can't handle how beautiful you are."
the room felt like it was shrinking, the noise of dina and abby’s chatter fading into a background hum as ellie’s hands moved to your waist. she didn't push your hoodie up; she slid her hands under it. her skin was cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of your stomach, and when her palms pressed against your skin, you felt a jolt of electricity run down your spine.
"i've wanted to do this for a year," she murmured, her lips brushing against your jawline.
"ellie…"
"don't say it. don't apologize." she kissed the corner of your mouth, then your neck, her hands splaying across your sides, feeling every inch of your softness with a reverence that felt like worship.
she pulled your hoodie over your head, and for a second, panic flared—the conditioned fear of being seen in the harsh light. but then ellie looked at you. she looked at your soft, rounded stomach, the faint line of dark hair—your happy trail—leading down to the velvet bush between your thighs. she didn't look away. she leaned down and kissed your belly, her tongue swirling against your navel, making you arch your back and gasp.
"you are perfect," she breathed against your skin. "every single inch of you is for me to love."
as she pulled your leggings down, the cool air hit your skin, but it was quickly replaced by the heat of her mouth. she shifted, her movements purposeful as she moved between your legs. you fumbled for her hair, tangling your fingers in the short strands as she settled in.
when her mouth found you, the sensation was overwhelming. you were naturally sensitive, and the way she knew exactly where to touch—the way she treated your clit like a treasure—sent you into a spiral of pleasure that you had only ever dreamed of. she was meticulous, her tongue working circles, teasing, sucking, tasting you with a hunger that made you feel powerful instead of small.
you were loud. you didn't care that abby and dina were just a few feet away. you were completely unraveled, your hands gripping the sofa cushions as your body began to tighten, the sensation building into a crescendo of pure, unadulterated need.
"look at you," ellie whispered, pulling back just enough to see your flushed face, your eyes blown wide. she didn't stop. she kept going, her fingers sliding inside you, stretching you, finding the right rhythm.
when the orgasm hit, it was violent and sweet. you bucked against her, your voice hitching as you whispered her name, your body feeling like it was being put back together piece by piece by the one person who had always seen you.
afterward, you lay in the tangle of blankets, your heart still racing, your skin glowing in the fairy light. ellie pulled you into her chest, her chin resting on top of your head.
you looked at your phone, which was buzzing incessantly with messages from him—desperate, pathetic pleas, insults that no longer had teeth.
you leaned over, deleted the thread, and blocked the number.
you turned back to ellie, feeling the soft weight of her arm across your waist, feeling the way your body fit against hers like a puzzle piece finally finding its home.
"i'm never going back," you whispered.
ellie tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, her thumb tracing your lips. "good. because you’re mine now. and i’m never going to let you feel small again."
the apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the city outside. for the first time in years, you didn't feel like you were waiting for something to go wrong. you were just comfortable. you were loved. and you were finally, completely hers.
𓂃' 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀'𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓 ﹕ hey guys, just wanted to post this just because, you don't have to like it but don't send me hate , okay bye . . .
Martin had always been the quiet, unassuming type. A software engineer by trade, his days were spent coding, sipping black coffee, and meticulously planning every moment of his life. His evenings were reserved for gaming marathons, vinyl record sessions, or quietly nurturing his bonsai tree. Moving into a small flat on the outskirts of Birmingham was supposed to be a practical step, a chance to save money and focus on work.
The flat wasn’t much, but Martin liked its simplicity. The only peculiar thing was the landlord, a man he had never met. The lease was finalized online, and the key had been left in a lockbox. Every question Martin emailed received curt, almost cryptic replies signed simply, “J.”
One late night, after staying up to debug an infuriating piece of code, Martin collapsed into bed, still wearing his plain grey hoodie and jeans. He drifted off immediately, his laptop humming softly on his desk.
When he woke, his world had changed.
The first thing he noticed was the weight on his chest. Groggily, Martin looked down and saw a thick, gleaming gold chain resting against a black Nike tracksuit. The outfit was completed by a black puffer jacket and a pair of pristine white Nike TNs on his feet.
Panicking, Martin stumbled out of bed and caught his reflection in the mirror. His neatly combed hair was gone, replaced by a sharp buzz cut. His room, once spotless, was a wreck—empty takeaway containers, cans of lager, and scraps of paper were strewn everywhere. His laptop was missing, replaced by a battered Bluetooth speaker blaring grime music at low volume.
His heart racing, Martin snatched his phone off the bedside table, only to find it completely wiped. All his apps, contacts, and files were gone. The only thing left was a single number saved under the name “J.”
Trembling, he pressed the call button.
“’Bout bloody time,” a deep, gravelly voice answered on the first ring. “Come ‘round the back o’ the block. We need a word.”
“Who are you? What’s going on?” Martin stammered.
“Quit yappin’ and get yer arse down here, mate.” The call ended abruptly.
Martin didn’t know why, but he felt compelled to obey. Pulling on the puffer jacket, he stepped into the cold evening air and walked around the back of the building.
There, leaning casually against the wall, was a man in a black puffer jacket and trackies. He was smoking a cigarette, his buzzed head gleaming in the faint glow of the streetlight. His posture was relaxed, but something about him radiated authority.
“’Ere he is,” the man said with a smirk, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Sleep well, bruv?”
Martin stared. “Are you… J?”
“That’s what they call me,” the man said, tapping ash off his cigarette. “So, what d’ya think of yer new look?”
“I hate it!” Martin snapped. “What is this? I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want this!”
Jay laughed, his voice rough and mocking. “Come off it, lad. Don’t act like you’re not buzzin’. I’ve seen yer socials, seen all them scally pages you follow. Don’t lie to me.”
Martin’s cheeks flushed. He had spent hours scrolling through photos of lads in tracksuits, admiring their swagger and confidence. But that didn’t mean he wanted to be one.
“This isn’t me,” he insisted, backing away.
Jay took a slow drag of his cigarette and stepped closer. His voice dropped to a low, commanding tone. “Stop pretendin’, mate. This is who you’ve always wanted to be. Now, take a drag o’ this cig and let it sink in.”
“I don’t smoke,” Martin mumbled.
Jay raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Didn’t ask if you did, did I? Now, stop bein’ soft and take it.”
Martin hesitated, but Jay’s imposing presence was too much. Slowly, he took the cigarette. He brought it to his lips, inhaling deeply. The smoke burned his throat, making him cough, but as he exhaled, everything began to shift.
A strange warmth spread through his body. His muscles tensed and grew, filling out the tracksuit. His back straightened, and his posture shifted to one of casual confidence.
Jay chuckled, clapping Martin on the shoulder. “There ya go, lad. Told ya it’d suit ya.”
Over the next few days, Martin’s life unraveled completely. He quit his office job without a second thought. “Desk jobs are for nerds,” he scoffed when Jay asked him about it. Instead, he took up a hard labor gig at a nearby warehouse. The pay was awful, but Martin didn’t care. He liked the physicality of it, the way it made him feel strong and capable.
Every night, Jay would knock on his door, and they’d head out together. They’d hang around the estate or outside the local chippy, blasting grime music and chatting with Jay’s mates. At first, Martin felt out of place, but as the nights went on, he began to embrace it.
He started rolling cigarettes with ease, perfecting his swagger, and adjusting his tracksuit to show off his gold chain. He even picked up a thick Brummie slang, finding himself talking more like Jay and less like his old, nerdy self.
His flat became a reflection of his new life—messy, lively, and filled with the sound of music and laughter. The Martin who once prided himself on his orderliness and ambition was gone.
One evening, as they leaned against a wall under a dim streetlight, Jay passed him another cigarette.
“Told ya, lad,” Jay said with a smirk. “This is where you belong.”
Martin lit the cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke as he nodded. His gold chain glinted in the light, and his buzzed head shone faintly. “Yeah,” he said with a cocky grin. “You were right, mate.”
The transformation was complete. The quiet, bookish Martin was no more. In his place stood a confident scally lad, unbothered and unapologetic.
When Cadriel- Ascendant Envoy of the Celestial Choir, Spear of Pride- arrives on Hermitcraft he assumes and not without merit that he will land in a random spot. The Ascendancy's accuracy with random spawns on occupied worlds is second to none now, after centuries of practice. Once there, it should be simple to find Skizriel.
Turns out it's incredibly simple.
He opens his eyes in what looks like a meadow, turns around, and looks up.
He cracks a smirk.
"Oh how the mighty have fallen," he purrs. "I forgot how pathetic you look without your Light. And all those scars, Skizzy, honestly, you could be a hobo."
"Nice to see you too, Caddyshack," Skizz says, arms crossed on his broad chest, unmoved. "How's things?"
"Oh, same old, same old, the Ascendant Conductor is getting antsy and so the First Envoys are clucking and here I am chasing down a loose end because someone decided to be a pain in our collective ass AGAIN. Couldn't you have just actually died with your pet demon? Where is he, anyway?"
"Impulse is working. You're stuck with me."
"Just you? This is a full server! You've got fae, gods, whatever that zombie has going on.."
"Just me." A pause. "And Wels."
"Who-"
Skizz takes a single step backwards and the world drops.
Cadriel reaches for the sky but feels the locks slam into place, his wings ripped from his reach as suddenly as if they'd been torn off. He lays in the rubble of a minecart trap- a MINECART TRAP?!- and coughs.
Someone looks over the side. A man, blonde, wearing armor.
"Wow. I mean, Skizz. Wow."
"Reliable as clockwork," Skizz says. "Wells, meet Caddyshack. Cad, this is Welsknight."
"Hello. It will be my pleasure to eviscerate you this afternoon."
Cadriel coughs. "Never struck me as too much of a pussy to do your own dirty work, Skizriel."
"Oh I'm not," Skizz says. "But see Joe and Wels have known one another a really long time, and the longer you're here suffering the longer another friend gets a decent meal- say hi Grian."
"Hi Grian," says a little brown-haired fellow in a red sweater, peering over the side.
"And you know me, Cad, I'm a one and done kinda guy even when I'm powerlocked. Wels is better at drawing it out."
"I am!" Wels says brightly, and drops into the hole with a diamond sword that looks ancient and sharp. "And as long as you're here our Admin gets to debug your server path, so there's some motivation there. Also getting Grian some lunch."
"I do like lunch," Grian says brightly.
Cadriel stares up at Skizz.
"You bastard." He whispers.
"Spear of wrath, remember?" Skizz says, blue eyes burning. "You done goofed, Cad. You pissed me off and you just couldn't resist coming to check on Raziel's story. You have yourself to blame. Anyway. Wels?"
Welsknight smiles. The smile is full of teeth.
"Let me tell you about my friend Joe," he says, advancing on the slowly retreating angel. "and what happened the last time you folks tried this."
Wels, true to his word, takes about three hours, which is more than enough time to feed Grian and get a proper server path before Cadriel hits respawn and disappears.
Skizz sits with him that night, a quiet pillar, and they watch the sun come up.
"We're gonna need to alter your powerlocking," he says at last.
"Yeah." Skizz says. "We are."
"Never marched to battle with angels. Am I gonna need an elytra?"
Sikzz bursts into laughter. "Nah, Sir Wels, I'll just do what I did for Impulse. I'll carry you."
Hey, can I request for you tony stark x f!reader, they work together in the lab and they love each other but never admit, one day reader tell them that she's dating and tony will be so jealous and after some investigation (nothing creepy, just tony being cute and cautious) he'll see that her boyfriend is not a good guy and start to show her that he's the right guy for her (bringing her favorite coffee and flowers, little gifts, things like that) eventually she'll see that he's not good and break up with him, tony will comfort her and they will confess their love and be happy together
ENOUGH
⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK
ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader
ᯓ★ Genre: angst and some fluff towards the end
ᯓ★ Request from: normal request
ᯓ★ Story type: one shot
ᯓ★ Word count: 13k (I swear it's worth it, this fic means a lot to me)
ᯓ★ Summary: You always had a strange feelings towards Tony, but you were too scared to recognize them because you didn't want to ruin your friendship. As you find yourself falling for another man you think you've found your forever, but your forever isn't supposed to make you feel happy, loved? So why does every interaction with Cole make you feel bad, sad? You feel like you're losing yourself but, luckily, Tony is right there to help you find your way back.
ᯓ★ TW(s): toxic and manipulating relationship (y/n and another guy, not Tony)
ᯓ★ I'm sorry this took so long but I 'used' your ask to write a fic that means a lot to me because I really want to spread awareness about this subject, and I hope you all understand that love is supposed to make you feel happy and secure, nothing bad. <3
ᯓ★ My Masterlist
ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special
ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!
ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)
ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo
ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language
The lab is quiet at this hour. Most of the team has called it a night, but you’re still here, engrossed in calibrating a particularly fussy piece of Stark tech. It’s late—late enough that the hallways outside are dark and empty, but you don’t mind. Working in the stillness of the lab, the gentle hum of machines and the cool blue glow of screens, is soothing.
What you do mind, however, is the way Tony keeps glancing over at you, like he’s waiting for you to say something. It’s unnerving, that knowing look of his, like he’s daring you to meet his gaze.
You can’t stand that look. It gets under your skin, tugs at something deep inside you that you refuse to acknowledge, but it never stops. It’s been years of this—working side by side, sharing laughs over takeout boxes in the lab, enduring countless sleepless nights debugging Tony’s latest invention or patching up battle-worn tech. The two of you have always been close, closer than most. And you’ve done an excellent job of pretending that’s all you want.
But there’s something about tonight that feels different. Maybe it’s the way he’s watching you from his desk, his eyes tracing over you in a way that’s just a little too warm, a little too careful. Or maybe it’s the fact that he hasn’t said a word for the past ten minutes—an unprecedented stretch of silence, for Tony.
“You’re staring,” you finally mutter, not looking up from your work.
“And you’re pretending not to notice,” he replies, tone light, but there’s an undercurrent to it that makes your heart pick up. “Is that how we’re doing this now?”
You raise an eyebrow, trying for indifference. “Doing what?”
“Working in silence. Not our usual style, is it?”
You shrug, forcing yourself to focus on the small circuit board in front of you instead of the steady heat of his gaze. “It’s late, Tony. And we’ve been at this all day.”
“Right. Right, it’s late,” he says, stretching out the words as he leans back in his chair. You can see his smirk from the corner of your eye. “You, of all people, should be in bed by now. I distinctly remember you threatening to crash at eleven.”
“Guess I changed my mind.”
“Guess I knew you would,” he says, and now he’s leaning forward, arms braced on the desk in that familiar, frustrating way that makes him seem both casual and intensely focused. He’s watching you like he’s studying you, reading every flicker of your expression like it’s one of his schematics.
It’s maddening, and it’s also just a little intoxicating. You try to ignore it.
Instead, you clear your throat and look down at the circuit board again. “So, what’s the deal with this, anyway?” you ask, tapping it lightly. “Doesn’t look like your usual tech.”
Tony hums thoughtfully, rolling his chair closer, until he’s beside you, watching as you work. His proximity feels warmer than it should, his arm brushing yours as he leans over your shoulder, peering down at the board.
“It’s… a prototype for something I’m working on,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, soft rumble. “Something for field ops. You know, keeping our favorite Avengers safe.”
“Right.” You nod, but your fingers tremble slightly as you work, acutely aware of the warmth of his breath on your cheek. “Safety first.”
Tony chuckles, the sound so close it reverberates right through you. “Always,” he murmurs. “Even when certain people in this lab seem determined to work themselves to exhaustion.”
You roll your eyes, fighting the smile that tugs at your lips. “Look who’s talking. When’s the last time you actually slept, Tony?”
“Touché,” he concedes, leaning back slightly but still close enough that you can feel his presence, as constant and undeniable as gravity. “But I’ll have you know, I managed a whole hour of beauty sleep last night.”
“An hour? Impressive. Almost enough to be functional,” you tease, daring to glance up at him.
His smile softens, a small, fond twist of his lips that catches you off guard. There’s a gentleness in his eyes that you’ve seen before, but rarely for this long, and never with you as its sole focus. It’s the kind of look that makes you wonder—no, that makes you hope.
“You know,” he begins, his tone quieter now, almost hesitant, “you don’t have to stay up all night with me. I’ve got this handled.”
You blink, taken aback by the sudden shift in his voice. “What, you’re trying to kick me out now?”
“Not… exactly,” he says, and you swear he looks almost flustered for a split second before he covers it with a wry smile. “Just… you don’t have to be here, that’s all. It’s late, and you could be doing anything else.”
A part of you aches at his words, knowing how easy it would be to walk out, to go back to your quiet apartment and let this night pass like so many others. But the thought of leaving him here, of letting the comfortable silence between you slip away, makes something twist painfully in your chest.
You shake your head, more to yourself than to him. “I know I don’t have to be here, Tony. But… I want to be.”
The air between you shifts, charged with something heavier, something unsaid that has been building for months, maybe even years. His gaze softens, and for a moment, you think you see something flicker there—hope, maybe, or fear. Whatever it is, it leaves you feeling exposed, as if he’s managed to see right through you, right past the walls you’ve so carefully built around yourself.
“Yeah?” he asks, his voice rougher now, his eyes searching yours.
You swallow, suddenly feeling like you’re standing on the edge of something that you’re not sure you’re ready to confront. “Yeah,” you reply, voice barely above a whisper. “Besides, you’d probably break this thing if I left you alone with it.”
He laughs softly, and it’s enough to break the tension between you, at least for now. But there’s still a lingering warmth in his gaze, a subtle shift in the way he looks at you that makes your heart hammer in your chest.
“I suppose I should be grateful, then,” he murmurs, his tone just a little too casual, like he’s trying to hide something. “You know… you’re the only one I trust with my projects. With my, uh, less-than-brilliant ideas.”
“Less-than-brilliant?” You arch an eyebrow, forcing yourself to meet his gaze, even though your face feels like it’s on fire. “Is Tony Stark actually admitting that he’s not perfect?”
“Careful,” he warns, but there’s no heat in his words, only a soft amusement that feels almost… tender. “Don’t let it get to your head. I’m only admitting it because it’s you.”
You laugh, the sound half-nervous, half-genuine, and it’s enough to break the tension just a little. You glance back down at the circuit board, taking a steadying breath as you focus on the familiar rhythms of your work.
But out of the corner of your eye, you see him watching you, a soft smile playing at his lips. It’s a look you’ve seen countless times over the years, but now, in the quiet of the empty lab, it feels different. It feels like a promise, like a question he’s too afraid to ask but too stubborn to let go of.
And in that moment, you realize that you’re afraid, too—afraid of the way he looks at you, afraid of the way your heart stutters every time he laughs, every time he brushes against you, every time he gives you that damn smile that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters.
But more than anything, you’re afraid of what it would mean to say it out loud, to let the words slip past your lips and into the air, to admit that maybe this thing between you is more than friendship.
So, instead, you keep your head down, pretending not to notice the way he leans just a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours in a touch that feels almost intimate, almost deliberate.
And, for now, that’s enough. For now, you’re content to let the silence between you speak the words you’re both too afraid to say.
Tony Stark isn’t jealous. Not really. Jealousy is for guys who don’t have a tower with their name on it, a suit that could blast a hole through anything, and—let’s be honest—a jawline that does all the heavy lifting in the charm department. No, jealousy is beneath him. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself every time he sees you walk into the lab with that soft, distracted smile you’ve been wearing lately.
That’s not a work smile. That’s not even a Tony-just-said-something-obnoxious-but-funny smile. That’s a someone else is putting that smile on your face kind of smile, and Tony hates it.
He doesn’t say anything, though. Not at first. You’re your own person, after all, and if some guy—Cole, his brain spits out bitterly—if Cole makes you happy, then who is Tony Stark to interfere? Besides, you’re glowing these days, more relaxed than he’s seen you in ages. It’s probably just paranoia. His inner demons twisting things into shadows that aren’t really there.
Except Tony Stark is rarely wrong.
It starts as a nagging thought, one he keeps pushing away. He tries to focus on his work, on the new suit he’s been designing, on anything that doesn’t involve picturing you laughing at someone else’s jokes or holding someone else’s hand. But every time Cole comes up in conversation, every time you casually mention something he said or did, Tony feels that tiny itch in the back of his brain grow stronger.
Something doesn’t add up.
“Cole’s great, Tony,” you tell him one night, completely oblivious to the way his jaw tightens when you say the guy’s name. You’re sitting across from him in the lab, fiddling with a new circuit board. “I mean, he’s sweet, and he listens, and—God, I think I might actually be falling for him.”
Tony’s stomach drops. He’s heard you talk about Cole before, but this is different. There’s a softness in your voice, a vulnerability that makes his chest ache. You’re not just infatuated; you’re serious about this guy.
“That’s… great,” he says, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Really. I mean, falling for someone? Huge step. Big deal. Congratulations.”
You glance up at him, frowning slightly. “You don’t sound too thrilled.”
“What? No. Thrilled is my middle name. Anthony Thrilled Stark.” He gestures dramatically with his hands, trying to play it off, but the look you give him is skeptical at best.
“Tony…” Your voice is softer now, concerned. “Is something wrong?”
Wrong? No. Everything’s fine. You’re dating a guy who he’s never met but already hates, and Tony’s spent every spare moment pretending it doesn’t feel like he’s losing you. Nothing wrong with that.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he lies. “I’m just… you know, being overprotective. It’s kind of my thing. But if you’re happy, then I’m happy.”
You give him a small smile, the kind that twists the knife a little deeper, and go back to your work. Tony watches you for a moment longer, then turns back to his own desk, staring blankly at the screen in front of him.
He tells himself to let it go. To trust you, to trust that you know what you’re doing. But the nagging itch in the back of his brain refuses to fade. Something about this guy doesn’t sit right, and Tony Stark didn’t get to where he is by ignoring his instincts.
So he starts digging.
It’s not creepy. Not really. It’s not like he’s hacking into the guy’s emails or anything (although, let’s be honest, he could). He’s just doing a little background research. Running some basic searches, cross-referencing public records, scrolling through social media. All perfectly legal. All perfectly harmless.
At first, there’s nothing. Cole looks clean—a little too clean, actually. No embarrassing Facebook posts from his college days, no bad reviews from ex-girlfriends, not even a speeding ticket. Tony doesn’t trust it. Everyone has skeletons in their closet, and the fact that Cole’s closet seems spotless only makes Tony more suspicious.
Then he finds it. A single thread, barely noticeable, buried in the endless digital clutter. It’s an old forum post, years old, from someone who claims to have dated Cole. The details are vague, but the tone is unmistakable: bitterness, regret, and a warning for anyone who might follow.
Tony narrows his eyes, digging deeper. The more he finds, the worse it gets. Cole’s spotless public image starts to crumble under closer scrutiny. There are patterns—subtle, but there. Former coworkers describing him as manipulative. An ex-girlfriend mentioning how he’d gaslight her during arguments. A series of short-lived jobs, each ending under murky circumstances. Nothing outright damning, but enough to paint a picture Tony doesn’t like.
He sits back in his chair, staring at the screen. His chest feels tight, a mix of anger and something else—fear, maybe. He doesn’t want to be right about this. He doesn’t want to believe that you could fall for someone like that, someone who might hurt you. But the evidence is staring him in the face, and Tony Stark has never been good at ignoring the truth.
The next day, he watches you more closely than usual. You’re in the lab again, humming softly to yourself as you work. There’s a lightness to you that makes his heart ache. He doesn’t want to ruin that, doesn’t want to be the one to bring you down. But he also can’t stand the thought of staying silent.
“Hey,” he says, leaning casually against your desk. “You free tonight?”
You glance up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Why? Got another groundbreaking invention to show off?”
“Maybe,” he says, smirking. “But actually, I was thinking dinner. My treat. You, me, and a bottle of ridiculously overpriced wine.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “As tempting as that sounds, I already have plans. Cole’s taking me out.”
Of course, he is. Tony’s smirk falters for a fraction of a second before he covers it with a shrug. “Right. Well, rain check, then.”
“Definitely,” you say, flashing him a smile before turning back to your work.
Tony watches you for a moment longer, then turns and heads for his office. He needs a plan—a way to bring this up without sounding like a jealous idiot or an overbearing dad. But as much as he tries to think of the right words, they won’t come.
That night, he paces his workshop, trying to talk himself out of doing something stupid. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe Cole isn’t as bad as he seems. Maybe Tony’s just projecting his own insecurities onto the guy. But then he remembers the forum post, the warnings, the pattern of behavior, and his resolve hardens.
He picks up his phone, hesitating for only a moment before dialing your number. You answer on the second ring, your voice warm and familiar.
“Tony? What’s up?”
“Hey,” he says, trying to sound casual. “You busy?”
“I’m with Cole,” you say, and there’s a note of hesitation in your voice, like you’re not sure why he’s calling. “Why?”
Tony swallows, gripping the phone tighter. “I just… wanted to check in. Make sure you’re okay.”
There’s a pause, and then you laugh softly. “I’m fine, Tony. Really. You don’t have to worry about me.”
But he does. More than he wants to admit. And as he listens to your voice, so full of trust and affection, he knows he can’t keep this to himself for much longer.
“I’ll let you get back to your date,” he says finally, forcing a smile into his voice. “Just… take care of yourself, okay?”
“I will,” you promise. “Thanks, Tony.”
He hangs up, staring at the phone in his hand. The weight in his chest hasn’t lifted. If anything, it’s heavier now.
Because Tony Stark isn’t jealous. Not really. He’s just terrified of losing you to someone who doesn’t deserve you. And the worst part? He doesn’t know if he can stop it.
You never thought it would feel like this—being with someone, falling for someone. Isn’t it supposed to make you happy? Isn’t it supposed to feel safe?
But with Cole, it’s… complicated.
At first, everything seemed perfect. He was sweet, attentive, always quick with a compliment or a thoughtful gesture. You’d convinced yourself he was everything you could ask for in a partner. And maybe for a little while, he was. But now, months into your relationship, cracks have started to show.
It starts small. The occasional offhand comment that stings more than it should. A subtle shift in tone when you talk about your work in the lab. You brush it off at first, telling yourself you’re imagining things. But then it gets worse.
“Late again,” Cole remarks one evening as you walk through the door, exhaustion tugging at your every step. He’s on the couch, his arms crossed, eyes sharp and unyielding. “How many hours did you spend with Stark today?”
The question hangs in the air, heavy and accusing. You swallow hard, setting your bag down by the door. “I wasn’t counting, Cole. You know how it is—we had a lot to get through.”
His lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, with a pointed sigh, he gets up and walks into the kitchen. “Sure,” he says over his shoulder, the word dripping with bitterness. “Because Tony Stark is the only person in the world who needs your time.”
“Cole…” You trail after him, your voice quiet. “You know it’s not like that.”
“Do I?” He turns to face you, arms braced against the counter. “Because it feels like I’m sharing you with him. And you don’t seem to care.”
The words hit you like a slap. “That’s not fair,” you say, your voice trembling. “Tony’s my friend. We work together. You knew that when we started dating.”
“And maybe that was a mistake,” he snaps, his eyes narrowing. “Because it’s pretty clear where your priorities are.”
You open your mouth to argue, but the words don’t come. The guilt that’s been gnawing at you for weeks rises to the surface, sharp and suffocating. You do spend a lot of time in the lab. You do lean on Tony more than you should. Maybe Cole’s right. Maybe you’re the problem.
“I’ll try to do better,” you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper.
Cole’s expression softens, just slightly, and he steps closer, cupping your face in his hands. “That’s all I’m asking, Y/N,” he says, his voice low and soothing. “I just want to feel like I matter to you.”
You nod, forcing a smile even as something inside you twists painfully. “You do. I promise.”
But as the weeks go by, it becomes harder and harder to keep that promise. Cole’s demands grow more insistent, his comments more cutting. You start to dread going home, knowing there’s always another fight waiting for you. And worst of all, you begin to pull back from the one place that’s always felt like home: the lab.
Tony notices, of course. He notices everything.
“Morning, sunshine,” Tony greets you one day, setting a steaming cup of coffee on your desk. “Extra caramel, just the way you like it.”
You look up, startled. “Tony, you didn’t have to—”
“Of course, I did,” he interrupts, flashing you that trademark smirk. “What kind of friend would I be if I let you suffer through the day without caffeine?”
Despite yourself, you smile. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” he says, leaning against your desk. “Although, I have to say, you’ve been a little MIA lately. Should I be offended? Or are you just trying to make me miss you?”
You laugh softly, but the sound feels hollow. “Just… busy, I guess.”
Tony’s eyes narrow, and you know he doesn’t buy it. But he doesn’t press. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box. “Oh, and I got you this.”
Your brow furrows as you take the box, opening it to reveal a sleek, silver keychain in the shape of a tiny wrench. It’s beautiful, understated but thoughtful, and it makes your chest ache.
“Tony…” Your voice catches. “Why?”
He shrugs, his expression softening. “Saw it and thought of you. That’s all.”
You bite your lip, overwhelmed by the gesture. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”
He watches you for a moment, his eyes searching yours. “You deserve it,” he says quietly. “You deserve more than coffee and keychains, Y/N. Don’t forget that.”
His words linger long after he’s gone, echoing in your mind as you work. You wish you could tell him everything—about Cole, about the fights, about the way you’ve started to feel like a stranger in your own life. But you can’t. Tony has enough on his plate without dealing with your problems.
So you keep it to yourself, even as the weight of it threatens to crush you.
The gifts keep coming. A bouquet of your favorite flowers on your workbench one morning. A set of noise-canceling headphones to help you focus. Little things that remind you someone cares, even when you feel like you’re drowning.
Cole notices, of course. “What’s with all the stuff?” he asks one evening, eyeing the flowers on your kitchen counter.
“Just Tony being Tony,” you say, trying to sound casual. “He likes spoiling his friends.”
Cole’s jaw tightens. “Friends,” he repeats, his tone sharp. “Right.”
You don’t argue. You don’t have the energy. Instead, you turn away, pretending not to notice the way his expression darkens.
One night, after another fight with Cole leaves you feeling hollow and drained, you find yourself sitting in the lab long after everyone else has gone home. Tony walks in, a takeout bag in one hand and a familiar, comforting smile on his face.
“Figured you’d still be here,” he says, setting the bag down in front of you. “Dinner’s on me.”
You look up at him, tears threatening to spill over, and for the first time, you let yourself lean into his presence. “Thank you,” you whisper.
He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t push. He just sits beside you, eating in comfortable silence, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe again.
Tony Stark doesn’t say the words. He doesn’t tell you that he thinks you deserve better than Cole, that he thinks you deserve better than him, even. But he doesn’t have to.
In every cup of coffee, every flower, every small act of kindness, he’s telling you that you’re worth more than you’ve been made to believe. And slowly, you begin to believe it too.
For now, it’s enough.
The atmosphere at home feels suffocating these days. The relationship you once cherished with Cole has become a minefield, every step fraught with tension. You’re constantly second-guessing yourself, careful with your words, trying to avoid setting him off. But it never seems to matter. Lately, even your best efforts only seem to fuel the simmering resentment in his eyes.
And Tony’s gifts? They’ve only made things worse.
It starts small, like everything with Cole does. A passing comment, offhanded and laced with sarcasm.
“Another coffee from your friend, huh?” he remarks one morning, his voice just a shade too sharp as he watches you take a sip from the steaming cup Tony had left on your desk.
You force a smile. “It’s just coffee, Cole. Tony’s like that with everyone—he’s generous. You know that.”
His lips twist into a tight smile. “Right. Generous. Just funny how his generosity seems to center around you.”
You bite your tongue, unwilling to let this spiral into another argument. Cole isn’t entirely wrong—Tony has been more attentive lately, but it’s not what Cole thinks. It’s just Tony being Tony, looking out for you the way he always has. There’s nothing wrong with that. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.
But Cole doesn’t drop it.
The next time Tony leaves you flowers, Cole’s reaction is colder, sharper.
“Do you think this is normal?” he asks, his voice low and tight as he stares at the bouquet sitting on your kitchen counter. His fingers drum against the edge of the counter, his jaw clenched. “Your boss giving you flowers?”
You take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “They’re not romantic, Cole. They’re just… thoughtful. Tony knows I’ve been stressed lately, that’s all.”
“Yeah?” He steps closer, his eyes narrowing. “And what’s he doing to help with that stress, huh? Bringing you coffee? Flowers? What’s next, jewelry?”
The accusation in his tone stings, and you feel your patience slipping. “Cole, you’re reading way too much into this. Tony and I are friends—nothing more. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you.”
“Maybe you should,” he snaps, his voice rising. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t look that way from where I’m standing.”
You flinch at the harshness in his tone, the knot of guilt and frustration tightening in your chest. “This isn’t fair,” you say quietly. “I’ve never given you a reason not to trust me.”
Cole scoffs, shaking his head. “It’s not you I don’t trust, Y/N. It’s him. Guys like Stark don’t just do things out of the kindness of their hearts. There’s always an angle.”
You want to argue, to defend Tony, but you know it’ll only make things worse. So you say nothing, letting the silence stretch between you like a chasm.
The next day, you try to keep your distance in the lab. Tony notices immediately.
“Okay, what’s up?” he asks, leaning casually against your desk as you work. His tone is light, but his eyes are sharp, searching. “You’ve been weird all morning. Did I do something? Forget your birthday? Make a terrible pun that offended your delicate sensibilities?”
You force a laugh, shaking your head. “No, it’s nothing. Just tired.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, clearly unconvinced. “Tired, or ‘I’m avoiding something and don’t want to talk about it’ tired?”
You sigh, setting down your tools. “It’s complicated, Tony.”
“Lucky for you, I’m a genius,” he quips, giving you a crooked smile. “Try me.”
You hesitate, chewing on your lip. Part of you wants to open up, to tell him everything about how things have been with Cole. But another part of you is terrified of what that might mean—what Tony might say or do. So instead, you give him the barest truth, the safest version of the story.
“Cole’s just… he doesn’t love the gifts,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Or the coffee. Or… well, you.”
Tony’s eyebrows shoot up. “Me?” he repeats, clearly taken aback. “What’d I do?”
“Nothing,” you say quickly. “It’s just… he thinks you’re too generous. That you’re overstepping.”
Tony stares at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Y/N, if my coffee and flowers are causing problems for you, just say the word. I’ll stop.”
You shake your head, your chest tightening. “That’s not what I want, Tony. You’ve been… you’ve been amazing, honestly. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
His gaze softens, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. Then he smiles—a small, gentle smile that makes your heart ache. “Well, for the record, I don’t plan on going anywhere. But if you need me to ease up, just let me know, okay?”
You nod, trying to smile back, but the guilt gnaws at you. You hate that Cole’s jealousy has made you second-guess Tony’s kindness, that it’s made you feel like you have to choose between the two of them.
Things with Cole only get worse. The arguments become more frequent, his words sharper, more cutting. He starts keeping tabs on your schedule, questioning every minute you spend in the lab. And when you do come home, he’s cold, distant, like he’s punishing you for something you can’t quite understand.
One night, after another fight leaves you in tears, you find yourself staring at your phone, your fingers hovering over Tony’s contact. You want to call him, to hear his voice, to feel the comfort of his unwavering support. But you don’t. Instead, you curl up on the couch, clutching the tiny wrench keychain he gave you like a lifeline.
Tony doesn’t press you, but he doesn’t back off, either. If anything, he doubles down on the small gestures. He brings you coffee every morning, just like always, but now there’s a little note attached—a joke, a doodle, something to make you smile. He leaves snacks on your desk when you’re too busy to eat, reminds you to take breaks, and even surprises you with a new toolkit when your old one starts falling apart.
“Can’t have my favorite lab partner working with subpar equipment,” he says when you thank him, his tone light but his eyes serious.
Every time he does something like this, it chips away at the walls you’ve been building around yourself. Because Tony doesn’t just make you feel appreciated—he makes you feel seen, like he knows you better than anyone else in the world.
Cole notices, of course. And he’s not happy.
One night, after you come home with another gift from Tony—a small, sleek notebook engraved with your initials—Cole snaps.
“This has to stop,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. He’s pacing the living room, his hands clenched into fists. “I’m not going to sit here and watch you let some other guy spoil you like this.”
“Tony’s just being nice,” you say, your voice shaking. “He’s my friend, Cole. That’s all.”
“Bullshit,” he spits, turning to face you. “He’s not just your friend, Y/N. No guy spends that much time and energy on someone without expecting something in return.”
The accusation makes your stomach churn. “That’s not true. Tony’s never—”
“He doesn’t have to,” Cole interrupts, his eyes blazing. “You think I don’t see the way he looks at you? The way you light up when he’s around? You’re already halfway out the door, Y/N, and you don’t even realize it.”
The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You want to deny it, to tell him he’s wrong, but the truth lodges in your throat, heavy and suffocating. Because part of you knows he’s right.
Tony does look at you like that. And you do light up when he’s around.
But that doesn’t mean you’ve done anything wrong. It doesn’t mean you deserve this—Cole’s anger, his jealousy, the constant feeling that you’re walking on eggshells.
“I can’t do this right now,” you say, your voice breaking. You grab your bag and head in the bedroom, ignoring Cole’s protests as you leave.
It’s been days since the last fight with Cole, but the weight of his words hasn’t left you. He’s been quieter since then, distant but simmering. Every interaction feels like walking a tightrope—one wrong step, and everything will come crashing down.
You try to focus on work, on the comfort of the lab and Tony’s steady presence. But when you’re home, the walls close in. Cole’s criticisms have sunk deep, making you question everything about yourself. When you’re not fighting, there’s a suffocating tension, a calm before the inevitable storm.
One night, after a long shift at the lab, you come home to find him waiting in the living room. His expression is dark, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
“You’re late,” he says flatly, his voice devoid of warmth.
You sigh, setting your bag down carefully by the door. “I told you I had to finish something important with Tony.”
“Of course,” he snaps, standing and pacing. “It’s always Tony, isn’t it? Tony this, Tony that. You spend more time with him than you do with me. Do you even want to be here, Y/N?”
The accusation cuts deep, but you’re too tired to argue. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”
He stops pacing, his eyes narrowing. “Barely. And when you are here, it’s like your mind’s somewhere else. Admit it—you’re thinking about him.”
“Cole, that’s not fair,” you say, your voice shaking. “I’ve told you before—Tony’s my friend. That’s all.”
His laugh is cold, bitter. “You really expect me to believe that? After everything? The gifts, the flowers, the way he looks at you? Hell, the way you light up when he’s around?”
“Stop,” you plead, tears welling up in your eyes. “Just stop. I can’t keep having this same fight with you.”
“Then maybe you should leave,” he says harshly, his words like a slap.
The silence that follows is deafening. For a moment, you wonder if he means it. But then his expression softens, and he steps closer, reaching for you.
“I didn’t mean that,” he says quietly. “You know I just… I just get jealous because I care about you. Because I don’t want to lose you.”
You nod, even though your chest feels tight and the words taste bitter.
You let it go. Again.
The breaking point comes a few nights later. You’re in the kitchen, making dinner, when Cole comes home. He’s earlier than usual, and you can tell right away that something’s off. His movements are sharp, his expression stormy.
“Hey,” you say cautiously. “Everything okay?”
“Funny,” he says, dropping his keys on the counter with a loud clatter. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“What do you mean?”
He holds up his phone, and your stomach sinks when you see what’s on the screen: a photo of you and Tony in the lab. You’re laughing at something he’s said, your hand lightly brushing his arm.
“Where did you get that?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says coldly. “What matters is that while I’m here, worrying about us, you’re out there playing happy little lab partners with Stark.”
“That’s not what this is,” you say, your voice trembling. “You’re blowing this out of proportion, Cole. It’s just a picture.”
“Oh, it’s just a picture,” he sneers. “You’re unbelievable, Y/N. Do you even hear yourself? Do you even realize how disrespectful this is to me?”
You open your mouth to respond, but he doesn’t give you the chance.
“I’m done,” he snaps, his voice rising. “I’m done being the guy you come home to while you spend all your time with him. If you want Tony so bad, why don’t you just go be with him?”
The words hit you like a punch to the gut.
“Cole…” you start, tears streaming down your face. “You’re twisting this into something it’s not. I love you.”
“No, you don’t,” he says harshly. “If you did, you wouldn’t make me feel like this. Like I’m nothing to you.”
Something inside you snaps.
“I’ve done nothing but try to make this work,” you say, your voice breaking. “I’ve bent over backward to prove myself to you, to make you feel secure, and it’s never enough. Nothing I do is ever enough for you.”
“Maybe because you’re not enough,” he says, his words cutting like a knife.
The room spins, your chest tightening as the weight of his words crushes you. But then, through the haze of pain, something shifts.
You realize you can’t do this anymore.
You can’t keep living like this—walking on eggshells, shrinking yourself to fit into the narrow mold of what Cole thinks you should be.
Without a word, you turn and walk to the bedroom, grabbing a duffel bag from the closet.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice panicked now.
“I’m leaving,” you say, your voice steady despite the tears streaming down your face. “I can’t do this anymore, Cole. I can’t keep sacrificing myself for someone who doesn’t even see me.”
“You’re overreacting,” he says, his tone shifting to pleading. “Y/N, don’t do this. Don’t throw everything away.”
You stop, turning to face him one last time. “You did that all on your own.”
And with that, you walk out the door, the weight lifting off your shoulders even as your heart shatters.
It’s late by the time you arrive at Tony’s penthouse, your hands trembling as you knock on the door. The ride over had been a blur, your mind racing with everything that had just happened. You have nowhere else to go, no one else you can turn to.
When the door swings open, Tony’s standing there in sweatpants and a hoodie, his hair tousled from what was probably a rare early night in. His eyes widen when he sees you, and then his expression softens, concern etched into every line of his face.
“Y/N?” he says gently. “What’s wrong?”
You try to speak, but the words get caught in your throat. Instead, a sob escapes, and before you know it, Tony’s pulling you into his arms.
“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, his voice soothing as he holds you close. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
For a long moment, you just stand there, letting yourself break in his arms. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t ask questions. He just holds you, his presence steady and grounding.
When you finally pull back, wiping at your tear-streaked face, he guides you inside, leading you to the couch.
“Take your time,” he says softly, sitting beside you. “Whenever you’re ready.”
You take a deep, shuddering breath, and then the words start pouring out. You tell him everything—about the fights, the jealousy, the way Cole made you feel like you were never enough. By the time you’re done, your voice is hoarse, and you’re trembling from the weight of it all.
Tony listens quietly, his jaw tight and his eyes dark with anger. But when he speaks, his voice is calm, steady.
“Y/N,” he says, reaching for your hand. “You didn’t deserve any of that. Not a single word, not a single moment.”
The sincerity in his voice breaks something inside you, and fresh tears spill over.
“I just… I thought I could fix it,” you whisper. “I thought if I tried hard enough, I could make him love me the way he used to.”
Tony’s grip on your hand tightens. “You shouldn’t have to try to earn someone’s love,” he says fiercely. “You deserve someone who sees you, who values you for exactly who you are.”
For a moment, you don’t say anything, letting his words sink in. And then, for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel a spark of hope.
“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “For everything.”
Tony smiles softly, brushing a tear from your cheek. “Always.”
And as you sit there, wrapped in the safety of his presence, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’re finally free.
Tony watches you carefully, his expression soft yet laced with worry. You’re sitting on the couch, bundled in one of his blankets, your eyes puffy from crying but starting to regain some of their warmth. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze steady and unwavering.
“Y/N,” he begins gently, his voice low and calming, “you don’t have to decide anything tonight, but… I want you to know you can stay here. For as long as you need. No questions, no pressure. Just stay.”
The weight of his offer makes you pause. It’s so simple, so heartfelt, yet so overwhelming. After everything that’s happened tonight, the idea of being anywhere but here—with Tony, with his steady strength—feels unbearable.
“Tony, I couldn’t,” you say, shaking your head. “This is your home, your space—”
“And now it’s your space too, if you need it,” he interrupts, his tone resolute but kind. “Come on, Y/N. You just walked out on a toxic situation, and you don’t need to figure everything out overnight. This place is big enough to lose half the Avengers in; you’re not crowding me. Besides…” He shrugs, grinning playfully. “I could use a roommate who doesn’t hack into my suits for fun.”
Despite yourself, you let out a soft laugh, and Tony’s smile widens, his expression lighting up at the sound.
“Okay,” you whisper, nodding slowly. “Just for a little while.”
Tony leans back, his relief palpable. “Good. And don’t worry about anything. I’ve got guest rooms, extra pajamas—hell, I’ll even share my secret stash of premium ice cream. No strings attached.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You have a secret ice cream stash?”
“Like I’d survive this crazy life without it,” he quips. “Come on, let’s raid it. Ice cream fixes everything.”
Fifteen minutes later, you’re sitting side by side on the couch, each armed with a pint of ice cream and a spoon. The TV plays in the background, some cheesy action movie neither of you is really watching. You’ve spent the past ten minutes venting, pouring out everything you’d been bottling up for months—the fights, the manipulation, the way Cole made you feel small and undeserving of love.
Tony listens intently, his expression shifting from anger to sadness to something else entirely—something softer, more protective. Every time you mention Cole’s name, his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. He lets you talk, lets you spill everything, and when you finally fall silent, he speaks.
“Y/N,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with both anger and sorrow, “I can’t tell you how much I hate that you went through all of that. And I’m trying—really trying—not to go full Iron Man on this guy and teach him a lesson he’ll never forget.”
You chuckle weakly, shaking your head. “Please don’t, Tony. He’s not worth it.”
“No, he’s not,” Tony agrees, his tone firm. “But you are. You’re worth everything, Y/N, and you deserve so much better than the crap he put you through.”
His words hit you hard, tears threatening to spill again. But this time, they’re tears of gratitude, of relief. You don’t know what you’d do without Tony’s unwavering support, without his ability to make you feel like you’re not alone.
“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “For all of this. For everything.”
Tony smiles softly, reaching over to give your hand a gentle squeeze. “Always.”
The night stretches on, and eventually, exhaustion starts to creep in. You’re still on the couch, your ice cream forgotten on the coffee table, and the steady rhythm of Tony’s voice is like a balm to your frayed nerves. You don’t even realize how tired you are until your head starts to droop, leaning closer and closer to Tony.
Before you know it, you’re resting against his shoulder, your breathing slow and even as sleep takes over.
Tony freezes for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy. But then he looks down at you, his expression softening into something indescribably tender. He can’t help but smile, his heart swelling with emotions he’s spent years trying to keep at bay.
God, he’s in love with you.
He’s known it for a long time, but seeing you like this—vulnerable, trusting, safe in his presence—it hits him all over again. You’re everything to him, and if he’s being honest, he’s more than a little relieved that you’re finally free of Cole. Not just because of what Cole put you through, but because now there’s a chance—a tiny, fragile chance—that you might one day see Tony the way he sees you.
But tonight isn’t about that. Tonight is about you.
Carefully, Tony shifts slightly, wrapping an arm around you to make sure you’re comfortable. He grabs the throw blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over you with practiced ease. You murmur something in your sleep, nuzzling closer to him, and his smile grows impossibly wider.
“Sweet dreams, Y/N,” he whispers, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.
He sits there for a long time, holding you as you sleep, his mind racing with thoughts of the future—of what he can do to help you heal, to make you feel whole again. Because if there’s one thing he knows for certain, it’s this:
He’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you never feel unloved or unworthy again.
Life at Tony’s penthouse is different—quiet, comforting, and safe. For the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel like you’re holding your breath. No more walking on eggshells, no more second-guessing yourself over every little thing. It’s strange, this newfound sense of freedom, but slowly, you’re beginning to settle into it.
Tony, of course, makes it easy. He’s there in every way you need, whether it’s with his quick wit that always coaxes a laugh from you, or the way he seems to sense when you’re overwhelmed and knows just when to step in—or back off. He never pries, never pushes, but he’s always there.
A week into your stay, he insists on taking care of what you’ve been dreading.
“Y/N,” he says one morning over coffee, “I’ve got it handled.”
You frown, looking up from your mug. “Got what handled?”
“Your stuff,” he says casually, as if it’s no big deal. “I sent Happy and the team over to Cole’s to grab everything that’s yours. No way I’m letting you go back there and deal with him. Ever.”
Your stomach twists at the mention of Cole, but the weight lifts just as quickly at Tony’s matter-of-fact tone. He’s already handled it, just like that. No drama, no arguments, no lingering ties to your old life.
“I… I don’t know what to say,” you stammer, overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness.
Tony shrugs, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “Say thank you, and maybe bake me some cookies later. I hear you make a mean chocolate chip.”
You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “Thank you, Tony. Really.”
He winks. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”
When the boxes arrive later that day, it’s bittersweet. You’re relieved to have your things back, but seeing them stacked in the corner of the guest room—the room Tony’s insisted is now your room—feels surreal. This is your life now, and it’s so different from what you’ve known.
Tony gives you space as you unpack, but he hovers nearby, always ready with a joke or an offer to help. When you pull out a framed photo of you and your family, your hands freeze, a lump forming in your throat.
Tony notices immediately. “Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer. “You okay?”
You nod, blinking back tears. “Yeah. Just… it’s a lot.”
“I know,” he says gently, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Take your time. And if you need a distraction…” He holds up a box with a grin. “I’ve got a few boxes labeled ‘miscellaneous,’ and I’m dying to know what you kept in them.”
His antics make it easier to get through the day, and by the time you’ve unpacked, the guest room feels less like a temporary space and more like a home.
Living with Tony is… easy.
He’s nothing like Cole, and that contrast is both liberating and disorienting. He doesn’t criticize you for sleeping in or for spending hours tinkering with your own projects in the lab. He doesn’t demand to know where you’ve been if you step out for a walk, or guilt you for wanting time alone.
Instead, Tony encourages you to take up space, to be yourself.
“You’ve got ideas, Y/N,” he says one day as you both work in the lab. “Brilliant ones. Don’t hold back just because you think I’ll be offended. Hell, half the time, you’re smarter than me. And trust me, that’s a compliment I don’t give lightly.”
You smile, the warmth in his words chasing away the lingering doubts that still sometimes creep in.
“You really mean that?”
“Always,” he says firmly.
And it’s not just his words—it’s his actions, too. Every morning, there’s a cup of your favorite coffee waiting for you, often accompanied by something small and thoughtful. One day, it’s a book you’d mentioned weeks ago. Another, it’s a tiny model of a starship from your favorite sci-fi series.
And sometimes, it’s flowers.
You find a fresh bouquet on the kitchen counter one morning, the note attached reading:
“For the brightest part of my day. -T”
Your heart swells, and you catch yourself smiling like a lovestruck teenager.
Not everything is smooth sailing, though. There are moments when the shadows of your past creep in, moments when Cole’s voice echoes in your mind, making you second-guess yourself.
One evening, after spending hours in the lab with Tony, you sit at the kitchen counter, staring at the empty takeout container in front of you. Guilt gnaws at the edges of your thoughts. Cole’s voice whispers in your ear: You’re wasting time again, Y/N. Neglecting the things that really matter.
Tony notices immediately.
“Hey,” he says, setting down his tablet and moving to your side. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”
You hesitate, not wanting to burden him. But Tony doesn’t let it slide.
“Y/N,” he says gently, his voice coaxing. “Talk to me.”
“I just… sometimes I feel like I’m not doing enough,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Like I’m wasting time, or I’m not…”
“Not what?” Tony prompts, his brow furrowing.
“Not enough,” you say, your voice breaking.
Tony’s expression softens, and he crouches beside you, taking your hands in his.
“Y/N,” he says firmly, his voice full of conviction. “You are more than enough. Anyone who made you feel otherwise was wrong. Dead wrong. And if I ever meet him…” His jaw tightens, but then he exhales, forcing himself to relax. “Let me rephrase. If I ever meet him, I’ll shake his hand for one reason only—because he was stupid enough to let you go, and now I get to remind you every day how incredible you are.”
You blink, his words sinking in like sunlight breaking through a storm.
“You really mean that?” you ask, your voice trembling.
Tony grins. “Of course I do. Have you met me? I don’t say things I don’t mean. Now, come on. Let’s grab dessert and watch something terrible on TV. My treat.”
He pulls you to your feet, and for the first time in a long time, you feel light—free.
As the weeks pass, you start to feel more like yourself again. Tony’s unrelenting support, his thoughtfulness, and his ridiculous sense of humor remind you that life doesn’t have to be heavy, that you can be happy without fear of consequences.
And through it all, Tony is there—steady, reliable, and quietly, hopelessly in love with you.
It’s an ordinary evening at Tony’s penthouse. You’re in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, a soft smile on your face as you watch Tony make an attempt—well, a valiant attempt—at cooking dinner. He’s muttering something about how much easier it would be if he could just program JARVIS to handle all his culinary disasters, and the sight is enough to make your chest feel warm.
For months now, you’ve been living here, slowly piecing yourself back together. Tony has been your anchor, your constant, and somewhere along the way, the feelings you’d kept buried for so long started to resurface. At first, you chalked it up to gratitude, to the safety he gave you, but now you know better.
You’re in love with him.
It terrifies you—because the last time you opened yourself up to someone, it left you shattered. But this is Tony. He’s nothing like Cole, and deep down, you know he never would be.
Still, you haven’t told him. Not yet.
The sound of your phone vibrating on the counter pulls you out of your thoughts. The number on the screen is unfamiliar, but without thinking, you answer.
“Hello?”
There’s a moment of silence on the other end, and then a voice you haven’t heard in months makes your blood run cold.
“Y/N,” Cole says, his tone smooth and familiar, and your stomach clenches.
Panic floods your veins, your breathing hitching as you freeze in place.
“Y/N, it’s me. Look, I know you don’t want to hear from me, but I just… I need to talk to you. I need you to understand—”
Your mind races, and suddenly, the walls of Tony’s penthouse feel too close, too confining. Before you can respond—or hang up—the phone is gently taken from your hand.
You look up to see Tony standing beside you, his expression calm but deadly serious.
“Who is this?” he says, his tone steely as he presses the phone to his ear.
There’s a pause, and you watch as Tony’s jaw tightens. He glances at you, his eyes softening briefly before his face hardens again.
“Cole,” Tony says, his voice low and dangerous. “Yeah, I know who you are. And you’re going to listen very carefully. This is the last time you’ll ever call her. If you try to contact her again—in any way—I’ll make sure the authorities know exactly who you are and what you’ve done. Am I clear?”
You hear muffled protests on the other end, but Tony doesn’t let him get another word in.
“Good,” Tony snaps, and then he ends the call, tossing your phone onto the counter.
The room falls silent, save for the sound of your uneven breathing. Tony turns to you, his expression softening immediately.
“Y/N,” he says gently, stepping closer. “Hey, it’s okay. He’s not going to bother you again. I promise.”
You nod, but the panic is still bubbling under the surface, your hands trembling as you try to process what just happened.
“Come here,” Tony says softly, pulling you into his arms without hesitation. His embrace is warm, solid, and for the first time since you heard Cole’s voice, you feel like you can breathe again.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice shaking.
Tony pulls back just enough to look at you, his brow furrowing. “Hey, don’t apologize. None of this is your fault. Not a single thing.”
You nod, but tears spill down your cheeks anyway. Tony reaches up, brushing them away with his thumb.
“Listen to me,” he says, his voice steady but full of emotion. “You’re safe here. With me. He doesn’t get to have any power over you anymore, okay? Not while I’m around.”
You sniffle, managing a small nod. “Okay.”
Tony’s arms tighten around you, his chin resting on the top of your head.
“You’re stronger than you know,” he murmurs. “But you don’t have to do this alone. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
His words sink into you, grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed.
After a few moments, you pull back slightly, looking up at him. “Thank you, Tony.”
He smiles softly, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “Always, sweetheart.”
And in that moment, as you look into his warm brown eyes, you feel something shift. The fear and panic begin to fade, replaced by something else entirely—something safe, steady, and unwavering.
It’s love. And this time, it feels like it could be yours.
Tony Stark steps out of his sleek black Audi, the hum of the engine fading as he straightens his suit jacket. The dimly lit street in front of Cole’s crummy apartment is a far cry from the luxury of the penthouse, and the contrast isn’t lost on him. He checks his watch briefly—he doesn’t want to take too long. Not when you’re back at home, waiting for him to start your movie night.
He sighs, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the discomfort of what he’s about to do. This isn’t his style, not anymore. But for you? For you, he’d tear apart the world.
Walking up the cracked concrete steps, Tony barely glances at the graffiti-covered walls or the muffled arguments echoing from other apartments. He finds Cole’s unit easily enough; Happy’s intel was, as always, flawless. Without hesitation, he knocks sharply.
The door creaks open, revealing Cole’s confused face. It takes him a moment to recognize Tony, but when he does, his confusion morphs into unease.
“Tony Stark?” Cole asks, his voice unsure. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Tony doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “We need to talk.”
Cole scoffs, attempting to mask his nerves with bravado. “I’ve got nothing to say to you. And Y/N—”
“Stop,” Tony cuts him off, his tone sharp as a knife. He steps forward, his presence filling the doorway. “You don’t get to say her name. Not after everything you’ve done.”
Cole backs up slightly, his bravado slipping. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but this is none of your business.”
Tony raises an eyebrow, his expression calm but ice-cold. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. Y/N is my business. She’s under my roof, and she’s finally starting to feel like herself again after everything you put her through. And then you had the audacity to call her?” He steps closer, his voice lowering to something almost lethal. “Big mistake.”
Cole tries to put on a sneer, but it doesn’t quite land. “What are you gonna do, Stark? Use your money to buy me off? Intimidate me with your Iron Man shtick?”
Tony smirks, pulling a sleek envelope from his jacket pocket. “Actually, yeah, I am.” He tosses the envelope onto a nearby table. “Inside, you’ll find a one-way ticket to France, fully paid for, and a sizable amount of cash to make sure you don’t come crawling back anytime soon. Call it my version of charity.”
Cole picks up the envelope, flipping through the contents with a scowl. “And what if I don’t take it?”
Tony steps closer, his voice dropping to a low, deadly tone. “Then I’ll make sure everyone knows who you really are, Cole. Your manipulative, gaslighting, toxic little games? They’re over. If you so much as breathe in Y/N’s direction again, I’ll ruin you in ways you can’t even imagine. You won’t just lose her—you’ll lose everything.”
Cole glares at him, but the fear in his eyes is unmistakable. “You can’t just—”
“Oh, I can,” Tony interrupts smoothly, leaning in so his face is mere inches from Cole’s. “And I will. Because she deserves peace, and I’m going to make damn sure she gets it. So take the deal, Cole. Consider it the best option you’ll ever get.”
For a moment, the room is silent. Cole’s jaw tightens, but he knows he’s been cornered. With a muttered curse, he throws the envelope onto the table.
“Fine,” Cole snaps. “I’ll take your stupid deal.”
Tony straightens, satisfaction flickering in his eyes. “Smart choice. Now, pack your things. Your flight leaves tomorrow morning. And remember…” He pauses at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. “Stay gone.”
Without another word, Tony leaves, his steps confident as he heads back to his car.
By the time Tony returns to the penthouse, the tension in his chest has eased. He knows Cole won’t be a problem anymore, and that knowledge alone is enough to make him feel lighter.
When he steps into the living room, he finds you curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your legs and a bowl of popcorn in your lap. You look up as he enters, a soft smile spreading across your face.
“There you are,” you say warmly. “I was starting to think you bailed on me.”
Tony grins, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto a nearby chair. “Bail on movie night? Not a chance.”
He sits down beside you, grabbing a handful of popcorn and leaning back into the cushions. The tension from earlier melts away entirely as you press play on the movie, your laughter filling the room moments later.
Tony glances at you, his chest tightening—not with worry, but with something far sweeter. You’re here, you’re safe, and you’re smiling.
And he’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way.
The morning sun filters through the penthouse windows, bathing the living room in golden light. You’re seated on the couch, your laptop balanced on your knees as you scroll through apartment listings. A knot tightens in your stomach with every tab you open, but you keep going. This is what you need to do, you tell yourself. It’s time to stand on your own two feet again.
Tony strolls in, coffee mug in hand, dressed casually in sweatpants and a faded band t-shirt that somehow looks effortlessly stylish. His hair is tousled, as if he just woke up, and the sight makes your heart ache more than you’d like to admit.
“Morning,” he greets, his voice warm and gravelly. He nods toward your laptop. “What’re you working on?”
You hesitate, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. “I… I’m looking for apartments.”
Tony freezes mid-sip, lowering his mug with exaggerated slowness. “Apartments?” he echoes, his tone carefully neutral.
“Yeah,” you say, forcing a smile. “I mean, I’ve been here for months now. You’ve been more than generous, Tony, but I think it’s time I find my own place. Get back to normal, you know?”
Tony leans against the counter, his gaze fixed on you. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and the silence stretches just long enough to make you squirm.
“Normal?” he finally says, a hint of teasing in his voice. “What’s so great about normal? I thought you liked our penthouse movie nights, me burning half the dinner, and JARVIS randomly suggesting we upgrade the toaster.”
You laugh softly, but your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. “I do like all that. It’s just… I can’t stay here forever. I need to prove to myself that I can do this on my own.”
Tony’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He sets his mug down on the counter, crossing his arms. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, Y/N. Least of all me.”
“It’s not about proving something to you,” you say, your voice quieter now. “It’s about proving it to myself. I’ve been leaning on you for so long, and I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done. But…”
Tony’s lips press into a thin line, and he nods, cutting you off gently. “But you’re ready to spread your wings, find your own space. I get it.”
He’s trying so hard to sound casual, but you see through him. His eyes don’t quite meet yours, and his usual easy confidence seems dimmed.
You hate how much it hurts to see him like this. And worse, you hate how much it hurts you to even consider leaving.
“Tony, it’s not like I’ll be far,” you say, trying to ease the tension. “I’ll visit all the time. You’ll probably get sick of me dropping by unannounced.”
Tony finally meets your gaze, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Not possible. But, hey, if that’s what you want, I’ll support you.”
The words are so simple, so Tony. He’s always supported you, always put your needs above his own. And maybe that’s part of why leaving feels so wrong.
Over the next few days, you keep searching for apartments, though your heart isn’t in it. You don’t want to leave—not really—but the fear that’s been gnawing at you since Cole resurfaces every time you catch Tony looking at you a little too long, or when his hand brushes yours during movie night, or when he smiles at you like you’re the only person in the room.
You’re falling for him. Hard.
And it terrifies you.
You’ve been burned before, shattered by someone you thought you could trust. And even though Tony is nothing like Cole—even though he’s shown you nothing but kindness and care—part of you can’t help but think that loving him would leave you just as broken.
So you push him away, bit by bit.
Tony notices.
One evening, you’re in the kitchen, preparing dinner. You don’t hear Tony approach until he’s standing next to you, leaning casually against the counter.
“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says, his tone light but probing.
You glance at him, forcing a smile. “Have I?”
He nods, studying you with those sharp, perceptive eyes. “You’re pulling back. I can see it.”
Your hands still, and you grip the edge of the counter. “I’m not pulling back,” you say weakly.
Tony sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Y/N, if you need space, just say so. I’ll back off, no questions asked. But if this is about more than just apartments…” He trails off, searching your face.
You shake your head quickly. “It’s not about anything else.”
His eyes narrow slightly, and you can tell he doesn’t believe you. But he doesn’t press further.
“Okay,” he says softly. “If that’s what you want.”
That night, you lie awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling. The guilt churns in your stomach, warring with the fear you can’t seem to shake.
You think about Tony—his laugh, his kindness, the way he makes you feel like you’re worth something.
And then you think about Cole, about the way he made you feel small, worthless, afraid.
Tears prick at your eyes as you realize the truth: you’re not pushing Tony away because of him. You’re pushing him away because of you. Because you’re scared of letting yourself be loved, scared of what it means to let someone in again.
But deep down, you know that Tony isn’t Cole. He never has been, and he never will be.
The thought stays with you as you drift off to sleep, unsure of what tomorrow will bring—but certain of one thing.
Tony Stark has your heart. And maybe it’s time to let him keep it.
The new apartment is nice. Spacious enough, with lots of natural light pouring through the big windows. It has the kind of charm you’d usually love—cozy corners for reading, a kitchen you can actually picture yourself cooking in. But as you stand in the middle of the living room, surrounded by neatly stacked boxes and the faint smell of fresh paint, it feels hollow.
Tony is across the room, carefully setting down a box labeled "fragile." He straightens up, brushing imaginary dust off his hands, and gives you a lopsided grin. “Well, that’s the last of it. You’re officially moved in.”
You force a smile, nodding. “Yeah. Thanks for all your help.”
“Anytime.” He pauses, his smile faltering slightly as his eyes flicker over your face. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you lie, avoiding his gaze.
He doesn’t push, just nods slowly. “Right. Well…” He glances around, shoving his hands into his pockets. “How about one last night at the penthouse? A farewell to the old place before you settle in here.”
You hesitate. You know he’s giving you an excuse, a reason to stall without outright saying it. But the idea of leaving this quiet, empty apartment for one more night in the warmth of his home… in the warmth of him… is too tempting to resist.
“Okay,” you say softly.
Tony’s face lights up, and it tugs at something deep in your chest. “Great. Let’s go grab takeout and pick a movie. Your choice this time.”
That night, you’re lying in bed in Tony’s penthouse, staring at the ceiling. The sound of the city hums faintly in the background, but your mind is far from quiet.
This doesn’t feel right. None of it does.
Moving into the new apartment, leaving behind the safety and comfort of Tony’s home—it feels like you’re walking away from something you don’t actually want to let go of.
Your chest tightens as you think about him, about the way he’s been your constant these past months. The way he’s shown you kindness and patience, reminding you of your worth when you’d forgotten it. The way he looks at you, like you’re the most important person in the world.
And the truth you’ve been avoiding hits you like a freight train: You’re in love with him. You have been for a long time.
The thought makes your heart race—not with fear, but with something else entirely. Something that feels a lot like hope.
Unable to stay still, you throw off the covers and swing your legs out of bed. You need to tell him. Now.
But when you open the bedroom door, you find him standing there, in his plaid pajama pants and an old band t-shirt, looking startled to see you.
“Tony?” you whisper, confused.
“Hey,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Uh, I wasn’t spying or anything, I just… I wanted to check on you. You seemed off earlier, and I thought—”
“You were standing outside my door?”
“Yeah,” he admits, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Okay, it sounds weird when you say it like that, but I didn’t want to bother you if you were sleeping, so…”
Your heart swells at the sight of him—this brilliant, confident man looking so adorably unsure of himself.
“Tony,” you say softly, stepping closer.
He takes a deep breath, his expression turning serious. “I need to say something,” he says, his voice quieter now. “And I know the timing sucks, and I’m probably going to mess this up, but… I’m in love with you, Y/N. I’ve been in love with you for a while now. And I know you’ve been through hell, and the last thing I want to do is make things harder for you, but I can’t keep it in anymore.”
Your breath catches in your throat, but Tony doesn’t stop.
“I get it if you’re not ready, or if you don’t feel the same way, but I needed you to know. Because having you in my life has been the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and—”
You don’t let him finish.
Closing the space between you, you press your lips to his, cutting off his rambling with a kiss that’s soft and certain.
Tony freezes for a moment, his brain seemingly short-circuiting, before he kisses you back with an intensity that makes your knees weak. His hands come up to cup your face, holding you like you’re something precious, something he can’t quite believe is real.
When you finally pull back, his eyes are wide, his expression caught somewhere between stunned and elated.
“I want to give this a chance,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “I’m scared, and I need to go slow, but… I want this. I want you.”
Tony’s face splits into the biggest grin you’ve ever seen, and he looks at you like you’ve just handed him the universe.
“As slow as you want,” he says quickly, his voice full of breathless excitement. “But, uh… can I have another kiss? Just, you know, to make sure I’m not dreaming.”
You laugh, your heart lighter than it’s been in years. “Yeah, you can have another kiss.”
And when you kiss him again, it feels like coming home.
Life with Tony Stark as your boyfriend is both everything you expected and nothing like you imagined. He’s indulgent, affectionate, and relentless in making you feel like the most important person in the world. But there’s also an unshakable tenderness in how he supports you—helping you unpack not just the physical baggage of your life but the emotional scars left behind by Cole.
It starts with the small things.
In the weeks following your confession, Tony seems to be on a personal mission to make you laugh every day. He whisks you off to rooftop picnics, surprises you with coffee at exactly the right time during your workday, and keeps gifting you little trinkets he claims “just reminded me of you.” One morning, you wake to find a tiny key-shaped necklace on your bedside table with a note attached: “You already have the key to my heart, but this one’s cuter.”
He doesn’t stop there. Every chance he gets, Tony casually reminds you of your beauty. Whether it’s a whispered “God, you’re stunning” as he watches you brush your hair, or a grin as he walks into the room and says, “How are you real?” he refuses to let a day pass without telling you how much you mean to him.
At first, it’s overwhelming. You’re not used to this—to being loved so openly, so freely, without conditions.
And sometimes, the habits Cole drilled into you creep in.
One night, you’re cooking dinner. It’s been a long day for both of you, but Tony insists on helping, chopping vegetables while chatting animatedly about a new design he’s working on. You laugh at his enthusiasm, but there’s a pang of guilt in your chest as you glance at the cluttered counter.
“I should’ve cleaned up first,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this mess.”
Tony pauses, knife mid-air, and looks at you with furrowed brows. “What?”
“It’s just… messy,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the kitchen. “You’ve had a long day, and—”
“Whoa, hold up,” he interrupts, setting the knife down. “Y/N, I’m not exactly allergic to a few crumbs on the counter. And even if I were, it wouldn’t matter because I’m here with you.”
You glance away, embarrassed. “I just don’t want to inconvenience you.”
Tony steps closer, gently taking your hands in his. “Listen to me,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “You’re not an inconvenience. You’ve never been an inconvenience. If you leave a mess, we clean it up. If you’re tired, we order takeout. Whatever it is, we figure it out together. Okay?”
You nod, blinking back tears.
He leans down to kiss your forehead, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You don’t have to shrink yourself for me, Y/N. Not ever.”
Moments like that happen often.
You find yourself unconsciously deferring to Tony’s preferences—asking him what he wants to watch, what he wants to eat, what he thinks you should wear. It’s not intentional; it’s just a habit born from years of trying to keep the peace with someone who made you feel like you could never do anything right.
Tony, of course, notices.
“Okay, hold up,” he says one evening, holding the TV remote hostage as you try to hand it to him.
“What?” you ask, confused.
“I’m not making this decision,” he declares. “You pick the movie.”
“But—”
“Nope.” He cuts you off with a cheeky grin. “Your turn. I’ll watch anything. Even one of those rom-coms where everyone falls in love during a snowstorm and learns the true meaning of Christmas.”
You laugh despite yourself. “You hate those movies.”
“Not true,” he says with mock seriousness. “I love them if you’re watching with me. So what’s it gonna be?”
It’s a small thing, picking a movie. But when you make your choice and see the way Tony smiles—like he’s proud of you for speaking up—it feels like a victory.
Tony’s affection isn’t just verbal.
He’s incredibly touchy, constantly finding excuses to hold your hand, drape an arm around your shoulders, or pull you into a hug. When you’re working late in the lab, he sneaks up behind you to kiss your temple or nuzzle your neck, murmuring something about how much he loves seeing your “brilliant brain in action.”
And he adores cuddling.
One lazy Sunday morning, you wake to find him practically glued to your side, his arm slung around your waist and his head resting on your shoulder.
“You’re clingy,” you tease, though you make no effort to move away.
“Clingy?” he echoes, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know this is a highly advanced form of affection distribution.”
You laugh, running your fingers through his messy hair. “Oh, is that what this is?”
“Absolutely,” he says, leaning into your touch. “Can’t let my girlfriend forget how much I love her. It’s a full-time job.”
Your heart swells at the word girlfriend. It still feels surreal, hearing him say it so casually, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Over time, you start to notice a shift within yourself.
The habits you developed around Cole—the constant second-guessing, the need to please, the fear of taking up space—begin to fade. It’s not an overnight change, but it’s there, thanks to Tony’s unrelenting patience and love.
He doesn’t just tell you that you’re enough; he shows you, every single day.
One evening, you’re sitting on the couch together, your legs draped over his lap as you sip a glass of wine. Out of nowhere, he says, “You know you’re amazing, right?”
You look at him, surprised. “What brought that on?”
“Just felt like saying it,” he replies with a shrug, though there’s a soft smile tugging at his lips. “You’re smart, funny, gorgeous, and you have this way of lighting up a room without even trying. I don’t think I’ve told you that today, so…”
You set your glass down and lean forward, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Thank you,” you whisper.
“For what?” he asks, his arms sliding around your waist.
“For loving me the way you do.”
Tony pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his expression serious. “Y/N, loving you isn’t something I do. It’s who I am.”
Months pass, and the two of you settle into a rhythm—a life filled with laughter, love, and the occasional mishap (usually involving Tony’s cooking experiments).
You start to feel like yourself again, like the person you were before Cole, only stronger. And every time you catch Tony looking at you with that soft, adoring expression, you’re reminded that this is what love is supposed to feel like.
Safe. Supportive. Unconditional.
And every day, you fall for him a little more.
Girls, boys, people, never ever doubt your self worth, and more than anything don't let anyone make you doubt of it. Because you're worth it, you're worth everything. Remember, if he hits you, it's not love, if he makes you feel small or underserving or bad, or anything like that, it's not love. Love is supposed to turn you to the best version of yourself, to make you happy. Always remember that <3
If writing the code was a slow descent into madness, then debugging was the ninth circle of hell.
You were slumped over your laptop, the harsh glare of the screen burning into your retinas. Apparently the code you sent to your group leader had bugs that need rewriting but it had been three agonizing hours of raking over the same lines, and you were currently one syntax error away from a manic episode.
"Where are you, you little shit?" you hissed, scanning the same block of text for the tenth time.
Then, you saw it.
"Aha!"
The shout echoed through the apartment. Tucked away at the end of the string of code was a single, tiny oversight that had compromised the entire build. The fact that it had stolen three hours of your life was absolute bullshit, but the relief hit you like a physical wave.
Finally, you were free.
You shoved away from the desk and erupted into a victory dance. You spun in a giddy, breathless circle, a manic laugh escaping you. It was ridiculous, a grown adult celebrating over deleting a semi-colon—but you were alone, and the victory was yours.
“pfft”
The familiar voice made you freeze mid-step. You whipped around to find Suna leaning against the doorframe. His thumb was hovering over his screen, and his lips were curled into a sharp, devious smirk.
"Suna..." you breathed, your face instantly catching fire.
The smart man didn’t say a word and just turned on his heel to bolt the fuck out there.
"You prick! Get back here!"
You launched yourself after him, your socked feet skidding wildly against the hardwood as you rounded the corner. He was fast, infuriatingly so. You could hear his low, vibrating laugh bouncing off the walls as he ducked behind the kitchen island.
"Delete it!" you demanded, your voice cracking with desperation.
"Delete it?" He spun to face you, using the island as a shield. His eyes were bright with the particular joy of a man who had just been handed a nuclear launch code. "Why would I? We can play it at the wedding"
You growled, lunging across the counter, but he pulled it back with the effortless reflexes of an athlete. Of fucking course.
"That video goes nowhere," you said, planting your hands on the counter, trying to look authoritative. "You hear me? Nowhere."
"I’m thinking the group chat," he hummed, his tone casually terrifying. “Atsumu's goin' to have fun with this one"
You gasped, tears forming at the corner of your eyes at the thought of that devil pawn teasing you to death. "You’re so mean!" You buried your face in your palms, letting out a muffled, pathetic wail. You let your shoulders shake for dramatic effect, peeking through a tiny gap in your fingers to track him.
Suna didn't buy it for a second. He snorted, leaning back. "Get your acting skills up, babe. Talk about amateur—"
You didn't let him finish the insult. Instead of lunging for the phone, you surged forward, grabbed the collar of his shirt, and pressed a firm, lingering kiss directly to his lips.
The effect was fast. Suna, the king of nonchalance, completely short-circuited. His arm went limp and the blackmail material in his hand suddenly mattered a lot less than the person kissing him.
Taking full advantage of his system crash, you snatched the phone from his loosened grip.
"You are never getting this back!" you laughed, breaking the kiss and spinning away before his motor functions returned.
"Wait—hey!" Suna called out, his voice a mix of breathlessness and dawning realization, but you were already halfway down the hall.
"Victory is mine, Rin!"
Rintarō stood in the hallway for a moment, his fingers ghosting over his lips where the warmth of the kiss still lingered. He watched the bedroom door slam shut, followed by the click of the lock.
He let out a long, slow sigh, his shoulders losing their tension as a small, lazy smile finally tugged at his mouth.
"Cheap shot" he murmured to the empty room.
He could hear you through the door, likely huffing in pride as you navigated his phone to purge every trace of that video from his gallery. You’d probably even empty the "Recently Deleted" folder. A smart move, usually.
What you didn't know, however, was that Suna Rintarō was nothing if not prepared. Hardened by the years of his blackmailing, the second he’d rounded the kitchen island, the video had already finished syncing to his private cloud drive. The footage was safely encrypted and tucked away where no amount of phone-snatching could reach it.
He’d let you think you’d won, mostly because that kiss was worth more than any blackmail. The video would still be sent to the groupchat though and he would sleep on the couch for a month.
a/n: i tried coding at some point and got frustrated trying to complete hello world, idk how yall do it.
