#Tech News Digest

[techsoulculture]

Tech News Digest: ZDNet & Ars Technica Updates Guide

ZDNet In the ever evolving world of technology, staying updated with the latest trends and advancements is crucial Two of the

[bob3160]

New in Gemini Advanced - Audio Overview

[clockcower]

First time christmas has felt christmas-y in years and all it took was new antidepressants and severe food poisoning

[ellipsus-writes]

Ellipsus Digest: March 18

Each week (or so), we'll highlight the relevant (and sometimes rage-inducing) news adjacent to writing and freedom of expression.

This week: AI continues its hostile takeover of creative labor, Spain takes a stand against digital sludge, and the usual suspects in the U.S. are hard at work memory-holing reality in ways both dystopian and deeply unserious.

ChatGPT firm reveals AI model that is “good at creative writing” (The Guardian)

... Those quotes are working hard.

OpenAI (ChatGPT) announced a new AI model trained to emulate creative writing—at least, according to founder Sam Altman: “This is the first time i have been really struck by something written by AI.” But with growing concerns over unethically scraped training data and the continued dilution of human voices, writers are asking… why? 

Spoiler: the result is yet another model that mimics the aesthetics of creativity while replacing the act of creation with something that exists primarily to generate profit for OpenAI and its (many) partners—at the expense of authors whose work has been chewed up, swallowed, and regurgitated into Silicon Valley slop.

Spain to impose massive fines for not labeling AI-generated content (Reuters)

But while big tech continues to accelerate AI’s encroachment on creative industries, Spain (in stark contrast to the U.S.) has drawn a line: In an attempt to curb misinformation and protect human labor, all AI-generated content must be labeled, or companies will face massive fines. As the internet is flooded with AI-written text and AI-generated art, the bill could be the first of many attempts to curb the unchecked spread of slop.

Besos, España 💋

These words are disappearing in the new Trump administration (NYT)

Project 2025 is moving right along—alongside dismantling policies and purging government employees, the stage is set for a systemic erasure of language (and reality). Reports show that officials plan to wipe government websites of references to LGBTQ+, BIPOC, women, and other communities—words like minority, gender, Black, racism, victim, sexuality, climate crisis, discrimination, and women have been flagged, alongside resources for marginalized groups and DEI initiatives, for removal.

It’s a concentrated effort at creating an infrastructure where discrimination becomes easier… because the words to fight it no longer officially exist. (Federally funded educational institutions, research grants, and historical archives will continue to be affected—a broader, more insidious continuation of book bans, but at the level of national record-keeping, reflective of reality.) Doubleplusungood, indeed.

Pete Hegseth’s banned images of “Enola Gay” plane in DEI crackdown (The Daily Beast)

Fox News pundit-turned-Secretary of Defense-slash-perpetual-drunk-uncle Pete Hegseth has a new target: banning educational materials featuring the Enola Gay, the plane that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. His reasoning: that its inclusion in DEI programs constitutes "woke revisionism." If a nuke isn’t safe from censorship, what is?

The data hoarders resisting Trump’s purge (The New Yorker)

Things are a little shit, sure. But even in the ungoodest of times, there are people unwilling to go down without a fight.

Archivists, librarians, and internet people are bracing for the widespread censorship of government records and content. With the Trump admin aiming to erase documentation of progressive policies and minority protections, a decentralized network is working to preserve at-risk information in a galvanized push against erasure, refusing to let silence win.

Let us know if you find something other writers should know about, (or join our Discord and share it there!) Until next week, - The Ellipsus Team xo

[ratanslily]

A little complaint, I guess, from my side.

I love rc, but let's face it, I think they need to curb some of their ambitions. There's no need to include new feature every update, and if you really want to, push it to the tech update! Keep the main update for your stories/books update only! It would take so much burden off the developers, tbh

And I love that they always keep us fed, but again, I feel like there's no need to push out new stories every update. There are stories being extended, and the ongoing stories are already big in number! New book every update doesn't really give us time to comprehend and digest them, as a result some of the books just dont make it big. Also more books means more pressure on the art team, who already have to handle bgs, sprites and cut scenes. Let's give the exhausted artists some breather, can't we?

I just put this out because I have a feeling that updates are being irregular lately.

You're already perfect, rc. You do not need to overstress yourself on every aspect.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How to shatter the class solidarity of the ruling class

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me WEDNESDAY (Apr 11) at UCLA, then Chicago (Apr 17), Torino (Apr 21) Marin County (Apr 27), Winnipeg (May 2), Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), and beyond!

Audre Lorde counsels us that "The Master's Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master's House," while MLK said "the law cannot make a man love me, but it can restrain him from lynching me." Somewhere between replacing the system and using the system lies a pragmatic – if easily derailed – course.

Lorde is telling us that a rotten system can't be redeemed by using its own chosen reform mechanisms. King's telling us that unless we live, we can't fight – so anything within the system that makes it easier for your comrades to fight on can hasten the end of the system.

Take the problems of journalism. One old model of journalism funding involved wealthy newspaper families profiting handsomely by selling local appliance store owners the right to reach the townspeople who wanted to read sports-scores. These families expressed their patrician love of their town by peeling off some of those profits to pay reporters to sit through municipal council meetings or even travel overseas and get shot at.

In retrospect, this wasn't ever going to be a stable arrangement. It relied on both the inconstant generosity of newspaper barons and the absence of a superior way to show washing-machine ads to people who might want to buy washing machines. Neither of these were good long-term bets. Not only were newspaper barons easily distracted from their sense of patrician duty (especially when their own power was called into question), but there were lots of better ways to connect buyers and sellers lurking in potentia.

All of this was grossly exacerbated by tech monopolies. Tech barons aren't smarter or more evil than newspaper barons, but they have better tools, and so now they take 51 cents out of every ad dollar and 30 cents out of ever subscriber dollar and they refuse to deliver the news to users who explicitly requested it, unless the news company pays them a bribe to "boost" their posts:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/04/saving-news-big-tech

The news is important, and people sign up to make, digest, and discuss the news for many non-economic reasons, which means that the news continues to struggle along, despite all the economic impediments and the vulture capitalists and tech monopolists who fight one another for which one will get to take the biggest bite out of the press. We've got outstanding nonprofit news outlets like Propublica, journalist-owned outlets like 404 Media, and crowdfunded reporters like Molly White (and winner-take-all outlets like the New York Times).

But as Hamilton Nolan points out, "that pot of money…is only large enough to produce a small fraction of the journalism that was being produced in past generations":

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/what-will-replace-advertising-revenue

For Nolan, "public funding of journalism is the only way to fix this…If we accept that journalism is not just a business or a form of entertainment but a public good, then funding it with public money makes perfect sense":

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/public-funding-of-journalism-is-the

Having grown up in Canada – under the CBC – and then lived for a quarter of my life in the UK – under the BBC – I am very enthusiastic about Nolan's solution. There are obvious problems with publicly funded journalism, like the politicization of news coverage:

https://www.theguardian.com/media/2023/jan/24/panel-approving-richard-sharp-as-bbc-chair-included-tory-party-donor

And the transformation of the funding into a cheap political football:

https://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/poilievre-defund-cbc-change-law-1.6810434

But the worst version of those problems is still better than the best version of the private-equity-funded model of news production.

But Nolan notes the emergence of a new form of hedge fund news, one that is awfully promising, and also terribly fraught: Hunterbrook Media, an investigative news outlet owned by short-sellers who pay journalists to research and publish damning reports on companies they hold a short position on:

https://hntrbrk.com/

For those of you who are blissfully distant from the machinations of the financial markets, "short selling" is a wager that a company's stock price will go down. A gambler who takes a short position on a company's stock can make a lot of money if the company stumbles or fails altogether (but if the company does well, the short can suffer literally unlimited losses).

Shorts have historically paid analysts to dig into companies and uncover the sins hidden on their balance-sheets, but as Matt Levine points out, journalists work for a fraction of the price of analysts and are at least as good at uncovering dirt as MBAs are:

https://www.bloomberg.com/opinion/articles/2024-04-02/a-hedge-fund-that-s-also-a-newspaper

What's more, shorts who discover dirt on a company still need to convince journalists to publicize their findings and trigger the sell-off that makes their short position pay off. Shorts who own a muckraking journalistic operation can skip this step: they are the journalists.

There's a way in which this is sheer genius. Well-funded shorts who don't care about the news per se can still be motivated into funding freely available, high-quality investigative journalism about corporate malfeasance (notoriously, one of the least attractive forms of journalism for advertisers). They can pay journalists top dollar – even bid against each other for the most talented journalists – and supply them with all the tools they need to ply their trade. A short won't ever try the kind of bullshit the owners of Vice pulled, paying themselves millions while their journalists lose access to Lexisnexis or the PACER database:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/24/anti-posse/#when-you-absolutely-positively-dont-give-a-solitary-single-fuck

The shorts whose journalists are best equipped stand to make the most money. What's not to like?

Well, the issue here is whether the ruling class's sense of solidarity is stronger than its greed. The wealthy have historically oscillated between real solidarity (think of the ultrawealthy lobbying to support bipartisan votes for tax cuts and bailouts) and "war of all against all" (as when wealthy colonizers dragged their countries into WWI after the supply of countries to steal ran out).

After all, the reason companies engage in the scams that shorts reveal is that they are profitable. "Behind every great fortune is a great crime," and that's just great. You don't win the game when you get into heaven, you win it when you get into the Forbes Rich List.

Take monopolies: investors like the upside of backing an upstart company that gobbles up some staid industry's margins – Amazon vs publishing, say, or Uber vs taxis. But while there's a lot of upside in that move, there's also a lot of risk: most companies that set out to "disrupt" an industry sink, taking their investors' capital down with them.

Contrast that with monopolies: backing a company that merges with its rivals and buys every small company that might someday grow large is a sure thing. Shriven of "wasteful competition," a company can lower quality, raise prices, capture its regulators, screw its workers and suppliers and laugh all the way to Davos. A big enough company can ignore the complaints of those workers, customers and regulators. They're not just too big to fail. They're not just too big to jail. They're too big to care:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/04/teach-me-how-to-shruggie/#kagi

Would-be monopolists are stuck in a high-stakes Prisoner's Dilemma. If they cooperate, they can screw over everyone else and get unimaginably rich. But if one party defects, they can raid the monopolist's margins, short its stock, and snitch to its regulators.

It's true that there's a clear incentive for hedge-fund managers to fund investigative journalism into other hedge-fund managers' portfolio companies. But it would be even more profitable for both of those hedgies to join forces and collude to screw the rest of us over. So long as they mistrust each other, we might see some benefit from that adversarial relationship. But the point of the 0.1% is that there aren't very many of them. The Aspen Institute can rent a hall that will hold an appreciable fraction of that crowd. They buy their private jets and bespoke suits and powdered rhino horn from the same exclusive sellers. Their kids go to the same elite schools. They know each other, and they have every opportunity to get drunk together at a charity ball or a society wedding and cook up a plan to join forces.

This is the problem at the core of "mechanism design" grounded in "rational self-interest." If you try to create a system where people do the right thing because they're selfish assholes, you normalize being a selfish asshole. Eventually, the selfish assholes form a cozy little League of Selfish Assholes and turn on the rest of us.

Appeals to morality don't work on unethical people, but appeals to immorality crowds out ethics. Take the ancient split between "free software" (software that is designed to maximize the freedom of the people who use it) and "open source software" (identical to free software, but promoted as a better way to make robust code through transparency and peer review).

Over the years, open source – an appeal to your own selfish need for better code – triumphed over free software, and its appeal to the ethics of a world of "software freedom." But it turns out that while the difference between "open" and "free" was once mere semantics, it's fully possible to decouple the two. Today, we have lots of "open source": you can see the code that Google, Microsoft, Apple and Facebook uses, and even contribute your labor to it for free. But you can't actually decide how the software you write works, because it all takes a loop through Google, Microsoft, Apple or Facebook's servers, and only those trillion-dollar tech monopolists have the software freedom to determine how those servers work:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/04/which-side-are-you-on/#tivoization-and-beyond

That's ruling class solidarity. The Big Tech firms have hidden a myriad of sins beneath their bafflegab and balance-sheets. These (as yet) undiscovered scams constitute a "bezzle," which JK Galbraith defined as "the magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it."

The purpose of Hunterbrook is to discover and destroy bezzles, hastening the moment of realization that the wealth we all feel in a world of seemingly orderly technology is really an illusion. Hunterbrook certainly has its pick of bezzles to choose from, because we are living in a Golden Age of the Bezzle.

Which is why I titled my new novel The Bezzle. It's a tale of high-tech finance scams, starring my two-fisted forensic accountant Marty Hench, and in this volume, Hench is called upon to unwind a predatory prison-tech scam that victimizes the most vulnerable people in America – our army of prisoners – and their families:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

The scheme I fictionalize in The Bezzle is very real. Prison-tech monopolists like Securus and Viapath bribe prison officials to abolish calls, in-person visits, mail and parcels, then they supply prisoners with "free" tablets where they pay hugely inflated rates to receive mail, speak to their families, and access ebooks, distance education and other electronic media:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/02/captive-customers/#guillotine-watch

But a group of activists have cornered these high-tech predators, run them to ground and driven them to the brink of extinction, and they've done it using "the master's tools" – with appeals to regulators and the finance sector itself.

Writing for The Appeal, Dana Floberg and Morgan Duckett describe the campaign they waged with Worth Rises to bankrupt the prison-tech sector:

https://theappeal.org/securus-bankruptcy-prison-telecom-industry/

Here's the headline figure: Securus is $1.8 billion in debt, and it has eight months to find a financier or it will go bust. What's more, all the creditors it might reasonably approach have rejected its overtures, and its bonds have been downrated to junk status. It's a dead duck.

Even better is how this happened. Securus's debt problems started with its acquisition, a leveraged buyout by Platinum Equity, who borrowed heavily against the firm and then looted it with bogus "management fees" that meant that the debt continued to grow, despite Securus's $700m in annual revenue from America's prisoners. Platinum was just the last in a long line of PE companies that loaded up Securus with debt and merged it with its competitors, who were also mortgaged to make profits for other private equity funds.

For years, Securus and Platinum were able to service their debt and roll it over when it came due. But after Worth Rises got NYC to pass a law making jail calls free, creditors started to back away from Securus. It's one thing for Securus to charge $18 for a local call from a prison when it's splitting the money with the city jail system. But when that $18 needs to be paid by the city, they're going to demand much lower prices. To make things worse for Securus, prison reformers got similar laws passed in San Francisco and in Connecticut.

Securus tried to outrun its problems by gobbling up one of its major rivals, Icsolutions, but Worth Rises and its coalition convinced regulators at the FCC to block the merger. Securus abandoned the deal:

https://worthrises.org/blogpost/securusmerger

Then, Worth Rises targeted Platinum Equity, going after the pension funds and other investors whose capital Platinum used to keep Securus going. The massive negative press campaign led to eight-figure disinvestments:

https://www.latimes.com/business/story/2019-09-05/la-fi-tom-gores-securus-prison-phone-mass-incarceration

Now, Securus's debt became "distressed," trading at $0.47 on the dollar. A brief, covid-fueled reprieve gave Securus a temporary lifeline, as prisoners' families were barred from in-person visits and had to pay Securus's rates to talk to their incarcerated loved ones. But after lockdown, Securus's troubles picked up right where they left off.

They targeted Platinum's founder, Tom Gores, who papered over his bloody fortune by styling himself as a philanthropist and sports-team owner. After a campaign by Worth Rises and Color of Change, Gores was kicked off the Los Angeles County Museum of Art board. When Gores tried to flip Securus to a SPAC – the same scam Trump pulled with Truth Social – the negative publicity about Securus's unsound morals and financials killed the deal:

https://twitter.com/WorthRises/status/1578034977828384769

Meanwhile, more states and cities are making prisoners' communications free, further worsening Securus's finances:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/14/minnesota-nice/#shitty-technology-adoption-curve

Congress passed the Martha Wright-Reed Just and Reasonable Communications Act, giving the FCC the power to regulate the price of federal prisoners' communications. Securus's debt prices tumbled further:

https://www.govtrack.us/congress/bills/117/s1541

Securus's debts were coming due: it owes $1.3b in 2024, and hundreds of millions more in 2025. Platinum has promised a $400m cash infusion, but that didn't sway S&P Global, a bond-rating agency that re-rated Securus's bonds as "CCC" (compare with "AAA"). Moody's concurred. Now, Securus is stuck selling junk-bonds:

https://www.govtrack.us/congress/bills/117/s1541

The company's creditors have given Securus an eight-month runway to find a new lender before they force it into bankruptcy. The company's debt is trading at $0.08 on the dollar.

Securus's major competitor is Viapath (prison tech is a duopoly). Viapath is also debt-burdened and desperate, thanks to a parallel campaign by Worth Rises, and has tried all of Securus's tricks, and failed:

https://pestakeholder.org/news/american-securities-fails-to-sell-prison-telecom-company-viapath/

Viapath's debts are due next year, and if Securus tanks, no one in their right mind will give Viapath a dime. They're the walking dead.

Worth Rise's brilliant guerrilla warfare against prison-tech and its private equity backers are a master class in using the master's tools to dismantle the master's house. The finance sector isn't a friend of justice or working people, but sometimes it can be used tactically against financialization itself. To paraphrase MLK, "finance can't make a corporation love you, but it can stop a corporation from destroying you."

Yes, the ruling class finds solidarity at the most unexpected moments, and yes, it's easy for appeals to greed to institutionalize greediness. But whether it's funding unbezzling journalism through short selling, or freeing prisons by brandishing their cooked balance-sheets in the faces of bond-rating agencies, there's a lot of good we can do on the way to dismantling the system.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/08/money-talks/#bullshit-walks

Image: KMJ (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Boerse_01_KMJ.jpg

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

[the-s1lly-corner]

Having breakfast at the mansion

Admin yearns for old creepypasta days... grrr... GROWLS!!! I miss old creepypasta Fandom!!! Need to make a long fic where it's just everyone in the mansion and it's like a sitcom

Notes: gn reader, long post, shit post/non serious post, LOADS of characters, I prommy I still write for creepypasta my brains just been dry, reader is also a killer and/or non human creature, no Ben due to my hc of "he's in some tech device 99% of the time + there's no need for him to eat + he doesn't feel the need to be included for meals", platonic + you're new to the mansion, parts overlap/character parts intertwine here and there, this was originally gonna have bloody Painter and puppeteer but the post kinda got long and overwhelming SOCKDKVKGLCSISIZ

CWs: none but it's obviously implied EJ is yoinking some organs to eat

Characters: slender, splendor, jeff, Jane, nina, ej, lj, masky, hoodie, Toby, sally

SLENDERMAN

He doesn't really talk and he doesn't eat. He's more private about his dining experience and he's not about to eat a human carcass at the table....

Well saying he doesn't talk would be a lie. He does, just not verbally. It's downright horrific the first time he speaks in your head but you're just gonna have to get used to it... mostly checks in on you to see how you're settling in.. though it comes off as being a host rather than a friend

That aside he's probably one of the best options to sit next to if you want a quiet and calm eating experience

SPLENDORMAN

He doesn't really eat... his diet is the same as his brothers and it's debatable if he even has the capabilities to digest human food. He simply likes feeling included at the table and takes it as a chance to check in on everyone

Especially you since you're new around here! So sitting next to him means you're gonna have him leaning down to your ear and asking you all sorts of questions about yourself

He does try to nudge you into conversations the others are having... horrible if you're shy

MASKY

He responds to your attempts to make small talk so at least there's that...! It's painfully awkward but at least he's not totally ignoring you..!

He doesn't stick around long after he finishes eating though, same for the other two proxies, since he's got things that he needs to get done... but you're free to come to him when he's done...! Granted he doesn't do a good job of communicating that, but...

You can't help but feel like he's watching your every move under his mask...

HOODIE

Odds are he's sitting next to masky so... double interaction! He doesn't verbally speak, only signs. He never much cared for writing what he wants to say down...

He's not much of a chatter either but he doesn't make you feel watched- at least not as badly as masky does... he actually prods back when you question him. Why should he be the only one being asked things?

Actually gives you a faint wave goodbye once he and the others have to leave to do their work

TICCI TOBY

He's closed off but not fully shut down... if that makes any sense. He's definitely down to a morning chat just don't expect him to really open himself up to you- you've only just got here after all!

You kind of get stuck in a conversation between him and jeff... funnily enough you learn more about toby through that than you would've without jeff

Maybe if you're lucky you'll get dragged along with him once he's done doing whatever slenderman wants of him to do... whatever.. so call it a success...!

JEFF

He can be a little mean and snarky... but so long as you're not being annoying or whatever he's not going to be hostile or mean... not overly chatty but not totally silent

You get swept up in a conversation between him and toby, at least both are chill enough to let you get a word in... maybe if your humor is right jeff will take a quick liking to you

Has no obligations unlike toby so if that conversation goes well maybe he'll ask if you wanna throw knives with him or something

NINA

Oh the second you sit down she's going to start talking to you. Good luck trying to have a quiet breakfast- she's more chatty than splendor

And don't try to get out of any plans she makes with you, she's going to drag you around to either get to know everyone or figure out the layout of the mansion... she's simply excited to have someone new around...!

Wastes no time in filling you in on some gossip... you may not have been there but now you know who did what and when

JANE

Doesn't like to talk while she eats so trying to talk to her now isn't the best idea... she does answer the first few times you talk but you can tell she's growing irritated as you fail to get her hints

Meals are genuinely the worst time to try to get to know her because of this, and she keeps to herself in general so trying to form a connection is going to take some time

She's not cruel to you of course, but it's clear she has her own thing going on and doesn't want it to be disrupted... but it's not uncomfortable to sit next to her at the table. There are other people to talk to and... she does listen. Keeps track of things... if you mention liking something she will remember

SALLY

LAUGHING JACK

Doesn't need to eat but is there just to catch up with everyone. His plate is just covered in candy. He does ask you what your favorites are though...! And he's nice enough to pick them off his plate and give them to you! In his eyes it's never too early for sweets!

His humor bounces between being innocent to mean to dark, he's a wild card in that regard... but he's generally pleasant enough- he's an open book and he wants to know about you as much (or more) than you want to know about him... don't let his massive size scare you off...!

He's only known you for one morning but he's already giving you nicknames. Likely the easiest to befriend asides splendor and sally

EYELESS JACK

So he's... different... he doesn't eat at the table due multiple reasons.. mess and shame, mostly. But you do see him dip into the kitchen to retrieve a bloodied bag from the fridge

He doesn't really take any time to talk to anyone outside of muttering a good morning. He does at least stop to look at you for a minute... oh... yeah... you're new... that why he doesn't recognize you-

There isn't really a chance to talk to him in the morning :( not only does he not enjoy eating around others he just... isn't a morning person... maybe you'll have better luck later...?

Perhaps one of the only normal people at the table, though get ready for her to try to plan a little game with you after breakfast

...it may be early but she'd love to do a tea party with you...! She's already got splendorman on board! Pleeeeeeaaaase come play with them!

No hassle in trying to get her to eat her veggies since... she usually just eats cereal..! Scrambled eggs. Things like that! She does still pick at her food though... she may be a ghost with no biological need to eat but it gives her a sense of normalcy

[bluemantics]

Hunk can see wholeness in broken things.

When he was a kid, his mother taught him to cook, and she’d take his hands in her soft, calloused ones and guide him to slice an onion or peel a carrot. Her deep, brown eyes watched every move he made with fondness as he desperately tried to replicate her seemingly perfect technique. He anxiously sat by the stove as she stirred all the ingredients in a big, metal pot. 

After they’d finished, Hunk remembered the anxiety that nestled in his chest, squeezing his heart while he waited for her to take the first bite. She’d dipped her spoon straight into the soup and lifted it gingerly to her lips, a whisper of breath curling over it that blew steam off it in spirals. 

When she tasted it, her eyes lit up, widening with joy that Hunk would carry with him to school and to the desert and to space and back home. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t actually cooked it alone or that his mom had to work the stove. Hunk had taken all these things and made them something new, something whole. “Wonderful job, my little chef.” She ruffled his hair. 

So, Hunk continued cooking. He found love and pride he could only communicate in food. Little labors of dicing tomatoes, mixing sesame and soy, slathering chicken in herbs and spices, it was all a language Hunk spoke fluently, a way for him to communicate when his tongue failed and his nerves tightened. 

Then, he grew up, and cooking wasn’t enough. It was an escape, but it wasn’t realistic. However, the Garrison was. His mama and mom argued a lot over what was right for him. Mom said he would be fine at home, but Mama disagreed, told her that they should foster the first sign of ambition Hunk was showing.

Hunk wasn’t sure if he’d call it ambition. All he knew was that being a chef hadn’t worked out for Mom, what with her late nights in their dimly lit kitchen, clutching letters she’d failed to answer. His moms had provided so much for him. Being a chef… probably wouldn’t enable him to return on any of that. 

Eventually, his Mama won, and Hunk was set for the Garrison. There, he learned a new language, of tools and tech and cogs. Just like cooking, he was shockingly good at creating something new from all the metal parts and circuit boards. Engineer, though not his first choice, fit him just as well as chef. Teachers fawned over his creations, and his new teammate, Lance McClain, raved about how “dope” and “radical” his projects were. 

Hunk loved his new teammates. Lance was hilarious, totally different from all the people he’d grown up around. He was unafraid to speak his mind and take action in a way that Hunk was envious of. If he’d get his act together in the simulators, Lance would probably have made fighter pilot. Pidge was cool, too, even if he didn’t speak much. 

So, Hunk continued building. He pieced together plans and projects by day and cooked for Lance and Pidge at night. He collected all the parts he needed to make a life for himself in this strange, militaristic place, despite never picturing himself even adjacent to a soldier.

Yeah. Ironic.

Then, Hunk found himself a soldier, fighting a war 9,983 years older than his lifespan. Soldier fit much worse than engineer or chef. He didn’t put anything together on the battlefield, didn’t understand the language of violence or bullets. Every cry of pain was muffled in his aching eardrums. Armor fit him poorly, feeling more like a cage than a defensive wall. Over and over, he looked around, searched for the pieces he could shape together to make warfare understandable, digestible. His teammates seemed to have no problems with it, making strategies and executing missions without doubt or fear. Hunk just had to think, he had to adapt, he had to puzzle, he had to plan, he had no choice, where did it start? Where did it end? What is waiting for him on the other side of this, when the puzzle’s been fixed and the team has— 

The team. That was it. They functioned like a group of individuals. If anything, Hunk knew people. He wasn’t Lance, all hyper-EQ and intense awareness, but he had his own thing: approachability. 

If they were going to be in space for an indefinite amount of time, Hunk would piece together a team.

So he cooked. He made dinners, a place where they were forced to spend time together and talk like normal teenagers. He fed Allura and Coran and Shiro comfort foods during late-night episodes of nightmares.

So he built. He tinkered with his lion, fixed her up while chatting with Pidge and Keith, lending an ear to their worries and their silences alike. 

And when he got tired, he leaned on Lance, who would smile knowingly and say, “Nice work, buddy.” 

Even if war would never become understandable, Hunk would make it quieter during the off-moments. He’d fix something else, with hands passed on from his mom, calloused and gentle.

[comicaurora]

Are you planning on watching or have already watched Batman: Caped Crusader? If you have watched it, thoughts?

I was a little late to the party, but I just finished it!

Narrative-wise it's very digestible, ten episodes largely self-contained into episodic mysteries. In my opinion, the best of the bunch is episode 5, mostly because this is probably the best variation of Harley Quinn I've ever seen in anything. The new interpretations of classic Batman villains are a little bit hit or miss - I love this version of Penguin, I liked Clayface but found him one of the less entertaining parts of his episode, and I felt like the pacing on the final spoiler villain of the season was pretty off, to a degree that it felt like a bit of a fizzle on the payoff. Still, the benefit of an episodic show is that it's okay if individual episodes are weak, because they don't drag down the disconnected stories around them.

Overall it's got an absolutely fascinating aesthetic and tone. It's classic DCAU/BTAS Timmverse visual style but with absolutely all of the future tech stripped away, leaving a weirdly faithful recreation of the original 30s aesthetic of the very oldest batman comics. There's no advanced bat-tech or bat-computer, no bat-gadgets perfectly designed to counter the threat of the week, no toyetic bat-mechs or bat-bikes. It's strikingly low-tech, which serves to make Batman feel a lot more reliant on detective work - he has to get his information from a library instead of a datascraping bat-puter or a bat-surveillance-state.

Despite being low tech, it's surprisingly high-magic. Normally Batman's solo shows are kind of walled off from the magic side of the DC universe, but one of the villains of the week is Gentleman Ghost and he turns out to just legitimately be a full-blown ghost, which forces Bruce to reassess a few things. There's also an energy vampire in a later episode. I like that this makes Gotham feel even more out of Batman's control, and it doesn't scooby-doo-ify the more fantastical elements of the DC universe.

Speaking of Gotham, it's delightfully grim. Batman feels like a small part of a large and unforgiving world, and the expanded cast of the story gets a lot of focus. Sometimes it feels like Batman's main job is to show up whenever things look dire for one of the Gordons so he can punch whoever's holding them at gunpoint.

This is also an interestingly early version of Batman - as in, early in his career. He doesn't have that "trained for everything prepared for every eventuality" thing nailed down just yet. It's rare for him to be completely blindsided, but he doesn't feel infallible like the Conroy batman of the classic DCAU. Focus is put on him specifically having issues about not confronting traumas - his own or other peoples' - in a healthy manner. He's less "seen it all and is consequentially very stoic about absolutely bonkers things" and more "so so very repressed holy shit"

Overall, I had a good time with it! Excited to see what they do with a season 2.

[phoenixyfriend]

Remember my post about Anakin pulling a Mike Murdock? Yeah, no, I have a full on AU concept now (with contributions by @threebea! indented)!

He lies so hard about having a brother that the universe invents a twin from scratch for him. It happens when Anakin is like twelve.

Anakin was just committing to the bit on a mission because he was bored.

The Force was also bored.

Oh no Anakin force manifests a sibling Obi-Wan: …That's not how the Force works. Anakin: You tell the Force that. Obi-Wan: Well, I suppose this would be your half-brother since the Force is your shared parent. Obi-Wan after the initial shock: This might as well happen.

New brother is better at some things and worse at others, as any person is. Anakin is, naturally, a fucking mess about all that, worries he'll be replaced, etc.

Obi-Wan just brings this to the Council and nobody can DENY this Skywalker from the Jedi after they already took the first one. So. Mace volunteers.

This Skywalker is a bit more Force than Anakin, got glowing eyes and visions and the Animal Communion buff. But is worse at flying, worse at tech, and unfathomably worse at people. Which is a FEAT, since Anakin's not too hot at social skills in the first place.

Mace has his hands full in many ways, including "keep this child from walking face first into the wall."

Obi-Wan: We are not calling him Anagain.

Anakin had many mixed feelings but! If he's going to have family then he's going to commit!

The other option is that the brother is younger by enough that the Older Brother instincts kick in, but I think the one-sided twin rivalry is funnier.

Anakin: I'm a big brother now. Anagain: I think we're supposed to be twins. Anakin: I have more worldly experience. Anagain: I'm taller. Anakin: wut Anagain: alpha twin alpha twin (that's his nickname until you come up with actual name lol) Obi-Wan: Well, I'm taller than both of you, and while that is the case you both need to listen to me. Anagain: (flash of foresight) So, not for long Obi-Wan: What? Anagain: Nothing. Mace: (the Shatterpoints are blinding) Yeah, I'll be taking this one. More seriously tho, Anakin definitely torn between what if everyone likes him better he's born from the force what if he's the chosen one what if and also: I have a brother I have family I need to take care of him. Probably some fun twin force bond too. Oh man Sheev after digesting all of that would definitely try to get some jealousy going.

Anakin talks about the new brother with terms like Freshly Hatched and Innocent Baby and it's mostly a joke except that now HE thinks Palps is a creep when it's aimed at Not Him.

Palpatine: When do I get to meet him? Anakin: [absolutely not] Mace won't let him [Yeah that'll work] Mace: Yeah, absolutely not, he didn't help save Naboo there's no reason for my Padawan to have a relationship with the Supreme Chancellor

I've decided to call the brother Aion (EY-yon). I like the whole thing about Anakin's name being based on Ananke, even if it's a disputed thing, so I go for Greek myth when doing alt names for siblings.

Mace still bitter about having to let Palps get time with Anakin not about to do the same if he can help it. Although that comic takes place later eh (handwaves) still The Jedi might try to be hush hush about where aion came from anyway since he would fall directly under Jedi business

Help I'm imagining Mace and Obi-Wan on a walk and the twins are on child leashes. Anakin because ADHD will have him trying to run off to look at something. And Aion because he's going to be so distracted by visions that he will walk into traffic.

"Can we send a letter to mom so she knows he exists?" The other thought was ANAKIN holding the child leash for Aion, and then Obi-Wan or Mace holding the one for Anakin. Lil chain.

Aion: Hey… I know I've only existed for a few months, and yes my memories of before are sort of built by the Force, but I'm pretty sure the Supreme Chancellor is evil. Mace: You saw that in a vision? Aion: No, he's just super creepy. Bad vibes.

Obi-Wan: Of course he's evil, he's a career politician. Anakin: What about your friend from Alderaan? Obi-Wan: That's different.

One of these boys is constantly zoning out. The other is smiling, but the smile contains murder.

They're both adhd but with wildly different sides of it.

EXACTLY

Also.

Aion: [silent, a bit upset but mostly chill] Anakin, holding his hand: He asked for no pickles!

[milqueandsugar]

🌼☕` Green With Envy `☕🌼

Gen / hurt-comfort if your like ten feet away and squinting, Fluff

Includes / Charlie , Alastor , Adam

| CHARLIE |

Charlie is never really jealous, alright, she has complete trust in you

That being said, it definitely happens!

Charlie is really, really emotionally intelligent and picks up on subtleties alot of others don't, she may be naive and trusting but she's not stupid and her vibe check has yet to be off

Ignore alastor that was a calculated risk

So when the two of you decide to take a break from promoting the hotel to share some greasy, cheesy food at a pub

Most food places were groceries, cannibalistic or bar and grills, so it wasn't uncommon for the two of you to go out for food and have a few drinks while you were there

She had just returned from the bathroom when she spotted the sinner chatting you up at the bar counter

Something about the sight, maybe the lighting, maybe how close the stools were- therefore how close you were, or something about how you played with the straw of your drink absent-mindedly set her off

She's not- proud of what she did per se

She slides in next to you, interlocking her fingers with your hand resting on the counter top, squeezing it affirmingly

"Hey hon, whose this?" Tone too cheery, smile a little to calculated

It's then she saw the hotel flyer in the sinners hands, aw, whoops

"Oh this is-"

"Travis."

They extended their hand too shake and still a little embarrassed about her initial take she took his hand, fumbling slightly before he squeezed her hand a little too hard

Oh

She wasn't the only one jealous here

She was VERY quick to get you two out of there, some emergency at the hotel or with nifty, or something, she doesn't like feeling like this and she doesn't like being in a situation that might make you uncomfortable, and to be very, very honest she did NOT want that demon anywhere near you

| ALASTOR |

He's a very confident man, he knows you love him, he knows that you know he'd do anything for you, he's comfortable with you

That being said when he finds the letter inviting you to an interview on 666 NEWS by Vox he felt all the jealousy he mocked others for having rise in his throat like bile

"It's some sort of trap, I don't want you going."

He sets the letter down in front of you, let's you read it, digest it before shrugging

"I don't know why'd they want to interview me anyways, I don't even think Angel has an interview with him."

"Oh I can think of a few reasons. "

He runs his fingers along your jaw, tilting your head up to look at him

"Maybe I should go then."

"What."

He didn't have time to register your teasing tone before your giggling at his expense

"If the people love me as much as you do maybe I should go on."

"Oh no one could possibly do that, no one who wants to live anyways."

Now it's his turn to tease, and he takes the letter from you, tearing it up

"Though since you seem so keen on fame why don't you join me on my radio show?"

| ADAM |

Jealous all the time

Doesn't bring it up because he wants you to believe he's confident but bro he's dying inside

The only time he ever, ever directly told you he was jealous or uncomfortable was in his early days in his band, back when he was newbie to the group and was working to gain his name in the industry

It was just after the show and the lot of you were hanging back stage, signing shirts and breasts and having a few drinks

You were talking about something inconsequential when a fan came up and started talking to him, you took your cue and peeled off to get a beer for the both of you

That fan came and went, and another, and another and he thought first you stopped to use the restroom, i mean hell he kinda needed to piss too

When he caught a break between fans he headed to the restrooms, now worried you didn't have toilet paper or accidentally locked yourself in (not speaking from personal experience at all, he doesn't want to talk about it)

Instead he found you backed up by some sound tech guy

"I uh- I should really get going, my boyfriend, uh is my ride and I gotta get home-"

"Why going so soon? I saw you behind stage waiting for him, I gotta say cutie, your worth far more than that ass."

"Haha, yeah, he's definitely an ass but he's my ass, yknow?"

Something about your nervous laughter burned that jealousy straight to anger

"Yeah, speaking off assholes."

He practically tossed the guy off of you

"Take a hint."

He was angry for the rest of the day, not at you, not ever at you, but damn, he needed to blow some steam off, mostly by angry ranting to you in your apartment

"What was that guy's fucking problem!?"

"That guys NEVER going to be on set again, fuck what if it was someone else who didn't have someone looking out for them yeah?"

[zoeykallus]

Look, sweetheart, I need Crosshair back with the batch. I need him to just find out about Tech. And I need him to come not only back to the batch, but too his lover (fem reader), and while they are having a rather hot reunion, he suddenly has a breakdown, trying to cope the news that Tech is gone. Reader comforts him, of course, catching him. Crosshair NEEDS a moment like that. Pretty please...

Aloha!

Yet another ancient request that slipped through the cracks. I'm so so so so sorry you had to wait so long for this. But I gotta tell you, I really like the scene that's just now unfolding in my head. Here we go, finally!

Crosshair x Fem!Reader One-shot - Don't Let Go Of Me

Warnings: 18+ (?) Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Strongly Suggestive/Sexual Themes/Fluff

_________

Ko-Fi (If you feel like giving me some coffee)

_________

"But, where is Tech? Why isn't he chewing my ear off with his latest findings yet?" It quietens down completely in the cockpit of the Marauder. Only the soft hum of the shuttle can be heard. Every single one of you has known from the start, that this question would come sooner or later, but it still hits you like a sledgehammer. Hunter is the only one who manages to meet Crosshair's gaze. "Things went wrong during our first attempt to free you" You see Crosshair slowly frowning critically. As if to brace yourself, you slowly take a deep breath and exhale again, as if it's you hearing this news for the first time, not him. Shrugging his shoulders, the Sniper asks, "So, what does that mean?" "Tech didn't make it back. We'd all be dead without him. Plan 99," Echo says quietly. You see Crosshair swallow. A tremor runs through his hands for a moment, then he is completely motionless again. The Sniper avoids your gaze, not looking at you once. He knows how well you know him, that you can see his every emotion, no matter how hard he tries to hide it, and right now it's unsettling him far too much.

Crosshair blinks, his expression stony, he doesn't move a muscle. A long, awkward moment of silence ensues, no one says a word. But then, just as you expected, Crosshair immediately switches from sadness to anger. His gaze could have cut dura steel as he sets his sights on Hunter. His voice isn't loud, but it's cutting as he speaks, "Why? Why the hell did you even try this! I sent you this message to keep you away, to hide, to keep Omega safe!" Hunter grinds his teeth, clearly preoccupied with staying calm. He has enough guilt without Crosshair putting his finger on it. "Tech could still be alive if you'd just done the right thing once," the Sniper snarls, digging his finger into Hunter's chest, "Just one fucking time" You see Hunter grit his teeth, the tension beneath his surface. Echo pushes Crosshair's outstretched arm aside and says, "Hunter was against getting you. Tech and Omega insisted we try" Crossshair gruffly pushes Echo aside and snaps, "Doesn't matter," turning to Hunter he says, "You're the squad leader, you have the final say and you should have decided differently" Hunter growls softly, "I'm painfully aware of that"

Omega, who has been watching quietly until now, says quietly but clearly, "Tech and I insisted, we would never have given in" Crosshair snorts, pushing past Wrecker towards the ramp. "Where are you going?" asks Hunter. " Out of here, I can't breathe in here," the Sniper grumbles and disappears from your sight. Wrecker sighs, "Well, that went as well as expected" You pat Hunter gently on the shoulder and say, "You did the right thing, if it wasn't for Saw none of this would have happened. It wasn't your fault, and it wasn't Tech's or Omega's either" Hunter sighs wistfully and says, "Maybe" "Give Crosshair some time, he's just hearing this for the first time, he needs to digest the whole thing before he can deal with it properly," you tell him encouragingly.

Hunter growls, "He should pull himself together sooner or later, we all mourn Tech, he wasn't just his brother" After a sigh he adds, "Keep an eye on him please" You nod and say, "I'll give him some time alone, then I'll follow him"

You wait almost two hours before following Crosshair to the beach. Omega had already wanted to follow him, but you asked her to stay away from him for now and leave you to it. The girl reluctantly agreed, only when Hunter told her to stay in the ship did she let you go alone. As if the weather were adjusting to the general mood, dark clouds gather over Pabuu. In the distance, you hear a low rumble of thunder. Shortly afterward, it starts to rain, and not just a little. You sigh and continue walking towards the beach. As expected, you find Crosshair there, on a rockier part of the beach, with his rifle, firing at makeshift targets consisting of glass bottles and various stones. You don't have to watch him for long to realize that he is anything but at the top of his game. He repeatedly misses shots that he would normally hit at any time, regardless of the weather conditions.

The wind carries his growls, his half-suppressed curses to your ear and you sigh softly. He is completely agitated, no wonder he can't concentrate. As you get closer, you see the trembling in his hands, which he repeatedly clenches into fists, shakes and tries to relax before he takes his next shot. But suddenly he stops. You know he has sensed your presence. His head slowly turns in your direction. As you stand next to him, he growls, "I was wondering what was keeping you" "I thought I'd give you a little space before I ambush you" "Hmm," he grumbles quietly, puts the Firepuncher back in the holster on his back, and sits down on one of the wet rocks nearby. As you try to sit down next to him, he stops you, shaking his head, "The rocks are wet and freezing, you're sure to catch a cold if you sit on them for any length of time" "You sit on them too" He raises his eyebrows and says, "I'm a clone, Kitten, besides, I have my armor on, I don't get sick easily"

With a sigh, you put your hands in your jacket pockets. Your clothes are already soaked, you don't think it really matters whether you sit down on the cold stone or not, but you stand still. Somehow you had imagined the reunion between you two to be different. You know that he is not the type for exuberant emotional exchanges, but still. The euphoria you felt when you realized he was back, which you actually still feel, you wish you could see some of it in him. At the moment, you're not quite sure where you both stand. You don't quite know if he wants to hear it, but you say it anyway, "I missed you" He looks up at you from his seated position, his gaze strangely scrutinizing, then his eyes wander back to the horizon over the sea in the distance. "Not as much as I missed you," he mumbles softly, so softly that his words are almost drowned out by the sound of the rain. You're so surprised you don't know what to reply, but maybe no response is necessary for now. Crosshair licks his lips, wipes rainwater from his face, and looks up at you again.

"Is there a place here where we can be alone and undisturbed?" "We are alone" Crosshair rolls his eyes and says, "No we're not, Omega is sneaking around back there, behind the rocks" You sigh, turn around and shout, "Omega, go back to the ship!" "How did you see me?" the girl shouts back in disbelief. "I didn't. Please go back to Hunter, I have everything under control here" After Omega leaves, Crosshair looks at you, a barely noticeable smirk at the corner of his mouth. "So you have everything under control here?" You shrug your shoulders. "More or less." He chuckles. "Now is there somewhere we can be undisturbed and maybe get out of the rain?" the Sniper asks.

Crosshair takes off the Firepuncher, removes his gloves and takes off his chest plate as he looks around. "So this is where you live now?" "When we're not traveling, yes" The little cottage is nothing particularly meaningful, you don't actually spend much time here, there's hardly any decoration or features worth mentioning. But he does notice one thing. You follow his gaze as you notice that it lingers in one place for a long time. There's a target hanging at the head of your bed. "You really still have that thing?" He steps closer to the bed, his fingers gliding over the burn holes from blaster shots in the target hanging above it, over the initials you both carved into it after your first training session together. He laughs softly and says, "You were as happy as a baby when you got to use the Firepuncher" "I remember," you reply quietly.

You swallow and finally explain, still quietly, "When I realized you weren't coming back, that you were staying with the Empire, I dug out the target from my old stuff and hung it up. Most of our things were destroyed on Kamino, so I didn't have any pictures or anything of you. It was just my way of remembering you and dealing with the fact that you were gone" He sighs softly, gazing at the strange decoration above your bed for quite a while before turning to you. "I never left you" "Yes, you very much did. You knew I couldn't follow you on your path with the Empire, if only because of my political past. When you decided to stay there, you left me." He shakes his head and sighs again. "It's not that simple" You shrug your shoulders impatiently, you don't want to argue right now, not at all. "Does it matter? I don't expect an apology or an explanation. You did what you thought was right at the time, and at some point you realized it was wrong. These things happen," you say, peeling yourself out of your completely soaked jacket and throwing it on the floor.

"You just let me off the hook like that? I'd be pissed if I were you" You laugh humorlessly, "Yeah, I know you hold grudges" Crosshair comes over with a sigh and picks up your jacket from the floor. "Don't you have a hamper?" You laugh again. "Still such a neat freak? No, I don't, I don't spend too much time here" With another sigh, Crosshair lets the jacket fall to the floor again. "You're completely soaked," he notes. "It's raining," you say dryly. You're only wearing a tank top, which is also soaked, and a pair of shorts under your jacket. His fingers graze your shoulders, which immediately makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. "Your skin is all chilled out, take off the rest of your wet clothes"

You laugh softly and say, "You just want to see me naked" He nods and admits, "That too, yes. But you're really chilled out." Crosshair watches you unabashedly as you take off the rest of your clothes, including your underwear, and finally stand naked in front of him. He takes a deep breath and finally says, "It's been a long time since I've seen anything so beautiful" The next moment your lips meet, they are as soft and warm as you remember them. The moment as you get closer, as his face approaches yours, is somehow a blur, as if it never happened, as if his lips had simply always been on yours. You help Crosshair out of his armor and blacks, the pieces flying carelessly to the floor on your way to bed. You roll through the sheets, hands and lips everywhere. If you're not mistaken, you can feel one of his hands shaking occasionally, but you're not really in a position to pay much attention to it at the moment. His fingers trail down your body, as do his lips, reaching for your body, pressing against you, naked and ravenous. Crosshair seems so greedy, almost desperate, as he caresses you, moaning under your every touch as if it's the first time anyone has touched him like this.

He's honest with you, direct. "It's been a long time since I've been able to relieve myself, I don't know how long I can last today" Your lips graze along his lower jaw and elicit an excited sigh. "You know that doesn't matter to me, being this intimate with you is enough for me" Crosshair rolls his eyes, but then says, "I know, but you also know that it matters to me that you get what you need. But right now... I just don't know how long this will last, and I need you now, your body, your closeness" You feel his hard cock twitch as it rests on your pubic area and open your thighs a little wider. "You're safe here, Crosshair, I love you. Come here, melt into me" The look he gives you is enough, he doesn't need to say the words back, the relief, the gratitude, the depth of affection in those otherwise serious eyes is worth a thousand words.

As he enters your body, his hard length stretching and filling your wet heat, you let out a deep, relieved sigh from your lungs. You've missed this feeling so much. It's strange, you feel much less arousal at the moment, more deep relief, a strange euphoria and affection. You smile rapturously as Crosshair climaxes, as expected, after a relatively short time and a few intense thrusts into your pussy. The sound that leaves his throat is both a moan and a whimper, it sounds relieved, surprised and in a strange way... desperate. Concerned, you gently stroke his bare back with your fingertips. He remains lying on top of you, most of his weight resting on his forearms, his head buried in the hollow between your head and shoulder. Then you feel it. A slight tremor goes through his upper body, especially through his shoulders, his breathing is heavy, irregular. A quiet sob, half smothered by your neck and the pillow. Holy shit, is all you can think right now. Crosshair has shown himself vulnerable to you before, in his, odd, often reluctant way, but this is new.

Silently, you draw gentle, soothing circles on his back while his tears wet your neck. There are no correct words now, you realize, this is something that needs to come out of him, uncommented. You don't know how much time has passed, maybe an hour or two. Crosshair is getting heavier on you. You don't want to bother him, don't want to push him away, but slowly you can barely breathe. "Cross," you say softly, a little breathlessly, "I can barely catch my breath" He straightens up with such a sudden jolt that you startle a little. "Sorry," he mumbles, hastily wipes his still tear-streaked face and starts to get dressed. His eyes are all red and swollen, you've never seen him like this before. Quietly, secretly, your heart breaks at the sight. You wish you could do something, but you know you can't force your care on him, that's not how Crosshair works. You have to offer him opportunities that he can take on his own terms and as he feels. "There's no need to apologize," you say gently. Crosshair sighs softly, "I know it's not particularly romantic to just leave after what we just did, but I need some fresh air, alone"

So he withdraws, again. Actually, you're not surprised. A relationship with Crosshair is sometimes a bit like a game of tug-of-war or patience. You stifle a sigh and continue to smile at him. "That's okay. You know where to find me whenever you need me." Crosshair sighs in relief, he didn't really expect you to make a scene. But the circumstances are a little different compared to normal, and basically he couldn't have blamed you if you'd been angry that he wanted to leave, he's aware of that. "Thank you," he says quietly, almost in a whisper, before opening the door and walking out into the rain. With a sigh, you go into the bathroom, clean yourself up and finally lie back in bed when there is a sudden knock at the door. "Who is it?" The door opens very slowly and Crosshair sticks his head in. "Cross?" you ask in surprise. "Yeah... I've changed my mind," he says a little uncertainly, entering the room and closing the door behind him again, "I don't think I want to be alone after all, I've been alone long enough, and I feel better with you."

Your eyes widen in surprise, but then you give him a warm smile. Crosshair clears his throat a little awkwardly and asks, "Would you mind if I stayed the night?" Your smile widens, and you say, "You know very well that you can stay here every night for all I care" A smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth. You reach out to him and Crosshair hurriedly takes off his gear, crawls under the covers and into your arms, wrapping his own arms around your body. With a deep sigh of relief, he leans his head against your chest and whispers so softly it's almost not even a whisper anymore, "I love you, don't let go of me" At the same volume, you whisper back, "Never" and feel him wrap his arms a little tighter around you.

@rintheemolion

@andyoufollowyourheart @clone-whore-99

@brynhildrmimi @kaliel2310

@misogirl828 @tech-deck

@meshla-madalene

@chxpsi

@thebahdbitch

@nahoney22 @ladykatakuri

@darkangel4121

@ttzamara

@arctrooper69

@padawancat97

@agenteliix

@allsystemsblue

@palliateclaw

@either-madness-or-brilliance

@ortizshinkaroff

@andy-solo1

@hunterssecretrecipe

@heyitsaloy

@greaser-wolf

@extrahotpixels

@hated-by-me

@hunterxcrosshair

@malicemercy

@bebopsworld

@echos-girlfriend

@cpnt616

@dangraccoon

@jediknightjana

@pb-jellybeans

@antishadow2021

@sleepycreativewriter

@projectdreamwalker

@1vlouds

@clonelovr

[screamingintothestarss]

wildflowers (part i)

pairing: fratboy!hunter x fem!reader

rating: 17+ (mature)

chapter warnings: starwars university!au, use of she/her pronouns, strangers to friends to lovers, mutual pining, miscommunication (yay!), brief mentions of sexual activity, hurt no comfort???, swearing

word count: 1.6k

notes: the new bad batch comic coming out has me fiending so i finished this at work hauhauahahhuaha. part one of this little mini series thing i wanna do for bandana (this man is holding me hostage do not send help)

chapters: i ii iii

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

fratboy!Hunter who can't keep his eyes off you, the new girl, your pretty figure making its way through campus. 

fratboy!Hunter who's sitting with his brothers outside for lunch, forgoing his meal just to stare at you. Wrecker starts picking off of his plate as Crosshair gives him his signature smirk. Tech's nose is glued to his datapad, and Echo gives Hunter a look. 

fratboy!Hunter who's currently being scolded by Echo on the ethics of staring, and he starts to feel a little bad. He chalks it up as another crush–an ideal, something to keep his mind busy at night. 

fratboy!Hunter who finds himself still thinking about you while talking to other girls. Sure they were kind, smart, and stunning, but there was just something about you. A cute Twi'lek has his attention, her cerulean skin and violet eyes captivating, but he finds his mind swimming in the rosy waters of you; the slope of your nose, the planes of your cheeks, the way your lips curve up into a little smile when you pass each other in the walkway–fuck. 

fratboy!Hunter who now sits next to you in some calculus lecture since you'd switched your schedule around. He's nervous, that feeling buzzing around in his nerves all hot and angry. Did he smile okay? Was there anything in his teeth? Is he in your personal space? Did you prefer the left armrest or the right one? Was he sweating? Was he your type?

fratboy!Hunter who gets along with you in class, cracking jokes and telling you stories about his siblings that have you doubling over. He learns that you transferred from a different university, not caring for the atmosphere there. He offers to be your guide, showing you the best places to eat, study, or just hang out. You're grateful, thinking it'll help you feel like you're standing on two feet.

fratboy!Hunter who takes you to his favorite joint on campus, a deli tucked away from the main commotion. Hidden and most importantly quiet, you learn that Hunter isn't one for loud crowds for long periods, something about his senses. You're munching on fries; he'd insisted on paying for your meal despite your protests. You take a break from your plate to peer up at him, only to find that he's already staring at you. 

fratboy!Hunter who flushes, red bleeding onto tan skin and nerves set ablaze. You find yourself staring back, getting lost in dark eyes and even darker locs. His face reminds you of that one sculpture you saw in your art class, chiseled to smooth perfection. Maker, was he always this gorgeous? Shyness creeps up the back of your spine, and you shift in the booth.

"We should get to class-" 

"R-right..."

fratboy!Hunter who's paired with you for some pointless calculus project. His head is already filled with you, and he thinks if he adds any more integrals and derivatives to the mix, he might spill over. At least he's got a good partner. 

fratboy!Hunter who invites you over to his apartment to work on the project. You thought he'd stay in the fraternity dorms, but he explained that he preferred to be with all his siblings. It was nice, really nice actually. Not necessarily something out of Coruscant's Architectural Digest, but it's spacious and clearly lived in; it feels like home. 

fratboy!Hunter who grabs your arm as you nearly fall out of your chair from the booming voice beating down the door. 

fratboy!Hunter who introduces you to his brothers, and the one you now know as Wrecker gives him a not-so-subtle wink and nudge. 

"You really know how to choose 'em, don't ya?"

Hunter shoots him a lethal glare, and Wrecker laughs and sets a heavy hand on your shoulder, telling you that Hunter's a good guy.

fratboy!Hunter whose heart flips around in his ribs at the sight of you and his sister Omega getting acquainted. She takes to you so easily, and you're so gentle with her, entertaining her myriad of questions and stories with your full attention.

fratboy!Hunter who watches you get along with the rest of his brothers, even joining in for a movie night. You said that you didn't want to intrude, but he assured you your presence was more than wanted. 

fratboy!Hunter who drops you off at your dorm, a question prodding at his mouth. 

"Would you like to go-?" he stops, and the way you turn around and look at him knocks him square on his heels. 

Shit.

"Did…did you want to come over tomorrow to finish up the project?"

It's too soon, he figures.

fratboy!Hunter who waves back at a group of girls that giggle in return, subtly stealing looks at his figure. You try not to turn your nose up, a bitter feeling settling in your gut. Wrecker's words from yesterday settle in your skull, and you think they’re about to give you a headache. 

"You really know how to choose 'em, don't ya?"

Was that what you were? A number? Another notch on his bed frame?

Your mood falls, and Hunter quickly picks up on your discomfort.

"Hey, you okay?" 

"M'fine." It's short–curt. You'd never been that way with him before. He looks at you, and the realization hits.

"It's not like that, I promise-"

"It's fine Hunter, really."

You're being unfair, you think. He didn't owe you anything; he could do whatever the hell he wanted as far as you were concerned. So why does it make you so uncomfortable? 

You don't actually like him, do you?

fratboy!Hunter who explains to you over a bowl of ramen that he's not what you think he is, and you can tell he's being sincere, but that sour feeling tugs at you like a loose thread. 

fratboy!Hunter who's getting dangerously close to you on the dinner table, the notes from your project spread out over its surface. It's like you're pulling him in, and you feel it too, then you're both getting closer and closer and closer-

"Ahem."

Hunter jumps, and you let out a soft gasp at Tech's sudden intrusion. 

"Apologies, but it appears I have left my thermos on the table, and I have returned to retrieve it." 

Hunter groans, and you stifle a laugh.

fratboy!Hunter who's relieved you received an A on the project–many thanks to Tech–but deflates at the thought of not having you around as often. He fiddles around with his comlink, debating whether to ask you the question that's been picking at his lips for two weeks now.

fratboy!Hunter who decides on the safer, less terrifying option and invites you to one of his frat parties on campus. 

fratboy!Hunter who's standing in the mirror longer than usual, sweeping dark locs in ten different directions trying to figure out the one you’d like the most. He shrugs on a jacket–the one you complimented him on–and gets ready to head out. 

“You must really like her,” Omega calls out to him from the kitchen.

He laughs through his nose, “She’s just a-”

“If you say ‘friend’, I’m going to throw up”, she snarks.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“It’s Friday! Echo says I get an extra two hours.”

fratboy!Hunter who’s waiting for you to arrive over a pumping mass of bodies and thumping music, regretting not asking you out somewhere quieter, but he didn’t want it to feel too personal–too intimate…did he?

fratboy!Hunter who misses when you walk in, caught up in a conversation with another girl. She’s laughing at something he’s saying, a dainty pink hand on his arm. 

~~~

“So…” she sings, and it's sweet and tempting flowing through glossy lips. “You seeing anyone?”

He bristles, and it’s abnormal for him. Usually, it’d be a smooth “Only if you are, babe” or an “I could be”. It was non-committal, heavy and flirtatious; nothing of importance came out of it. Maybe a tangle in the sheets or two…or three.

“You okay?” she asks, pretty little head cocking to the side. 

“Ah–yeah, fine. I’m fine,” he laughs it off, but he’s unable to keep up that air of coolness when he’s yearning for your heat.

She’s staring at him, sparkling brown eyes meeting his own, and he realizes he hasn’t answered her question. 

“It’s uh, complicated,” he tells her, rubbing the back of his neck. He knows it’s bullshit, but he can’t put a name on what the both of you have, or if there’s even anything to put a name on. 

“How complicated?” she sings, and it's sultry–tempting, even. Normally he'd give in, turning melodies into moans. 

“Complicated…enough,” he tells her, and she gets the hint, giving him a wave as she falls back into the crowd.

fratboy!Hunter who’s unaware you’d seen enough, leaving just as fast as you came.

fratboy!Hunter who pauses, a flowery-sweet smell tickling his nose, the scent of you–or your perfume rather–and he makes his way for the door. He spots you walking alone on the sidewalk, all dolled up, heels click-clacking on the pavement. He's quickly making his way over to you, your gravity pulling him in.

"Hey–what's wrong?" He grabs onto your arm, its warmth riddling your skin with goosebumps.

You jerk away from him, and he starts putting the puzzle pieces together, finding where it all fits.

Oh.

"Nothing was going on with us, I wasn't-"

You widen your stride, trying to gain as much physical and emotional distance from him as possible. He doesn't owe you anything, he doesn't owe you anything-

"I told her I wasn't interested because-"

"Just leave me alone!" You're trying not to cry, but your mascara's already stained your top.

He catches up to you and gently slots his hand in yours.

"At least let me take you home," he pleads.

You break away, leaving a you-shaped hole in his heart.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

-

-

-

[pancaketax]

What Remains | Chapter 14 Shattered Lines (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

Summary : Waking up hungover in Stark’s room leads to a tense morning filled with frustration and conflict. Stark’s hot-and-cold behavior—saving a life one moment and dismissing it the next—creates a constant emotional whiplash. Seeking relief through training, a brief conversation with Steve offers some clarity, but Stark’s harsh criticism and withheld validation continue to sting. Attempts to find stability only deepen the frustration, leaving everything unresolved and fragile.

word count: 16.8k

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

You wake up with the sensation of a jackhammer pounding relentlessly between your temples.

Each pulse is a detonation. Your throat is raw, dry as if you’d swallowed sand. Your eyelids weigh a ton, stuck together by fatigue and poorly digested alcohol. You’ve got a hangover. Not a mild one. One of those that crushes your skull and reminds you, with a specific kind of sadism, why downing glass after glass of wine is always a fucking bad idea.

You groan as you sit halfway up, a grimace twisting your face when your wrist makes itself known with a sharp, painful throb. And that’s when your brain finally connects. This isn’t your bed. Not your makeshift couch in the Tower. Not even that impersonal room you were assigned.

It’s… something else.

You slowly turn your head, each movement sending nauseating waves through your skull. Morning light filters through a huge bay window, bathing the room in a pale, almost unreal glow. The walls are dressed in subdued tones — grey, metallic — yet the space exudes a strange warmth. A quiet elegance. The kind of understated luxury where every object probably costs more than your last three paychecks combined.

A massive desk sits against the far wall. It’s cluttered with still-flickering holographic projections. Technical plans, animated schematics, a few handwritten notes. And there, right next to it — a jacket casually thrown over a leather chair. A watch left on the edge of a console. Details too personal to belong to a guest room.

Your stomach tightens. You freeze. You’re in Stark’s bedroom.

The realization jolts you awake — clean, brutal, like all your mental alarms just lit up at once.

Your eyes widen, your heart skips a beat, and suddenly the room feels too big, too quiet, too… smooth. You scan the space, searching for something — anything — that could explain why you’re here. Why you ended up in this damn high-tech sanctuary that still smells like new leather and clinical perfection.

— “Fuck, no...”

Your voice is rough, hoarse, almost foreign. You run a shaky hand over your face like you could erase last night by sheer touch. But the fragments return — disordered, acidic. The party. The alcohol. Stark’s lingering gaze. The alley.

Matthew. The knife. The panic. The pain.

You lower your eyes slowly. Your wrist is still carefully wrapped, enveloped in medical gauze that seems almost out of place in a setting like this. But it’s there. Solid. Precise. Ah. Right.

Bit by bit, the memories piece themselves together. Stark catching you, his gestures brusque but precise. His voice, annoyed but not indifferent. The taste of blood in your mouth. The dizziness. And that sentence.

“You can sleep here.”

You — unable to say no. Too tired. Too broken to protest.

— “Shit...”

You exhale the word more than speak it, in a blend of shame and resignation. You don’t know what’s worse: having slept here like a lost child or the fact that Stark didn’t kick you out at dawn with his usual predatory sarcasm. You sit up suddenly, jolted by a nervous surge. Bad idea.

Your skull explodes instantly in a wave of dull pain. You stagger, hands out to avoid falling. Your stomach knots, threatening to empty itself. You close your eyes, inhale slowly, deeply — like you could slow the world’s spin with sheer will. Why did you drink so much last night? You already know the answer. Because you were scared. Because it hurt less. Because for once, you wanted to forget. And now? Now you’re here. Standing in Tony Stark’s bedroom. And him? Where is he?

Your gaze darts to the bed. Impeccable sheets. Not a crease, not a trace. He didn’t sleep here. Not for a second. A cold shiver crawls down your spine. You step forward cautiously, your unsteady gait betraying every protest of your aching body. Your fingers brush the edge of the desk, as if anchoring yourself to something tangible. No sound. No presence. Nothing but silence and the faint beeping of still-active holographic blueprints. A sigh escapes you, long and heavy, as you stretch cautiously. Your back cracks. Your head still pounds. You need coffee. Urgently.

But first… you need to get out of here. Now. Before Stark walks in and this already borderline situation tilts into full-blown awkwardness. You cast one last glance at the room, as if to make sure you haven’t left anything behind. Nothing but your dignity, maybe. You turn the handle slowly, as delicately as possible, heart pounding in your temples. The door opens with a barely audible click. You slip into the hallway, eyes alert, every sense on edge, ready to retreat like a thief caught in the act. No one.

A sigh of relief escapes you, almost involuntarily. Your chest loosens — just a little. You close the door as discreetly as you opened it, holding your breath as if any noise could trigger an alarm. The hallway is bathed in soft light, still tinted with the pinkish hues of morning. Impeccable walls, perfectly polished floors… everything seems to remind you that you don’t belong here. Every step you take feels too loud, too heavy, as if the Tower itself were reminding you of your temporary intruder status. Your skull keeps punishing you for last night’s excess, each pulse echoing painfully through your sinuses.

And your body? It protests every movement. Your wrist throbs in waves, your stomach threatens rebellion at the slightest jolt, and your legs drag like they carry the weight of your shame. You need coffee. Seriously. And a good excuse to disappear.

You walk slowly through the silent hallways, heading toward the communal kitchen you spotted the day before, guided by instinct — or maybe your nose. The air here is fresh, clean, almost too much so. There’s a metallic, precise scent, that clinical smell typical of technologically sterilized places. You’re starting to get used to this atmosphere, to this almost inhuman perfection. And if you’re being honest, it kind of scares you. You reach the corner of the hallway when voices break the silence. You stop dead.

Two familiar voices.

— "…he’s lucky Tony was there, you know."

— "I know. But honestly, this can’t keep going. Something has to be done."

You frown, straining to listen without moving. Pepper. And Happy. You’d recognize that concerned, diplomatic tone anywhere. And Happy’s deep voice, always a bit gruff, more direct. You don’t quite understand what they’re talking about yet. But your heart speeds up. They’re talking about someone. Probably about you. You swallow. You inch forward, just enough to hear — but not enough to be seen. You glance at the glass wall on your left. They’re in the kitchen. Standing, backs to the door. Coffee in hand. Serious expressions.

And you? You hesitate. What now? Walk in like nothing’s happening? Turn back and pretend you were never there? Or stay frozen a little longer, nerves on edge, like their next sentence might decide your future here? The atmosphere seems calm, but there’s a heaviness in the air, like a conversation was paused the second you arrived. You hesitate for a split second on the threshold, heart still pounding too fast. Then you take a deep breath, force your back straight, and step into the room, eyes locked on the coffeemaker. Maybe if you move fast enough, you can grab your coffee without getting interrogated. But of course, that’s too much to ask.

The moment Pepper sees you, she cuts off mid-sentence. Her eyes land on you with surgical precision, probably noting your stiff posture, drawn features, the shadows under your eyes. Her cup remains halfway to her lips. Next to her, Happy sizes you up with a half-smirk, arms crossed over his chest like he’s been waiting for this moment all morning.

— "You look like hell."

You don’t even bother reacting. You just sigh, grab a clean mug from the cupboard, and search for the coffee.

— "Thanks, Happy. Always a charmer."

You pour the dark liquid in silence, not sparing them a glance. The simple sound of coffee hitting the cup anchors you, grounds you. Pepper stays more composed, but her gaze is much sharper. Uncompromising.

— "Are you okay?" she asks, gently.

It’s not a real question. It’s a test. You can hear it in her voice, in her posture. She already knows. Or at least suspects. You shrug vaguely, lifting the mug to your lips. The warmth of the porcelain in your hands helps keep you steady.

— "I’ve had worse."

— "That’s not exactly comforting," Happy mutters, sipping his coffee. "Considering what we saw last night, ‘worse’ sounds pretty damn alarming."

You clench your jaw and swallow a mouthful of too-hot coffee without flinching. You don’t want to have this conversation. Not now. Not here. And especially not with them.

— "I just drank too much, that’s all."

A flimsy lie. Even you don’t believe it. Pepper shares a silent look with Happy. One of those wordless exchanges full of meaning, the kind that makes you feel like you’ve already been dissected and filed away. But to your surprise, she doesn’t press. She stays quiet. Maybe out of pity. Maybe out of strategy.

You slowly lean against the counter, mug in hand. You force yourself to breathe. To keep your eyes open. You take another sip. This time, it starts to work. Your thoughts settle a little. Your heart slows. And that’s when Stark walks into the kitchen. Impeccable. Of course. Suit clean-cut to perfection, glasses on, tablet in hand. The look of someone who hasn’t slept but still runs at one hundred percent. He spots you immediately. Scans you. A beat. Then he raises an eyebrow without breaking stride.

— "Upright. Breathing. Not bleeding out. Progress."

You’re not sure if it’s sarcasm, provocation, or some strange form of compliment. Maybe all three. You just lift your mug in response, a silent toast to your miserable survival. He steps closer, glancing at your mug, then your face.

— "You slept on my couch. Can you stop snoring next time ?"

You nearly choke on your coffee. Pepper exhales a sigh as long as the week, and Happy chuckles into his mug. You want to sink into the floor. Stark lets you stew in that brief illusion of peace, pretending you can start your day without a hitch. One sip. Then another. The warmth of the coffee soothes your nerves, your heart finally calming… just enough for his voice to cut through, sharp and laced with perfectly measured nonchalance.

— "So… what was the plan last night? Get stabbed in an alley before your trial period's even over?"

Boom. You close your eyes for just a second. You saw it coming. Or at least, you should have.

Happy freezes mid-bite into his croissant, eyebrows raised with incredulity. Pepper lets out an already weary sigh—the kind reserved for unmanageable kids or lost causes. You set your cup down a bit too forcefully on the counter, the sound echoing in the tense silence. You take a slow, measured breath, trying not to react too quickly.

— "I didn't exactly plan on getting attacked, if that's what you're asking."

Stark tilts his head slightly, feigning sympathy.

— "Oh, really? Because from here, it looks like you're actively campaigning for punching bag of the year. And doing pretty well at it."

You grit your teeth. Because it hurts. Because it isn't entirely false. And because you're not even sure if you still have the strength to defend yourself.

— "I handled the situation."

— "Oh yeah?" He raises an eyebrow. "Then I must've imagined dropping my car keys to scrape you off the pavement."

Happy almost chokes with laughter. Pepper crosses her arms, shooting Stark an icy glare.

— "Tony."

He ignores her completely. Of course.

— "You've got a target on your back, and you keep moving forward like it's just... some minor inconvenience. Mind telling me how many more times you plan to get your face smashed in before realizing pride doesn't stop knives?"

And that's the last straw. You pivot toward him, your eyes blazing with anger, exhaustion, and everything else you've held back for days, weeks, maybe even longer.

— "And what exactly do you want?!" you snap, louder than intended.

Your voice cracks through the kitchen, and even Happy, who's used to Tony's outbursts, freezes slightly.

— "What do you want, Stark? Should I get on my knees and thank you? Send you flowers for saving my life?!"

He doesn't flinch. He just leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes locked onto yours, unwavering.

— "I just don't want to find your corpse on the sidewalk. It'd really mess up the office vibe."

You laugh—a short, dry, nervous laugh leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

— "Of course. It's always about productivity, isn't it, Boss?"

His expression barely shifts. But you sense a slight tension in his jaw. Silence settles. Less arrogant. Less controlled. Pepper finally breaks it, her voice gentle but firm.

— "No one's saying you have to face this alone."

You lower your eyes, feeling your breath falter. You run a hand over your face, as if you could erase all the weight in one motion. But it's still there. The heaviness. The image of Matthew. The ache in your wrist. The fear in your gut.

— "I can handle it." Your voice is rougher, less certain. "Like I've always done."

Stark lets out a small laugh, but there's no mockery this time. Just dry. Bitter.

— "Yeah. And we've all seen how well that's worked out."

The silence that follows is brutal. Dense. And this time, no one laughs. You want to respond, to throw something back—anything—just to not stand there like a humiliated child. But nothing comes. No words find the strength to leave your throat. Pepper gently places a hand on your forearm. A discreet contact, yet grounded, like an anchor in your storm.

— "Why do you refuse to let us help you?"

You don't answer immediately. Because you don't know. Or maybe you do. But you've never wanted to put words to it. You've preferred surviving without thinking. Just moving forward. Not feeling. You clench your fists. Hard. Too hard. Your injured wrist protests, but you don't care.

— "I don't understand…" you finally whisper, voice ragged. "Boss… How can you say stuff like that, as if I'm just… a number, a failed project, a fucking casting mistake."

Your voice shakes. It's not fear. It's frustration. Pure, brutal, and it's rising, roaring like a storm about to break.

— "These last few days, I fought. For real. To prove I wasn't just a parasite, not just some lost kid."

You meet his gaze head-on now. Refusing to look away.

— "I kept quiet. I took the hits. Worked myself nearly to death to show you I had value. That I wasn't a burden."

You breathe heavily, almost gasping. Anger coils in your throat, squeezing your chest.

— "Last night, when you took me back… when you patched me up, I thought 'this is it.' Maybe… you'd finally see me differently."

A laugh escapes you. Dry. Bitter. There's nothing funny about it, and that's obvious.

— "But no. Of course not."

You fix your eyes on his.

— "You're just an asshole."

Pepper flinches. Happy looks up, surprised. Stark doesn't budge. He watches you. Calm on the surface. But you see in his eyes that he's processing, calculating, assessing.

— "And that's exactly why I don't want your help," you continue, your voice harder, steadier. "Because you only see what you want to see. The fragile guy. The nuisance. The collateral damage."

Stark arches an eyebrow, arms crossed, gaze still locked onto you.

— "Oh yeah? I pull you out of some armed lunatic's grip, and that's how you thank me?"

You stare at him. Anger, contempt, exhaustion swirl in your gaze.

— "I never asked you to save me."

And the silence falls again. Dense. Cutting. You breathe heavily. Your heart pounds wildly. Every word you've just spoken has drained you, as if you've spat out everything you've swallowed for weeks. But it's out now. And you're waiting. For it to explode. Or collapse. It might be the hardest sentence you've ever said. Because it's true. You've never asked for his help. Never begged for any outstretched hand. You've never wanted to be some damn rehabilitation project, a broken kid he could test his moral limits on. All you've ever wanted was to be left alone. Quietly. To work, exist, breathe without constantly being reminded you're just a mess that needs fixing. Pepper and Happy exchange a glance—one of those heavy silences where words become useless. The atmosphere is electric. Charged. You laugh. Short. Bitter. An acidic sound scratching your throat as much as your pride.

— "You say I can't manage my life, but since I've been here, I haven't made a single mistake. I've followed everything. Your rules. Your schedules. Your impossible demands. Yet still... I'm just dead weight in your eyes. Always this damn problem you have to contain."

You point at him, your whole body vibrating with restrained anger.

— "You spend your time testing me, pushing me down, waiting for me to collapse like it's inevitable. And then you act surprised because I don't want your help?! You're the one who taught me to handle things alone, Stark! You're the one who conditioned me to shut up and grit my teeth!"

And there's a moment—a single moment—where you see something flash in his eyes. Something more human. Somewhere between shame and regret. But as quickly as it appears, it's gone. The mask returns. Cold. Neutral.

— "You're not wrong."

His answer stops you cold. But he doesn't stop there.

— "The difference is, I knew when to stop messing around."

You open your mouth, ready to explode, but he lifts a hand, and strangely, you halt.

— "If you can't see you've already pushed past all your limits, then yeah, I'll keep putting pressure on you. Because I'd rather have an employee who hates me than find a kid cold and dead in some damn alley."

You stand there. Frozen. Shaken. And what breaks you the most... is knowing he's sincere. You look away, unable to bear that truth thrown at you without filter, without empathy. Just raw. Brutal. Like a slap in a room already overflowing with pain. You leap to your feet.

— "I don't need to hear this."

You grab your coffee cup, but the taste left on your tongue is like ashes. You cross the kitchen with heavy steps, every heartbeat pounding in your temples like a war drum. But just before reaching the door, you stop. You turn back. Your eyes catch Pepper's. Then Happy's. They haven't moved. But they've heard everything.

— "And you... you're okay with this?"

Your voice is dry. Shaky. A reproach disguised as a question—or perhaps the opposite. Pepper lowers her eyes, her fingers tightening around her cup. Happy remains stone-faced, arms crossed, but his features are tighter than usual. He slightly turns his head away. No one answers. You smile—a smile that's anything but. It's a grimace. A crack on the edge of collapse.

— "Of course you're okay with it."

You slowly nod, throat tight.

— "Why did I think for even one second it would be different..."

Stark says nothing. He still watches you. Motionless. He doesn't stop you. Doesn't call you back. Not a word. Not a step. And you don't know what's worse: that he doesn't care, or that he knows exactly what he's doing. You hate him for it. You grit your teeth. You turn on your heel.

— "Forget it."

And you leave, letting the door slam shut behind you—a sharp sound, too close to a farewell to just be an ordinary exit.

Pepper stays frozen for a moment, eyes fixed on the still-quivering door through which you left. The silence left behind is dense, almost tangible. She slowly runs a hand through her hair, pushing back a stray lock behind her ear with a quiet sigh. But she doesn't speak. Not right away. Happy, still leaning against the counter, crosses his arms over his chest. He glances sideways at Stark, brows furrowed, his gaze darkened by an anxiety he no longer bothers to hide.

— "Not gonna lie, boss," he finally says, voice deep and controlled. "That wasn't very elegant."

He's not trying to provoke him. But he's not sparing him either. Stark doesn't reply. He's seated on one of the kitchen stools, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. Between his fingers, a metal spoon turns slowly, still stained with melted sugar. A repetitive gesture, almost absent. He stares at the object as if it might hold an answer—or at least a distraction.

— "Did you hear what he called me?" he finally mutters, without looking up. "Me, an asshole."

He lifts his head towards Happy, a half-smile stretching his lips. Sarcastic, bitter. A well-practiced facade.

— "Funny, I never would've guessed."

He lets out a small, dry laugh, but no one laughs with him. Pepper slowly approaches, heels clicking softly on the floor. She gently sets down her cup, then leans against the countertop, arms crossed.

— "You know he wasn't entirely wrong," she calmly says, her gaze fixed on Stark's. "You provoked him. Again."

— "I brought him back in one piece. Even gave him a private room. Should I throw in a stuffed animal and chocolates on the pillow too?" he retorts sharply, tone harsher than intended.

— "That kid showed up bleeding in front of the tower. He was shaking. He had marks around his throat, Tony," she replies instantly, her voice steady but icy with intensity. "And he apologized. He apologized, as if he'd put you in danger."

Stark looks away. The spoon stops turning. He sets it down on the table with a sharp clink.

— "He thinks he can handle everything alone," he mutters. "And you think we should cradle him."

— "No," Pepper corrects sharply. "I think he needs us to stop treating him like a problem. Stop telling him he's a burden or a project to fix."

Happy, silent until now, slowly shakes his head.

— "He's not built for the kind of pressure you're putting on him. Not yet."

Stark doesn't reply. His fingers interlock, his elbows return to rest on the table. He remains frozen, clearly lost in thought. Pepper fixes him a moment longer, then softly exhales, as if the air in her lungs had become too heavy.

— "He called you an asshole," she murmurs. "And you know what's bothering me? That you didn't even try to defend yourself."

Stark doesn't react. He stares vaguely at the wall, and in his eyes, despite the facade, you can see something rare. Doubt. He raises an eyebrow, a sarcastic glint in his gaze, as if to brush aside the gravity of the discussion.

— "Didn't know you'd become his shrink, Pep."

— "I'm not his shrink," she immediately replies, sharp yet calm. "But I'm not blind either."

She straightens up, arms crossed, and stares at Tony with an expression that's made billionaires, senators, and Avengers alike yield.

— "You've pushed him to the edge since he got here. I understand wanting to test his limits, wanting him to prove himself, but this... wasn't a test. It was a demolition."

Stark chuckles, dryly, humorlessly.

— "Since when do you dictate my methods?"

She stands her ground, unflinching.

— "No one's asking you to be his nanny. But have you ever thought about seeing him as a person, just once? Not a burden, not an investment, not a test. Just a human being who's drowning."

Silence falls. Stark doesn't respond immediately. He sighs deeply, setting down the spoon with deliberate slowness. His gaze drifts momentarily toward the closed door.

— "I'm doing what's necessary," he finally says, sounding like a rehearsed defense.

Happy rolls his eyes, irritated.

— "Damn, Tony."

Pepper turns away, leaving without another word. Happy follows, leaving Stark alone, staring at his half-empty cup, replaying a trembling voice screaming, "I never asked you to save me."

And for the first time in a long while... he's not sure if he's right.

You slam the door behind you, the sound reverberating through the room like a thunderclap. Your bedroom—impersonal, too clean, too quiet—suddenly feels suffocating. Your footsteps echo on the immaculate floor, but you stagger. Your breathing is ragged, irregular, and your hands are still trembling from the mixture of rage, humiliation, and the fatigue clinging to your bones.

You collapse onto the bed without even taking off your shoes. Head in your hands, you try to push back the storm raging in your chest. But it's pointless. The turmoil doesn't fade. It loops relentlessly, like a scratched record. Your thoughts derail. You want to scream, break everything, or just disappear under the covers and never have to face this fucking world again.

Then they return.

The memories.

The images.

The nightmares.

Insidious. Unstoppable.

Yesterday's dream hits you head-on, like an uppercut to the gut. This nightmare that isn't really a nightmare anymore. It's too precise, too vivid. The shadows encircle you again. Chilling laughter rises in the dark, twisted, cruel. You feel the fear rising, panic gripping your throat. You see his eyes again—Stark's eyes—frozen, cold, distant. And you, on your knees, unable to move as the blade sinks into your stomach like slow punishment. The burning of the metal, warm blood flowing, pain engulfing everything. And his gaze, again. Indifferent. Unshakeable.

You sit upright abruptly, panting. Your eyes scan the room as if expecting to find a ghost. You're covered in sweat, sheets stuck to your skin. Your heart pounds too hard in your chest. A trembling hand slides over your face. Fuck. Why does it haunt you so much? Why does he haunt you so much? You stand, pacing the room like a caged lion. Air seems scarce, the space shrinking. You open a window, letting the cold bite your skin, hoping it anchors you a little. You clench your teeth, gaze lost among New York’s towers.

Why is he like this?

How can he, in one single night, become the only barrier between you and death… then, come morning, trample you as if you were nothing? Why this constant swing between shield and weapon? Between an outstretched hand and verbal punches?

Last night, he could have left you there. Let you die in that alley. He had a thousand reasons to do it. He wouldn't have even had to justify it. But he came. He found you. He pulled you out. He cleaned your wounds, treated your wrist, put a blanket over you. And this morning… this morning he stripped you raw with his words. You run a hand through your hair nervously. Does he want you to thank him? Beg him? Be his official punching bag?

He understands nothing. Or maybe he understands too much. And that's the problem. You sit down again, elbows on your knees, gaze empty. You don't know if you hate him anymore. Or if you just want him… to stop being that damn mirror reflecting everything you run from. Everything you are. You lower your head, exhausted. You just wanted him to see. To see that you're doing your best. That you're not a hopeless case. Just a lost guy trying to stay on your feet.

But maybe that too was asking too much.

This morning, he shattered everything. With a few words. With that icy tone, that biting irony he uses as a weapon. His coldness, his pragmatism. As if nothing from last night mattered. As if the attack, the blood, the shock were merely minor inconveniences in his overbooked billionaire schedule. As if saving your life had just been another chore. A logistical hiccup. Nothing more. He handed you a blanket last night. Let you sleep in his room. Looked at you with that strange, almost… human intensity. As if there was a moment—just one—when he saw you differently. Where you were more than a project, more than a damaged kid lost in his sterile hallways. You thought, for a moment, that it mattered.

But this morning, he put you back in your place. Brutally. Coldly. Without hesitation. In his eyes, you're just that: an employee on probation, a sensitive file, a problem better contained before it infects the rest of the team. He didn't say those words. He didn't need to. It was all in his speech. His actions. The silence between two barbs. The barely hidden contempt behind every disguised piece of advice. You feel anger pulsing through your veins. You clench your fist so tight your knuckles whiten, your jaw locked tight. Why are you still here? Why do you keep waking up in this tower where every look reminds you that you don't belong? That your time is limited?

But you know why. You know it too well. Because if you leave now, he wins.

They win. All of them. Those who said you wouldn't last. That you'd give up. That you're too fragile, too broken, too unstable to accomplish anything. And you refuse. You refuse to let them be right. You refuse to let him be right. You stand abruptly. Your muscles scream at you to stop, but you ignore them. You pace, anger eating away at you like slow acid. You pass by the mirror, catch a glimpse of your reflection, and quickly look away. You don't want to see yourself as you are now—defeated, messy, vulnerable.

The memories rise again, like poisoned bubbles.

Matthew. His face returns uninvited, that twisted smile, that venomous voice. He played with your nerves too. He also swung between closeness and contempt, between fake tenderness and pure cruelty. But Stark isn't Matthew. He isn't violent. Not directly. He doesn't demean you with insults or blows. He doesn't hold you through fear. He's worse. Because he gives you the illusion… that he might be different. He lets you glimpse a crack. A weakness. A human part, almost compassionate. And then he closes the door. He locks the access. He becomes that untouchable, unreachable, insensitive figure again. And you stand here, wondering if you're imagining these moments. If you're clinging to ghosts. If he ever truly saw something in you, or if it was just a strategy. A game.

And that's what's destroying you. Not his criticism. Not his demands. Not even his barbs. No. What hurts most is that "almost." That half-look. That aborted attention. The possibility that for one moment, just one, you mattered a little. You let yourself fall back onto the bed, eyes raised toward the ceiling, lungs burning. Your heart pounds too hard, your head spins. You need silence, but nothing inside you goes quiet.

You feel like a dam that's about to break. And him... he always presses exactly where it cracks. And you wonder: how much longer can you take this before you finally sink?

You grab a cushion and violently throw it against the wall. It bounces off weakly before falling pathetically to the floor. It doesn't help. It doesn't ease the anger or the burning in your chest. You want to scream, to smash something. To feel your muscles tense for something other than fear or shame.

Frustration strangles you, drains you, consumes you from within like an invisible fire. You hurt everywhere. Not just your wrist, not just your stomach, but everywhere that can’t be seen. Where Stark's words dig in, where Matthew’s memories cling. The air is heavy in the room, as if the walls themselves are pressing down on your shoulders. You feel like if you stay here another minute, you'll explode. The walls are too white, too clean. The bed is too smooth. This isn't your home, and it never will be.

Each thought crashes into the next inside your head. Stark. His sharp gaze this morning. His condescending tone. That fucking smirk as if he had already predicted everything, understood everything. Then Matthew. Always there. Even in his absence, he's the one guiding your nightmares, dictating your reflexes, stealing your sleep. You thought you'd escaped him, yet he still holds you.

And amidst all this, there’s you.

Living in a fucking futuristic Tower, with high-tech security systems, surrounded by heroes, working on projects anyone would dream of having. Yet, despite it all, you feel like you're walking on a tightrope, ready to fall at any moment. Like you never really left that alley. Like you're still on the ground, a knife against your throat, with no one to hear you scream. You sit up abruptly. You don't think. You have no plan, no destination. You just need to move. To get out. To silence the chaos in your head with exhaustion. You stride across the room, put on your shoes without even tying them. Your heart is beating too fast, your breathing is uneven. You open the door to your room with a little too much force, the handle slamming against the wall. You close it behind you without stopping.

Your footsteps echo through the silent halls of Stark Tower. Too silent. You don't want to run into anyone. Not Pepper. Not Happy. And especially not him. You descend the stairs, ignoring the elevator. Each step is a shock. A blow. A rejection. A thought you crush under your heel as if to silence it. You move forward. Just to keep moving. Because staying still means suffocating. You don't know where you're going. You don't care. You just want to run until your legs give out. Eventually, you push open the door to a vast, silent space. The training room. Clinical. Ultra-modern. Everything is immaculate, everything in its place. Walls covered in mirrors, state-of-the-art equipment, spotless mats. The place smells of sweat, metal, and discipline. Everything you are not.

You stand frozen in the middle, your heart pounding in your chest like a war drum. You could use anything here: machines, weights, combat simulators. But you don't care. You don't want to think. You don't want to "work on your cardio" or "channel your energy." You want to hit something. Your eyes land on the punching bag hanging in a corner, solitary, almost provocative. You approach slowly, as if preparing to face an opponent. You don't even take the time to put on gloves. You want to feel the impact in your knuckles, you want that pain. The one you control.

The first punch is weak. Uncertain. Almost ridiculous. You inhale sharply, jaw clenched, then strike again, harder. The leather gives under your fist with a sharp sound. Not enough. Not yet.

You punch again. Again. And again. Each hit echoes something: one of Stark's words, Matthew's gaze, a humiliation, fear, sleepless nights. Your arms move on their own, your breath becomes shorter, more ragged. Sweat beads on your temple. You hit without technique, without rhythm, fueled only by this consuming rage, this hatred of yourself, your powerlessness, their silence.

You punch until your wrist reminds you to stop.

A wave of pain forces a harsh, brutal groan from you. You tense, teeth gritted. Your arm remains suspended, trembling, unable to follow through. Your wrist, that traitor, that fucking reminder that even your anger has limits. You cling to the bag, panting, muscles burning. You stay there, hanging onto the leather like a lifeline. You want to cry, to scream, to disappear into this perfect void where nothing hurts. But you stay.

You remain half-collapsed, short of breath, arms limp, eyes shining. And all you can think is: "I can't even punch properly. Even that, I screw up."

You stay hanging onto the bag, panting, your hand gripping the strap, your fist still aching. Sweat runs down your temple, cold despite your body's heat. Your heart races, not from effort, but from everything you hold inside. And that's when you hear it. A slight squeak of shoes on the floor, almost imperceptible. A sound you might have ignored if your body weren't so tense, so alert. You spin around sharply, nerves on edge.

Someone is there.

Steve Rogers. Standing a few meters away, arms crossed, posture straight, perfectly calm amidst your storm. He doesn't say anything right away. He observes you. His expression is neutral, but there's that familiar glint in his eyes—that damn silent understanding you can't stand anymore. You don't want to be understood. You just want to be left alone. He steps closer slowly, as if knowing any sudden movement could set you off. He places his hands on his hips, looks at the bag, then at your wrist, then back at you.

— "Are you planning to keep this up until you completely break your wrist?"

His voice is calm. Too calm. A calm that brutally contrasts with the storm still raging in your chest. You look away, wiping sweat from your forehead with your sleeve. You could leave now, turn on your heels, dodge the exchange. But you know he won't let you slip away that easily. He doesn't have that reputation. You inhale, still on edge.

— "Why do you even care?" you snap, not looking up, your voice harsh. Not to attack him. Just to create distance. A wall.

But Steve doesn't flinch. He just slightly tilts his head, his blue eyes scanning you with that almost clinical calm. He doesn't step back. He doesn't get offended. He's just… there. Stable. Grounded.

— "Because you're hitting that bag like your life depends on it." He pauses. "And judging by the look on your face, I'm guessing this has nothing to do with training."

You swallow hard. The silence that follows is heavy. Not hostile. Just... true. Too true. You cling to the punching bag like a lifeline, the leather slippery beneath your sweaty palm. You don't want to talk. You don't want to explain. You don't have the words. Or the energy. But he's there. And he waits. Not like someone pressuring you. Like someone who's already been to that place where everything overflows. Who knows sometimes, there's nothing to say. Just to hold on. And maybe that's what throws you off the most. You look away, jaw clenched. You're not sure you can take another conversation. Steve stays right there, impassive, like a quiet shadow in your storm. He gives you space, silence, without demanding anything. Then, in a calm voice, without pressure:

— "Do you want me to leave you alone?"

You don't answer immediately. Part of you screams "yes" with all the violence of a wounded animal. But another... quieter, buried deeper, isn't so sure. Maybe that's what you've always needed. Not someone to save you. But someone who doesn't leave. Even when you do everything to push them away. You inhale slowly, with difficulty. Your breath is still short, jagged, as if your body refuses to cooperate. Your fists are burning, your wrist throbs with every pulse. But none of that hurts as much as what's beating inside.

You look Steve in the eye, jaw tight.

— "You really want to know what's eating me?"

He doesn't say anything. He just tilts his head slightly. He waits. You run a hand over your face, your palm damp, your throat dry.

— "It's Stark. It's this fucking Tower. It's me. It's everything."

You laugh, a cold sound twisted with bitterness.

— "Since I started working here, it's always the same shit. He pushes me, tests me, waits for me to break. And me, like an idiot, I dive in headfirst. Because I keep telling myself that if I hold on, if I do everything right, then maybe he'll end up seeing me differently. Not as a problem. Not as a burden. Just as... someone."

You pause for a second, your throat tight.

— "But no. To him, I'm just a project. A variable in his schedule. A calculated risk. A work in progress."

You punch the bag, not hard, just enough to hurt.

— "And the worst part is that I stay."

You feel your breath quicken again. Shame. Anger.

— "I stay because I have nowhere else to go. Because out there, there are only guys like Matthew. People who look at me like I'm nothing, like I was born to be broken. So I cling to this Tower, this job, this fucking routine, because it's the only thing that still gives me shape. An illusion of control."

You lower your eyes, your face tense, your heart pounding in your chest like a crooked drum.

— "But at what cost, damn it?"

Steve stays there, still calm. Arms crossed, gaze direct. He hasn't flinched at a single one of your words.

— "You think Stark sees you as an experiment? Maybe he doesn't even know yet what you mean to him."

You groan, almost exasperated. You're so done with half-measures.

— "So what? Does that excuse how he treats me like I'm replaceable?"

— "No," Steve replies without hesitation. "It excuses nothing. But you're not replaceable. And you should start believing that."

You stare at him, brows furrowed, suspicion still etched in your expression.

— "And you think Stark will ever admit that? That I’m worth more than that, in his eyes?"

Silence. Steve takes a moment to think, to choose his words. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer.

— "I think Stark still struggles to admit what he feels about himself. So when it comes to others... it takes time."

You lower your head, your stomach twisted.

— "Great. So I have to wait ten years for him to accept that I exist beyond hourly productivity?"

Steve offers a faint smile. Tired. Clear-sighted.

— "Or you could stop waiting for his approval. And just be you."

You freeze. His words hit like a dull blow. Not because they hurt. But because they’re true. Brutally simple. You swallow hard, rage mingling with the emptiness.

— "And if I fail?"

Steve doesn’t smile anymore. He looks you in the eyes, with that disarming honesty.

— "Then you fail. And you get back up. That’s all."

You don’t know what to say. You’ve never known what to say to that kind of truth. But for the first time in days, your breathing slows. So does your heart. There is a silence in this room now that doesn’t weigh you down. A silence that rests. Maybe that’s all you needed to hear. Maybe all you really needed... was for someone to stay.

On Stark's end, he remained silent after you left, arms crossed, frozen like a statue in the now too-empty kitchen. But this silence is anything but peaceful. It grates, pulses, pounds from within. His fingers drum nervously on the counter, in rhythm with an irritation he refuses to name. He stares at the spot where you were, as if you might reappear there, as if the words spilled just minutes ago could somehow rewind themselves.

The exchange left him tense. Not because of the volume of your voice, nor your sudden exit. But because of that question. That damn phrase that hit him full force.

— “And you... you're okay with this?”

He wanted to shrug it off at first, convince himself it was just something blurted out in anger. That it wasn't worth dwelling on. But it dug its claws into his mind and refused to let go.

Did he go too far? No. Of course not.

He said what needed to be said. What you needed to hear. No sugarcoating, no gloves. Just the truth — raw, pragmatic. He’s not here to coddle a lost kid. He’s here to build, to push forward, to get the best out of the goddamn chaos. But... something’s off. Something resists.

He retreated to his office as usual, tossing out a loud “no one disturb me” as the door shut behind him. He pretended to dive into his work — into calculations, holographic projections. He opened ten different files. None of them went past a blank screen. His gaze stayed fixed on a vague, undefined spot, eyes unfocused. He didn’t read. Didn’t analyze. Didn’t produce a thing. He missed a call from Rhodey. That never happens. Or only when his head’s too far from playing the arrogant genius. Happy swung by, tossed him a simple question: everything okay?

— “Always. Why wouldn’t it be?” he grunted, not even turning around.

But it wasn’t a real answer. Even Happy felt it. Because no, everything isn’t okay. Not this morning. And Tony hates that. He hates that crawling feeling that something slipped through his fingers. That something got to him more than he’s ready to admit. It’s not the first time someone’s called him an asshole. But this morning? It felt different. Because for once, he’s not entirely sure they’re wrong. He’s used to building walls. High ones. Solid. Nearly impenetrable. Barriers made of sarcasm, reinforced with pragmatism, polished over the years to keep people at just the right distance. Not too close. Not close enough to hurt. Not close enough to see.

But you…

You have this exact, brutal, instinctive way of striking where it cracks. Where the armor splits. And he hates that. Hates that raw lucidity in your eyes, that barely-contained rage that reminds him too much of himself. A younger version. More lost. Before the suits, before the billions, before the deaths. He’s been yelled at before. Insulted. Challenged. He’s used to it. He takes the hits, fires back, wins. Always. But with you... it’s different. It’s not a clash of egos, not a duel of equal arrogance. It’s personal. And it stings.

So he does what he knows best: he compartmentalizes. Boxes it up tight, slaps a “not my problem” label on it. He tells himself you’re just a messed-up kid. That you’ve taken too much, suffered too much, and it’s normal you’re blowing up. He remembers your file, your past, your broken wrist, the violence in your nightmares. He tells himself he can’t carry that too. That you’re an employee. Period. End of story.

And yet… His eyes drift to his phone.

One message. What would it take? Three seconds? Less. A snarky: Done being dramatic yet? or Try not to ruin the training room mat, it costs more than your entire room. One of those stupid things he throws out just to fill the silence, just to keep from feeling. But his fingers don’t move. Not yet. Because he knows — the second he hits send, it means he heard you. That it got to him. And maybe even... that he feels guilty.

And that — Tony Stark still doesn’t know how to handle.

You let out one last breath—hoarse, almost painful. Your fist still trembles, red and numb, after hammering the punching bag until exhaustion. Each blow dragged out a little more anger, a little more poison. Now, only fatigue remains. Raw. Heavy. Absolute.

Your muscles burn. Your back is drenched. Your throat is dry as if you'd swallowed ashes. You feel your heartbeat slowly calming down, but your entire body still vibrates with adrenaline. Steve hasn’t moved. He stayed a few meters away, arms crossed, his posture calm yet ready to intervene. But he let you go. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t judge, didn’t treat you like a child. Just... watched. Attentive. Present. When you finally collapse against the nearest wall, your legs barely able to hold you up, your gaze drifts into emptiness. You feel drained, scattered in pieces across this cold and silent room. You’re no longer angry. But you’re not better either.

— "Feels good, huh?" Steve says, gently breaking the silence.

You nod slowly, unable to say anything more. Yeah. It feels good. Not a lasting good. Not a healing one. But a good that stops you from imploding. Just for now.

— "You got it all out—at least physically," he goes on. "But in your head, it’s still a battlefield, right?"

You let out a tired sigh and shrug. You could say yes. You could tell him everything. But you’ve got no energy left. And honestly... what difference would it make?

— "It’s complicated."

Steve doesn’t look surprised. He gives you a small smile—the kind you give someone who’s fooling no one, not even themselves. You sit up a bit, look for a towel, and wipe your face roughly. Sweat trickles down your back, sticking your clothes to your skin. You grab your water bottle like a survival instinct and take small sips without a word. The water’s lukewarm, bland, but it’ll do.

— "You don’t have to fix everything today," Steve says again, his voice steady, almost gentle. "But you don’t have to carry it alone either."

You look away. He says it like it’s simple. Like you had a choice. Like you still knew how to trust. But you don’t answer. Not right away. Because a tiny part of you... wants to believe him. The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s soft, breathable. A rare kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled. You stay there a few more seconds, catching your breath, letting your heart slow down, your mind settle. Then you slowly stand, your body still sore, and grab your hoodie left earlier on the bench.

— "Thanks, Cap," you murmur as you pull on the still-warm fabric.

— "Steve," he corrects immediately, with that quiet calm that defines him.

You turn your head toward him, surprised. He looks at you without a smile, but his gaze is sincere. Open.

— "Call me Steve."

You freeze for a second, like the word won’t come out. Then you nod slightly, a faint smile forming despite yourself.

— "Okay… Thanks, Steve."

He gives a small nod in response, and that simple gesture is enough to lift a bit of the weight you’ve been carrying all day. He didn’t offer a miracle solution. But he listened. And that, already, is a lot. You gather your things in silence, leaving the training room with slow steps. Your shoulders are heavy, your muscles protest, your wrist throbs with a familiar ache. And yet, something in you feels... less tense. Less raw. The hallways of the Tower are quiet at this hour. The soft lighting gives the walls a gentle, almost muted glow. The steel and glass, usually so cold, seem almost welcoming. You breathe in deeply. You wouldn’t say you’re okay. You don’t believe in that kind of miracle. But at least, for the first time today... you don’t feel alone. And maybe that’s a start.

Then, as you reach the floor of your room, your steps slow down despite yourself. You walk past his office. The door is ajar—just enough to let a thin line of light slice through the hallway darkness. You could keep going. Pretend you didn’t see anything. Ignore that detail you never miss: he always leaves his door slightly open when something’s on his mind. But you stop. Your gaze slips through the opening, drawn in despite yourself. Stark is there, seated at his desk, his face bathed in the blue glow of his screens. He hasn’t noticed you yet. His fingers move nervously across a projected interface, but his expression is tense, less confident than usual. A worried crease marks his forehead; his gaze doesn’t truly focus on what’s in front of him. He’s not working. He’s brooding.

You hesitate, your hand hovering over your bag strap. After this morning’s blow-up, the last thing you want is to see him again. You could just walk away. Leave him in his tower of steel and solitude, true to form.

But... another part of you—the one you kind of hate—keeps you rooted. The part that remembers he patched you up. That he put his hands into your pain, even if he bit back with words afterward. The part that remembers that fleeting look the day before, one that was neither scornful nor indifferent. And as if that single thought were enough to trigger something, he suddenly looks up. Your eyes meet in silence. The moment is brief, but charged. He stares at you, unspeaking, brows slightly furrowed. His eyes move from your tired face to your tense posture, then stop on your hands. Your scraped knuckles, your wrist wrapped in a worn bandage.

A bitter line forms at the corner of his mouth. No smile. No mockery. Just his voice, dry but less sharp than it could’ve been:

— "Survived your existential crisis, or do I still need to monitor you remotely?"

His attempt at irony falls a bit flat. It’s not really a joke, nor an attack. More like another way of not saying what he really means. You grit your teeth.

— "Just heading back."

You could’ve ignored him. You could’ve lied. But you choose truth—raw, stripped down. He doesn’t deserve more than that… or maybe you just don’t have the energy to pretend anymore. He raises an eyebrow, slowly crosses his arms, his eyes still fixed on your bandages. He doesn’t comment, but you see his jaw tighten for a fraction of a second. Something’s bothering him. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s himself. Silence falls again. Denser. Heavier than it should be. And you stay there, frozen in the doorway. Caught between running away and the absurd need to understand what he’s really thinking. He doesn’t speak, but you notice the movement—his fingers tapping nervously on the edge of his desk. That tic betrays the inner agitation his perfectly composed face won’t show. You know that kind of mask. You’ve worn one for years.

— "Spent the day with Rogers, huh?" he asks, the tone almost casual, but not quite enough to hide the genuine curiosity behind the question.

You cross your arms, offer a dry smirk.

— "Yeah."

You pause, like testing his reaction.

— "He was nicer than you, if you want to know."

A flicker of a smirk flashes across his lips. Not quite a smile. More of an inward scoff, like he expected that jab.

— "Figures. He likes playing the mentor. Boy scout and all."

He doesn’t add anything else, but his gaze changes. It weighs heavier. More direct. Like he’s trying to decipher what you’re still hiding — or what Steve might have uncovered. Then he lifts his chin slightly, suddenly more serious.

— "Tomorrow, you’re working."

No hesitation. No room for doubt. Just a fact, stated with the certainty of someone who calls the shots. You nod without protest. Of course you’re working. It’s not like you have the luxury of refusing.

— "Good night, boss."

You turn away, ready to end the conversation, to walk away before he irritates you again… but his voice catches you, calmer, quieter.

— "Put some ice on your hands."

You stop dead. It’s not the content of the sentence that freezes you. It’s the tone. Still neutral, still distant—but there’s something else under it. A tiny tremor in his voice, like concern disguised as instruction. You don’t reply. You don’t need to.

You stretch as you enter the break room, arms overhead, your muscles still numb but surprisingly relaxed. A strange sensation runs down your spine, like a body rediscovering itself after days of constant tension. You slept well. For once. No nightmares, no jerking awake in the middle of the night, no cold sweat clinging to the sheets. Just deep sleep. Almost peaceful. And now, this odd heaviness in your limbs, not from exhaustion, but from rest. You can hardly believe it.

Morning light filters through the blinds, soft, warm on the back of your neck as you move toward the coffee machine. You spot Pepper Potts sitting at a table near the big window. She’s holding a cup between her perfectly manicured fingers, her eyes on her phone. When she looks up and sees you, she gives you a smile — professional, but sincere.

— "Oh. You look better than usual."

You raise an eyebrow, smirking as you pour yourself a coffee.

— "Thanks... I think?"

The espresso machine hisses once more before falling silent, and you sit across from her, your hands wrapped around the steaming mug. The warmth of the ceramic grounds you. The silence that follows isn’t heavy. Just calm. Filled with the quiet steps of a few employees who pass through, exchanging a quick word before moving on. The smell of coffee floats in the air, familiar, comforting. You glance out the window. The sky is clear for once. One of those mornings when the city seems to hold its breath. And you, too. You don’t know how long this calm will last, but you savor it. Because in this tower, where any second can descend into chaos, a moment like this feels like a luxury.

Pepper looks up from her phone, her expression soft but focused. There’s a sincere curiosity in her eyes, not invasive, just enough to let you know she’s present — really present.

— "Getting used to the Tower a little better?" she asks, setting her cup down, chin tilted thoughtfully.

You shrug, your eyes lost in the steam rising from your mug.

— "I guess. But you know I’m only here by default. I didn’t have anywhere else to go."

A silence. Just long enough for you to wonder if she’s going to reply. But she nods slowly, like your words resonate with something she understands all too well.

— "You know… Stark doesn’t let just anyone live under his roof," she says softly — part reminder, part warning.

You let out a dry laugh, leaning further into your chair.

— "And yet, he treats me like I’m a calculation error."

She raises an eyebrow, intrigued, but doesn’t interrupt. She waits. Like she knows there’s more. And she’s right.

— "One day he’s almost... human. He gives advice, looks at me like I actually exist. The next, he talks to me like I’m a failed prototype ready for the trash."

Pepper gives a faint smile — the kind you make when you hear something painfully familiar.

— "You just summed up Tony Stark in one sentence."

You stare at her, brow furrowed.

— "Not exactly comforting."

She chuckles softly, a quiet but sincere laugh. Then she sips her coffee, her tone turning more serious.

— "Listen… Tony’s complicated. He plays by his own rules. He pushes people to the edge. He watches. He tests. He waits to see who holds."

You squint, irritated.

— "So I’m just another guinea pig? Another experiment in his little social lab?"

You set your cup down a little too hard, the porcelain hitting the wood with a sharp note that slices through the room’s calm. Pepper watches you for a moment, not cutting you off. Then she shakes her head slowly.

— "I don’t think that’s it. Tony’s more... instinctive than that. If he didn’t want you here, trust me, he would’ve already found a way to get rid of you."

You scoff, arms crossed.

— "Yeah. He keeps people around as long as they’re useful. And once they’re not, he cuts them loose. He could’ve let me die the other night in that alley. That would’ve been easier, wouldn’t it?"

The silence that follows is heavier. More real. You notice Pepper lower her gaze to her cup. She spins it slowly between her fingers, like she’s searching for the right words.

— "I think you underestimate just how closely Tony watches everything..." she says at last, her voice softer, laced with meaning.

You roll your eyes, ready to fire back — but something stops you.

Movement at the doorway. You turn your head. And there, leaning against the doorframe, coffee cup in hand and eyes fixed on the two of you — Stark. He hasn’t come in yet. Just stands there, in the threshold, familiar silhouette far too casual, cup in hand, gaze locked on you. But you see it. You feel it. He’s heard everything. His expression is hard to read. Not quite mocking, not quite indifferent. There’s a carefully neutral stance to him, like he refuses to show that your words slipped past the armor. Pepper turns slightly toward him. She gets it too. She knows him well enough to see just how much he’s listening behind that distant air. He pretends to scroll his phone, like that’s somehow more important than your conversation. But nobody’s fooled. Especially not you. Finally, he looks up, aims at you with surgical precision, and drops a line in a mock-light tone:

— "All done with your little morning therapy session? Or do we need to lay you down and cue the violins?"

The line is sharp, almost theatrical in its nonchalance. You clench your teeth, your body tensing despite yourself. You could let it slide. But not today.

— "Oh, sorry. Forgot you’re a mind reader, Boss. Already know what I’m feeling, huh?"

You watch him tuck his phone into his inner jacket pocket without breaking eye contact. His face stays impassive, but his eyes… they flash with something too deliberate to be meaningless.

— "I just know you take up a lot of space… for someone who claims he wants to stay invisible."

Boom.

Direct hit. Right to the chest. Like he pinpointed the exact crack and pressed without hesitation. Pepper sighs, her frustration finally surfacing.

— "Tony..."

But he doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look at her. He stays locked on you, like he’s testing your threshold. Again. You could explode. Scream. Throw everything back at him. The rage is boiling just beneath the surface, ready to spill. But instead, you just laugh — bitter, sharp, joyless.

— "Yeah. That’s exactly what I said. One day, you save my life. The next, you stomp me like a bug."

You rise slowly, never looking away. You grab your coffee cup — now lukewarm — and head for the door. As you pass him, your shoulder brushes his. Not violently. But enough for him to feel what you’re still holding back.

— "I’m going to work. Since that’s all you care about anyway."

You don’t stop. You don’t look back. You don’t want to know if he’s still watching. And this time, he says nothing. No comeback. No sarcasm. Nothing. Pepper stays seated, watching you go with an expression you can’t quite define. Empathy? Sadness? You don’t know. You don’t want to know. You walk out, the automatic doors closing behind you with a soft hiss.

You move with precision. Controlled. Too controlled. Every mouse click, every keystroke feels like a silent outlet. You don't allow anything else to exist. No break room. No Stark. No acidic line still ringing in your head. You bury yourself in your screen like your salvation depends on it. The familiar interface of your project opens in a blue glow. And instantly, your mind dives into it. It’s your bubble. Your fortress. The only place where you still have control.

You adjust an animation curve, refine a camera movement, realign textures you left hanging yesterday. Your gaze is sharp, your hand gliding across the graphic tablet with the instinct of a craftsman. You soften a harsh light, fix a transition that jarred the eye. Every detail demands your attention, pulls you in, tears you from yourself. The ambient noises blur. The world narrows to pixels, pivot points, layered compositions. You blink less often, your breathing evens out, as if your body remembers what it feels like to be useful. To build, rather than repair.

The anger is still there, of course. It flows in your veins, fueling your determination. But it no longer overflows. It channels. You turn it into brutal, almost obsessive concentration. You work like your life depends on it. And maybe it does. Maybe it's the only thing holding you together. Time slips by unnoticed. An hour. Maybe two. You’re not sure. You’re elsewhere, merged into your screen, into your world of shapes and motion. And in that narrow space between two keyframes, you find a semblance of peace. Fragile. But real.

You don’t want to think about Stark. You just want to prove — to yourself, to him, to this fucking universe — that you're not here by accident. That you deserve your place.

But something refuses to disappear. An emptiness in the air. A silence too heavy to ignore. Stark still hasn’t come back.

You shouldn’t be thinking about it. You should stay focused on your project, keep drowning your anger in the work. But this absence — this unusual absence — eats at you. Usually, he’s here. Always here. Tossing sharp remarks, barking orders like throwing knives, hovering behind your shoulder without ever truly addressing you with a word that sounds like care.

And now? Nothing. No comments. No sighs of contempt. Just this silence, pulsing like a missed beat in a well-oiled routine. Why does it bother you so much? You breathe harder and try to convince yourself: it doesn’t matter.

But a part of you, the part you hate most, clings to that detail like a frayed thread. That conversation with Pepper, the words you let slip... you’re not stupid. You saw him, there, in the doorway. He heard. And he stayed there, without intervening, without a retort. You click back into your project, trying to regain focus, but the screen seems blurry. Your stylus trembles slightly in your hand. Not with anger this time. More… a confused form of nervousness.

Then suddenly, the door opens. Abruptly.

The sharp click of the handle yanks you from your concentration. You jump — just a bit — but enough to make your stylus skid. A clumsy line cuts through your animation, breaking the fluidity you’d just managed to restore. You inhale through your nose, tense, and look up.

He’s there.

Stark walks in, familiar silhouette, confident stride — but something’s off. He doesn’t look around. He doesn’t throw you a remark, not even a sarcastic jab. He says nothing. Absolutely nothing. He crosses the room as if he’s not really there, grabs his coffee left on the corner of his desk — you know it’s cold, he knows it’s cold — but he takes it anyway. He holds it like an automaton, eyes still averted.

And in that silence, there’s a different tension. Not the kind from a fight. More like... a storm that refuses to break.

You notice it immediately. This isn’t his usual expression, not that flicker of defiance or calculated contempt he wears like a second skin. No. What’s on his face now is something else. A neutrality so precise, so methodical, it becomes suspicious. Too controlled. Too calm. Like he's struggling not to let anything show.

And that, you recognize. It’s not indifference. It’s control.

Stark didn’t come back from that break room in his usual state. He’s... too quiet. Too still. And deep down, you know that isn’t nothing. You open your mouth. The urge to throw a comment, provoke something, break this latent tension... it’s strong. But you hold back. You don’t have the strength. And maybe also because a part of you, however small, knows he was affected. That something in that conversation with Pepper and Happy hit harder than expected.

So you lower your eyes.

You pick up your stylus and return to your project, like nothing happened, like your throat isn’t tight and your thoughts aren’t spinning. But the silence has changed. It’s denser, heavier. It wraps around you, almost crushes you. No words. No movement. Just you, your breathing, and Stark’s finger tapping lightly against his cup.

You force yourself to move forward. You adjust the final curves. Refine a texture that still seemed too dull. Rework the transition between two shots for the fourth time. Your gestures are precise, automatic. You proceed like a tightrope walker over a void. Don’t fail. Don’t shake. Don’t speak.

Then finally, you look up at the animation. The render is smooth. The colors are balanced. The motion, coherent. There’s nothing more to add.

A quiet sigh escapes you.

You straighten slightly, shake your numb wrist. The hours you spent drained you. But you know you did good work. Maybe the only thing you still control today. You click “Send.”

Your project goes straight to Stark’s inbox. You don’t need to tell him it’s ready. He’ll see it. He already knows. What you don’t know is whether he’ll respond. You lean slowly back into your chair, arms crossed. Your eyes stay fixed on him — just from the corner, barely, as if you don’t want to give him your full attention but can’t help it.

Stark hasn’t moved an inch. Still that impassive posture, bent over his screen, looking focused. His gaze doesn’t shift, his face stays closed, almost carved in marble. No furrowed brow, no blink betraying any reaction.

You wonder if he saw your email. Or if he opened it, then closed it without a word, just to let you stew. That would be his style, right? The king of calculated silence. Of passive-aggressive provocation. He doesn’t need to yell to throw you off — he just has to be there, ignoring you like you don’t exist, and it’s enough to send the pressure skyrocketing. You finally look away, annoyed at yourself. What are you waiting for, exactly? Validation? A satisfied smirk? You know that’s not going to happen. Not here. Not with him. And yet, you keep hoping for it, like a fool.

Your fingers tap nervously on the edge of your desk. Every second of silence stretches your frustration thinner. You hate this uncertainty, this vagueness. You’d almost prefer he throw a sharp remark your way, a clean “you could’ve done better,” something to answer, something to push against. But he keeps typing, unbothered. Like your work — like you — don’t exist. And somehow, that’s worse than anything.

Each second stretches like over-chewed gum. You shift in your seat, sway side to side, pretend to check your notes, tweak a detail, reorganize a folder. But really, your mind is locked on a single point: Stark. And that damn email. You start to doubt. Maybe you should’ve waited. Polished that last sequence a bit more. Rechecked the lighting. The smoothness of the camera move at the end. Does it look amateur? Will it seem sloppy to him? Will he humiliate you again like last time?

Then, a sound. Barely anything. A crisp click, a subtle window shift. You don’t dare look up, but you know he’s opened it. You feel it. The rhythm of his movements shifts. He’s not typing anymore. His fingers — the same ones drumming anxiously earlier — now glide along the armrest of his chair. Slow. Mechanical. Focused.

He’s watching. Reading. Analyzing. You could almost tell when he reaches the final shot, the loop you spent all night perfecting. The silence becomes nearly physical, a weight suspended between you. And still nothing. Not a word. Not a sound. Not even a sigh. He’s there, looking at your work, and he says nothing. And you sit there, frozen, heart in your throat, with one nagging question looping in your head: is that a good sign… or the worst kind of warning?

You stay still, muscles tense. The waiting is unbearable. He's thinking — that's obvious. Or maybe he's just making you stew. And knowing Stark, both are probably true. Finally, you clear your throat, just loud enough to break the acidic silence.

— "So, is it good or…?"

Another silence. No immediate reaction. You wonder if he's ignoring you or mentally crafting his next punchline. Then, without looking at you:

— "It's… acceptable."

You raise an eyebrow, caught somewhere between consternation and irritation.

— "Acceptable? Seriously?"

Stark finally looks up at you, vaguely amused, his eyes gleaming with a sharp glint.

— "What? You want me to congratulate you? Hand you a diploma with a golden ribbon and a little note of encouragement?"

You let out a sigh and sink back into your chair.

— "No, I don’t know. Just… a bit less vague feedback would be nice."

He swivels his screen toward you, his finger tapping a specific part of the animation.

— "See this? Here, the transition works. It’s dynamic, it breathes well. And here, you worked the lighting. It’s clean. But…"

He stops, his finger sliding slightly toward another zone.

— "Here, it's shaky. The effect’s too abrupt. You were trying to make it look cool, but it's sloppy. And this texture... it floats. It doesn’t anchor, it slides on top instead of integrating. You've got the eye, right? So why'd you let that slip?"

You squint. Yeah, now that he points it out, it’s obvious. Maybe you saw it before, but let it go from sheer exhaustion, from just wanting to finish.

— "Okay… yeah. I see what you mean."

You say it reluctantly, but you know he’s right. Stark nods, almost satisfied.

— "Well, at least you're not deaf or completely stubborn. Fix that, and maybe we can talk about progress without blushing."

You roll your eyes.

— "You could say it’s good. Just once. I promise I won’t burst with joy."

He gives you a half-smile — that kind of smirk that only he can pull off, half-mocking, half-complicit.

— "You’ve made it this far without compliments. No reason I should start wrecking your armor now."

You don’t say anything. But deep down, a part of you carefully files away that “you’ve made progress.” It’s not a medal… but coming from him, it’s close. An annoyed sigh escapes you despite yourself, but you can’t deny what stirs beneath the surface. Something quiet. A stifled warmth in your chest. Pride, maybe. Even if you’re not ready to admit it. Because Stark doesn’t hand out compliments. Not really. He doesn’t do “bravo” or pats on the back. He criticizes, he tests, he points out what’s wrong. And the fact that he took the time to analyze your work without torching it? That he acknowledged progress — even in his backwards way? That’s huge. That’s rare. And it gets to you more than you want to admit.

You nod, simply.

— "I’ll fix it."

He watches you for another second, then looks away, already diving back into his notes, like that settles it.

— "Good. And quick. I’ve got better things to do."

Classic. Balance restored. You retrieve your file, transfer it back into your workspace, and pick up your stylus. The silence that follows doesn’t have the same texture as before. It’s less tense. Less loaded. It no longer floats like a threat hanging over your head. It’s just there, simply, like a budding habit. A strange routine between two bruised people who, despite themselves, are starting to understand they function better in each other’s chaos.

You don’t smile. Not really. But your wrist is a little less tight. Your chest a little less heavy.

The office door opens gently, without noise, just enough not to disturb the fragile balance of silence. Pepper enters with that discreet elegance that instantly makes her feel like she belongs, as if every room she walks into partly belongs to her. She’s holding two cups of coffee, steam still curling from the lids, and her gaze sweeps the room instantly. Clinical. Precise. She reads the scene like a report, noticing what most would miss: slightly less tense shoulders, the absence of clenched jaws, a faint trace of calm hanging in the air.

— "Thought a little boost wouldn’t hurt" she says in a neutral tone, almost too gentle not to mean something.

She approaches and sets one coffee on Stark’s desk without another word. He doesn’t even look up, but a slight nod — imperceptible to the untrained eye — signals he noticed her.

The other cup remains in her hand. She turns to you but doesn’t offer it right away. No. Pepper Potts never does anything automatically. She studies you, reads between the lines of your silence, your posture, the nervous motion of your fingers on your desk’s edge. As if she’s waiting for a sign from you, a word, a hint. Something that will confirm what she already suspects: that the calm in the room isn’t entirely natural, but not entirely fake either. Then, slowly, she steps forward and places the second coffee beside your hand.

— "You earned it" she says simply.

A heartbeat passes. You don’t know exactly why, but it gets to you. Because she could’ve said it differently. Because she doesn’t impose it — she offers it. And because after this chaotic morning, hearing someone admit, even halfway, that you deserve something… it means more than you want to admit. You don’t say anything. But you take the coffee. And this time, it tastes a little less bitter. The tension from this morning really has faded — or at least, it’s buried beneath a layer of false calm. As if you’ve signed a silent truce, each in your place, each in your bubble, but with this tight thread between you — this invisible string, heavy with everything unsaid.

Stark grabs his coffee with a mechanical gesture, without glancing at you. He takes a sip, his expression unchanged, then lets himself drop back against his chair with lazy ease. The attitude is relaxed, almost careless, but you can read between the lines. You know his mind is still racing. Pepper hasn’t said another word yet, standing between you like a dividing line no one dares cross. Then, with a casually mocking tone, Stark finally breaks the silence:

— "If you came to check whether we killed each other, sorry to disappoint, Potts. He’s still in one piece."

You look up at him without responding right away. The tone is light, but the subtext is clear: it could’ve gone differently. It almost did. It still might. Pepper raises an eyebrow, unamused. She crosses her arms, cup still in hand, and her gaze moves from him to you, like she’s checking this isn’t just another calm before the storm.

— "I prefer days where nobody ends up bleeding, she says simply, her tone as sharp as it is soft."

Stark smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. And you, you stare into your cup, its lukewarm contents between your fingers, wondering how long this kind of balance can last before everything shatters again. You feel Pepper’s gaze on you — precise, attentive. She studies you like a fragile compass, trying to see whether the needle still points to the storm or if calm has truly returned.

— "That’s already progress, she comments, leaning lightly against the edge of the desk, arms crossed. You made it through a morning without threatening or ignoring each other? I’m impressed."

You give a joyless smirk, eyes locked on your screen, the cursor blinking on your project’s final line. You try to play the irony card, but you haven’t quite pieced your morning back together.

— "He said my work was "acceptable." That’s almost a compliment, right?"

To your right, Stark doesn’t flinch. He stays hunched over his desk, absorbed, like every pixel on his screen holds a vital truth. Then he vaguely shrugs, takes another sip of now-tepid coffee.

— "Don’t get used to it, he mutters flatly."

Pepper softly rolls her eyes, but her attention is still on you. Not on him. You. Because she’s worried. Because she wants to know if something truly got fixed, or if it’s just tape over a crack.

— "And you? You okay?"

You take a second. Just one. Enough time to weigh what you might say, what you might hide. You fiddle with the edge of the cardboard cup between your fingers, the warm paper crinkling under the pressure.

— "Yeah… I mean… Better than this morning."

You don’t look at her, but you hear her breathe, softly, almost relieved. She doesn’t reply, but you can tell she’s taken note. That she’s recording everything — your posture, your tone, your evasive eyes.

She exchanges a brief look with Stark. He, as always, pretends not to see a thing, diving back into his lines of code or schematics like they hold the solution to all the world’s tension.

Then she lets out a discreet sigh, straightens, and smooths the fabric of her blazer with that calm elegance that follows her everywhere.

— "Right. I’ll leave you two to it. Try not to kill each other by tonight."

— "No promises, Stark mutters, still not looking up."

You let out a faint laugh through your nose, despite yourself. It’s not peace, maybe… but it’s a truce. A moment suspended in the usual cold war. Pepper flashes a smile — a real one, this time — and walks out with the soft click of heels on the immaculate floor, leaving you alone again. Alone in this office that, little by little, is starting to feel more like a minefield… or a training ground.

— "So, Boss… are you finally going to apologize, or should I just go fuck myself right now? I definitely noticed your silence earlier."

You don’t look at him right away, your eyes locked on your screen like your project might spare you from the inevitable. But you feel his gaze lift. Slowly. That kind of look that could slice a conversation in half with a single word… or reignite it into a blaze.

Stark sets his mug down with measured calm, almost too slow to be genuine. He crosses his arms, expression frozen in that icy neutrality he’s mastered.

— "Apologize? For what exactly?"

His tone is calm. But behind that polished façade, you recognize the irony, the barely disguised provocation. The test. As always. You roll your eyes, sinking into your chair with an exasperated sigh.

— "I don’t know… Maybe for blowing up at me over breakfast like I was some clerical error, for undoing everything like last night meant nothing, or just to make it clear that I could work day and night and it would never be good enough for you."

He raises an eyebrow, leaning back slightly in his chair, still looking perfectly impassive.

— "Ah. So now you expect apologies. Interesting."

He lets a silence settle. Not an empty silence — a calculated one. The kind that slowly builds pressure, just to see how you’ll react.

— "You did your job. It was solid. I acknowledged it. That should be enough, right?"

You laugh — dry, bitter, almost hollow. You shake your head slowly.

— "No. Not when the rest of the time you talk to me like I’m some parasite wandering your hallways. Not when every interaction feels like a fucking endurance test."

You put down your stylus, your hands trembling from a mix of anger and exhaustion.

— "If you had the slightest decency, you'd acknowledge you were unfair. That sometimes, you throw your words around like blades without giving a damn what they cut.

You finally dare to look him in the eye. And you almost regret it. Because what you see there isn’t aggression. It’s worse: it’s calculation. He’s looking at you like a complex problem he hasn’t solved yet. Not quite."

He stays silent. And this silence isn’t forgetfulness. It’s a choice. You feel your chest tighten. And still, you stay, waiting for something you’re not even sure you want to hear. Recognition. A word. A crack in his damn mask. And Stark… He’s thinking. For the first time in a while, he doesn’t immediately fire back. He absorbs your words. Maybe because he knows they’re true. Maybe because, for once, he has nothing to defuse them.

Then he exhales. Long. Maybe sincere. His hand runs through his hair with that nervous gesture he does sometimes when he loses the thread or is about to say something he’d rather avoid.

— "Fine."

You frown, wary. It’s rare to see him give any ground, even the smallest bit.

— "Fine what?"

He taps his fingers distractedly on the desk, eyes lowered, then finally looks up at you.

— "Fine, maybe I was… a bit harsh this morning."

You blink. You expected denial, deflection, a perfectly timed jab. But not this. Well — if you can even call it this. You stare at him, your expression wavering between disbelief and cynical amusement.

— "That’s all I get?"

Stark shrugs, already retreating behind his usual nonchalance.

— "That’s already not bad. What did you want, a hug and a card that says “sorry for being a professional asshole”?"

You let out a dry laugh, not truly amused.

— "I don’t know… a word that sounds more like an apology than a clinical analysis of your emotional dysfunction would’ve been nice."

— "Too bad. I left my empathy manual in the car. Probably collecting dust somewhere between sarcasm and self-loathing."

He picks up his coffee and swivels his chair slightly, signaling the end of the exchange. Back to routine. Back to silence.

You sit there, watching him refocus on his screen like nothing happened. And you feel this strange mix inside you: lingering frustration, but also a small, barely-there hint of relief. Because even if it was half-admitted, even if it was disguised under three layers of irony… he heard you. He heard you. And he responded. The silence that follows is less cutting than before. There’s still a wall between you, but it’s not reinforced concrete anymore. Maybe just glass. Cold. Brittle. But transparent. You lean back into your chair, eyes drifting to your screen, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

— "I guess it’s better than nothing, you murmur more to yourself than to him."

And for the first time in a while, it doesn’t sound like resignation. More like a beginning. A fragile clearing. But real.

You stand up in one swift motion, your chair screeching against the floor with a sharp noise that slices through the quiet. But you don’t care. Not now.

In a few strides, you cross the room and plant your hands flat on Stark’s desk. He doesn’t react immediately. Keeps staring at his screen like your presence is just background noise to ignore. You clench your jaw. It’s even worse than if he’d fired a snarky comment.

— "I don’t get your reaction yesterday, Boss."

Your voice is calm — too calm. Each word lands like a blade: sharp, taut, precise. You look him straight in the eye, but he’s slow to return the gaze. When he finally does, it’s with that distant expression you know too well. No cracks. No regret. Just that icy neutrality that always turns your stomach.

— "The night before, you were… I don’t know, almost human with me. And the next day, you tell me you almost regret protecting me. Like I’m some fucking burden. A managerial error. I want answers."

Stark exhales audibly and settles into his chair, arms crossed. His gaze sizes you up like a badly written equation.

— "Answers? What do you want? A dramatic confession? A little emotional PowerPoint? I didn’t hire you to meet your need for affection, kid. This is a job. Not group therapy."

You feel your heart hammering against your ribs. The rage rises, acidic. Your grip tightens on the edge of his desk until your knuckles pale.

— "You’ve been treating me like a child under constant watch while pushing me to the brink every chance you get! I’m done with your double standards. Explain to me why one day you’re picking me up out of an alley and the next you’re looking at me like I’m trash someone forgot to take out!"

Your voice shakes. Not with fear. With anger. That dull ache that’s been churning in your gut for days. You refuse to back down this time. You want a fucking answer. Stark clicks his tongue, annoyed. He slowly uncrosses his arms, leans forward, and plants his elbows on the desk. His gaze sharpens. Colder. Harder.

— "You want the truth? Fine. The truth is, you’re my employee. And I don’t like seeing my employees get their faces smashed in on the street. Because it’s a hassle. It’s messy. It draws attention. That’s why I stepped in."

You freeze. Your legs nearly buckle beneath you. His words drive into your chest like nails. Brutal. Unflinching. You blink, hoping—foolishly—he’ll soften. That he’ll swerve. That he’ll backpedal. But he stays put. Solid. Cold. Untouchable.

— "That’s your justification? Seriously?"

Your voice drops. Wounded. A taut whisper between two silences.

He shrugs, implacable.

— "It’s the only one that matters to you, isn’t it?"

And in his eyes, you don’t know if you see cruelty… or some twisted form of defense. Like he hides behind this version of himself so he doesn’t have to say something else. Something real. Something fragile. But you don’t have the strength to decipher anymore. Not now.

You laugh. A short, dry, lifeless sound. A laugh born of nerves, nearly strangled in your throat.

— "Of course. Because everything’s that simple with you, right?"

Stark doesn’t reply immediately. He just stares, and in that look, there’s a flicker. A crack. Something he’s trying to hide. Hesitation? Guilt? You’re not sure. But it’s there. For a second. Before he slams the door shut again.

— "You done with your performance, or do you want to keep whining?"

The sentence hits harder than it should. Because it’s cheap. Hurtful. And terribly expected. Your jaw tightens, blood pounding in your temples. Your fists clench despite yourself, but you refuse to give him that satisfaction. Not this time.

— "Seriously? After everything I’ve done, everything I’ve endured, everything I’ve proved… that’s all you have to say?"

Your tone is sharp, controlled, but every word costs you. Because you’re not yelling. You’re standing there, tall, and that’s a thousand times harder than screaming. Stark meets your gaze. Frozen, almost sculptural.

— "All you’ve proved is that you can survive, he finally says. Congrats. But surviving isn’t enough."

You’re about to fire back, but he continues, relentless:

— "You’re here because you’re good at your job. That’s it. If you want it to continue, you better get back to work. Not go chasing answers you’re never going to get."

The silence that follows is deafening. You stand there, shoulders tight, breath shallow. You could scream at him. You could blow everything up, toss your badge at his face and tell him to shove it. But you know it wouldn’t change a thing.

Because Stark is like this. Because he’ll never let you reach him. So you back away. Slowly. One step. Then two.

— "Fine. Got it."

Your voice shakes, but it’s ice-cold. As sharp as his.

— "Thanks for your honesty, Boss."

You turn, heart in your throat, and leave the office without waiting for his response. You don’t slam the door. You don’t yell. You walk away, lungs full of silence, fists clenched like angry heartbeats. And you know: you just crossed a line.

You're alone in the break room, the lukewarm mug resting between your hands, caught halfway between needing warmth and wanting to throw it against the wall. Beyond the bay window, New York stretches into the distance — loud, alive, indifferent. Hundreds of people rushing through their lives while you sit there, frozen in this too-silent room, unable to detach from what just happened. Stark’s words loop in your head, drilling into your temples. “You’re here because you work well.” “What do you want, a presentation of what’s going on in my head?” And worst of all, that damn “It’s the only justification that matters to you.” You may have walked out of his office feigning pride, but a dull, familiar rage followed you here. The kind of rage lodged in the back of your throat when tears are forbidden.

You inhale slowly, deeply, as if air might dissolve the bitterness stuck in your throat. The coffee tastes bland. Too cold. Too bitter. Just like the morning. Then, a voice — soft, yet present — cuts through the silence.

— “You look a little… lost.”

You flinch slightly and turn your head. Bruce Banner. Calm, steady, almost ghostlike in the doorway. He doesn’t approach, doesn’t impose. He doesn’t give you a moralizing look or wrap you in syrupy pity. He’s just… there. You nod slowly, unable to lie.

— “Is it that obvious?”

Bruce gives a small smile. Not mocking, just sincere.

— “You’re sitting alone, staring at your coffee like it’s going to reveal the meaning of life, and breathing like someone trying not to implode. So… let’s say I’ve seen subtler.”

You exhale — a real sigh. The kind that releases some pressure.

— “I had a talk with Stark. Well… one of those things people call a conversation but feels more like a passive-aggressive monologue. Deluxe edition.”

Bruce approaches slowly, carefully, as if afraid to break a fragile bubble. He pours himself a cup too, then sits across from you.

— “Fair warning — I’m not here to play shrink,” he says, blowing on his coffee. “But I’m a good listener.”

You look at him for a moment. He expects nothing. Just your choice. And for the first time in hours, maybe even days, you feel like you could talk without needing to defend yourself. And that, already, is a relief. Bruce doesn’t rush you. He takes his time settling in, like he knows that every rushed gesture could crack the wall you’ve been trying to hold up. He sits down slowly, brews his tea with near ceremonial calm, and lets the silence settle between you — not heavy, but necessary. As if offering you space to truly breathe. You take a sip of your lukewarm coffee without looking at him. Yet you feel his presence. Steady. Peaceful. He doesn’t poke at your wounds. He just waits for you to be ready.

Then, after a moment, he breaks the silence, still in an even tone:

— “You know, I saw your medical file.”

Your fingers immediately tighten around your mug. Your gaze hardens. You straighten slightly, defensive. Instantly.

— “Fantastic.”

The word snaps out, sharp. A humorless laugh follows close behind, bitter, sliding from your lips like a blade.

— “Is it handed out to the whole team? Or did Stark decide it’d be easier if everyone just knew I’m a walking mess of fractures and bruises?”

Bruce doesn’t flinch. He blows gently on his tea, takes a small sip, then shakes his head.

— “No. That’s not how it works around here. But… I’m one of the people in charge of internal medical follow-ups. Stark didn’t say anything. It was Pepper who wanted to make sure someone was keeping an eye on you. Just in case.”

You open your mouth to reply, but he raises a hand, gently stopping you.

— “And… you’re still recovering.”

There’s no judgment in his voice. Just truth. A reality you’ve been trying to push away for days. You don’t want to be "recovering." You want everything to move fast, the pain to disappear, your body to keep up, your mind to obey. But it doesn’t work like that. You lower your eyes to your coffee, unable to respond. Because that phrase, said in the quiet of this break room, hurts more than any of Stark’s sarcasm. You’re still recovering. You narrow your eyes slightly, gaze returning to Bruce. You know exactly what he’s getting at. Of course he noticed. Since the fracture, you haven’t done anything serious. No regular follow-up. No rehab. Just work, more work, and the habit of clenching your teeth until pain fades into background noise.

— “Have you had a full check-up since the accident?”

You press your lips together, your thumb nervously rubbing the rim of the cup. The coffee’s warmth is fading, like your desire to keep pretending. You could lie, say you followed everything to the letter. But Bruce… Bruce isn’t someone you can fool. He’s calm. Grounded. But you know he’s already figured you out. The guy is literally one of the smartest minds on the planet. And a former patient of himself, if his past is any indication. You sigh, eyes dropping to the dark liquid you haven’t even really drunk.

— “I haven’t had time.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow slowly, with that quiet patience that makes you feel like a teenager caught red-handed. His voice stays soft, but with a hint of firmness.

— “You mean you didn’t make time.”

He sets his mug on the table, both hands flat, like he’s laying out the terms of a silent contract.

— “Look, I’m not going to force you. But we’re in a place where people train for combat, work on prototypes that could blow up with the slightest mistake, and send terabytes of data in three seconds. If your wrist gives out during a crunch… it’s not just you who’ll be at risk.”

You don’t respond. You know he’s right. You’ve known it for a while. But then he adds, with a looser tone, more… human:

— “I’m not Stark. I don’t expect you to be a machine.”

You look up at him, surprised by the quiet sincerity in his voice. He doesn’t stare you down, but there’s a kind of respect in his gaze. As if your pain isn’t a shameful weakness — just a reality he’s willing to acknowledge. You hold his gaze, caught off guard. You didn’t expect this kind of care. Not from him. Not right now. He’s seen you. Not just physically — but deeper. He saw the tension in your movements, the fire you feed by constantly trying to prove yourself. And that look he gives you, steady and nonjudgmental, shakes you more than you want to admit.

— “You want to give me a diagnosis now, is that it?”

Your tone snaps, sharper than intended. Defensive. But Bruce doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull back. He studies you with that same disarming calm — the kind of calm someone develops after learning to tame tempests far worse than yours.

— “If you’re okay with it, yeah.”

He crosses his arms — no pressure, no threat. Just a stable presence in a world that sways.

— “I just want to make sure your fracture hasn’t worsened with everything you keep pushing through… despite my best medical judgment.”

You glance down briefly, unable to withstand that solid calm while you tremble inside. A laugh escapes — one of those dry, hollow ones.

— “If only that were the only thing breaking right now…”

Your voice fades near the end, like even the words carry too much weight.

Bruce doesn’t comment. He nods, slowly, like he accepts your pain without turning it into a spectacle. No pity. No grand speech. Just someone who hears you. And maybe that’s rarer than anything else. Bruce watches you for a moment in silence, calm yet penetrating. He doesn’t rush you. He just waits — like he’s giving you space to choose whether to breathe… or keep collapsing quietly.

— “You could start by allowing yourself to breathe.”

You let out a small laugh, a bitter smile tugging at your lips.

— “Yeah. Except every time I breathe, someone’s there to remind me I don’t get to let go.”

You name no one, but your gaze drifts toward the window. No need to clarify.

— “Stark, huh?” Bruce asks plainly, voice soft but precise, slicing through the unsaid.

You stay silent, jaw tight. Then slowly, you shrug, like it doesn’t matter.

— “Does it change anything?”

Bruce sighs, sitting up slightly. He takes one last sip of his tea, then stands, calmly setting the cup on the counter and nodding slightly toward the exit.

— “Come with me. I’ll take a look at your wrist. And if you need to talk about anything else… I’m not Stark. I know how to listen.”

You freeze a moment, hesitant. A voice in your head screams this is a bad idea. That asking for help means exposing a weakness, means offering a target. You think of Stark, of Matthew, of all the others — those who turned your vulnerability into a weapon.

But Bruce isn’t any of them. He doesn’t insist. Doesn’t push. He’s just offering a way out. A step back to move forward. And against all odds, you stand. Because this morning took too much. Because your wrist throbs with every move. Because maybe — just maybe — you’re tired of pretending you don’t need help. So, after a few seconds of silence, you nod.

— “Okay. But if you start lecturing me, I’m out.”

Bruce gives a faint smile.

— “Deal.”

[danbensen]

I’m trying something new here, which is to write off the cuff, with little editing, and press the “post” button without much thought. I’m doing so because this is the first spare moment I’ve had to respond to 

Bassoe’s response to my review of C.M. Kosemen’s soon-to-be published book All Tomorrows, and I don't want to let this interesting conversation wither on the vine.

If you had trouble following that last sentence, it’s enough that you know this: we’re talking about the evolutionary future of humanity.

The Machine-God Scenario

Bassoe talks about “machine-gods...obsessed with tending to the well-being of an inferior species” where “the only remaining selection pressure is desire to reproduce.”

Another selective pressure would be to make ourselves adorable to the machine-gods. Perhaps the gods have a template for what they consider to be human, in which case we'll only be able to evolve in ways that don't deviate from that template. I'm reminded of a Stephen Baxter story (Mayflower II) in which humans on a generation ship turn into sub-sapient animals, but they still press buttons on the control panel because that behavior is rewarded by the ship's AI.

The Super-Tech Scenario

But I agree that even without a super-tech future where all our material needs are met, the availability of contraception means that there's a selective advantage to people who don't use contraception. There are many ways for evolution to make that happen. An instinctive desire for babies or an instinctive aversion to contraception are two such ways. I remember a Zach Weinersmith cartoon where he jokes about future humans with horns on their penises that poke holes in condoms, but of course any such physical adaptation won't be able to keep up with technological innovation. We will have to *want* babies.

Another option is (ala Kurt Vonnegut's Galapagos) that future humans aren't smart enough to use contraception.

The Artificial Womb Scenario

In this case, I think the most selected-for humans are the ones that are most efficiently produced by the artificial wombs. Maybe it's easier to pump out limbless grubs, which are fitted with cyborg arms (see John C. Wright's Myrmidons in his Count to the Eschaton Sequence). The form they take will depend on the parameters of the machines' programming. (see also Vanga-Vangog's The Endpoint)

The Collapse Scenario

I think this scenario is unlikely. If "life, uh, finds a way," then intelligence finds even more ways. When one resource runs out, we find another. The mere fact that you don’t know what the next resource is just means we haven’t found it yet.

But say for the sake of argument that there's a hard limit to technological progress (ala Vernor Vinge's A Deepness in the Sky) or science really is like mining, and it takes infinitely increasing resources to make the next marginal gain in technology. In both cases, you'd expect the graph of human advancement to look like a population when it hits carrying capacity. Exponential growth (we're doing that now) followed by a cycle of die-offs and re-growths, converging to a horizontal mean.

With no ability to innovate, natural selection would take over from technological progress. Once we’ve eaten all the meat and potatoes, there will be strong selection for people who can digest grass. I would expect humans in this case to diversify until our descendants occupy nearly every niche, absorbing most of the matter and energy available on Earth (at least). Whether these people are intelligent or not...probably not. @simon-roy seems to be hinting in this direction with his masterful comic series Men of Earth.

But I don't actually think collapse is likely. I bet that our population (and technological advancement) will not hit an asymptote, but will instead as progress according to a power law, as with the bacteria in Lenski's Long-Term Evolution Experiment.

The Mogul Scenario

Bessoe asks about a future in which “our cultural norms stick around indefinitely, those who generate more profit reproduce,” which I very much doubt.

In 20th century America, the more money you made, the fewer children you had. Now, it seems there's a saddle-shaped distribution, with the very poorest and the very richest women having the most children per woman. This is sure to change again, and faster than evolution can keep up. Perhaps you could say that if contraception pushes us to evolve an instinctive desire to have more children, and rich or powerful people will be in positions to gratify these instincts, then whatever traits make someone rich and powerful will be selected for.

Maybe, but now's a good time to go back to the Reich Lab's "Pervasive findings of directional selection," summarized here by the illustrious Razib Khan.

In comparing ancient to modern DNA, the Reich Lab found evidence for selective pressure in humans in Europe since the end of the Ice Age: increased intelligence, increased height, decreased organ fat, increased walking speed, decreased susceptibility to schizophrenia, increased immunity to many diseases, and, funnily, increased tendency to home-ownership and university education.

Obviously people weren't going to college in the Chalkolithic, but whatever traits make someone likely to go to college now have been selected for since the arrival of agriculture in Europe. You can paint a plausible picture of the sort of people who were most reproductively successful in the past six thousand years, and there is even some evidence for selection in the range of 1-2 thousand years. Aside from obvious things like immunity to smallpox and Bubonic plague, Europeans have gotten paler and blonder, and more of us are able to digest lactose than in Roman times.

But the 21st century is very different from the 1st, which in turn was very different from the pre-agricultural -70th. Maybe you can say that being smart, strong, and disease resistant have always been good, and being tall and baby-faced gets you some sexual selection (almost everyone seems to have evolved shorter jaws and lost their robust brow-ridges in parallel). So we can imagine future humans who just all look gorgeous.

read on (and see the pictures)

[probablyasocialecologist]

To bring about its hypothetical future, OpenAI must build a new digital ecosystem, pushing users toward the ChatGPT app or toward preëxisting products that integrate its technology such as Bing, the search engine run by OpenAI’s major investor, Microsoft. Google, by contrast, already controls the technology that undergirds many of our online experiences, from search and e-mail to Android smartphone-operating systems. At its conference, the company showed how it plans to make A.I. central to all of the above. Some Google searches now yield A.I.-generated “Overview” summaries, which appear in tinted boxes above any links to external Web sites. Liz Reid, Google’s head of search, described the generated results with the ominously tautological tagline “Google will do the Googling for you.” (The company envisions that you will rely on the same search mechanism to trawl your own digital archive, using its Gemini assistant to, say, pull up photos of your child swimming over the years or summarize e-mail threads in your in-box.) Nilay Patel, the editor-in-chief of the tech publication the Verge, has been using the phrase “Google Zero” to describe the point at which Google will stop driving any traffic to external Web sites and answer every query on its own with A.I. The recent presentations made clear that such a point is rapidly approaching. One of Google’s demonstrations showed a user asking the A.I. a question about a YouTube video on pickleball: “What is the two-bounce rule?” The A.I. then extracted the answer from the footage and displayed the answer in writing, thus allowing the user to avoid watching either the video or any advertising that would have provided revenue to its creator. When I Google “how to decorate a bathroom with no windows” (my personal litmus test for A.I. creativity), I am now presented with an Overview that looks a lot like an authoritative blog post, theoretically obviating my need to interact directly with any content authored by a human being. Google Search was once seen as the best path for getting to what’s on the Web. Now, ironically, its goal is to avoid sending us anywhere. The only way to use the search function without seeing A.I.-generated content is to click a small “More” tab and select “Web” search. Then Google will do what it was always supposed to do: crawl the Internet looking for URLs that are relevant to your queries, and then display them to you. The Internet is still out there, it’s just increasingly hard to find. If A.I. is to be our primary guide to the world’s information, if it is to be our 24/7 assistant-librarian-companion as the tech companies propose, then it must constantly be adding new information to its data sets. That information cannot be generated by A.I., because A.I. tools are not capable of even one iota of original thought or analysis, nor can they report live from the field. (An information model that is continuously updated, using human labor, to inform us about what’s going on right now—we might call it a newspaper.) For a decade or more, social media was a great way to motivate billions of human beings to constantly upload new information to the Internet. Users were driven by the possibilities of fame and profit and mundane connection. Many media companies were motivated by the possibility of selling digital ads, often with Google itself as a middle man. In the A.I. era, in which Google can simply digest a segment of your post or video and serve it up to a viewer, perhaps not even acknowledging you as the original author, those incentives for creating and sharing disappear. In other words, Google and OpenAI seem poised to cause the erosion of the very ecosystem their tools depend on.