#regularization machine learning meaning

[daddy-long-legssss]

this is the second weekend in a row i’ve spent working. and i don’t know if i’m just acting like a baby or a delusional but this CANNOT be normal or acceptable. i hate it here and i cannot live this way.

[phantomrose96]

The conversation around AI is going to get away from us quickly because people lack the language to distinguish types of AI--and it's not their fault. Companies love to slap "AI" on anything they believe can pass for something "intelligent" a computer program is doing. And this muddies the waters when people want to talk about AI when the exact same word covers a wide umbrella and they themselves don't know how to qualify the distinctions within.

I'm a software engineer and not a data scientist, so I'm not exactly at the level of domain expert. But I work with data scientists, and I have at least rudimentary college-level knowledge of machine learning and linear algebra from my CS degree. So I want to give some quick guidance.

What is AI? And what is not AI?

So what's the difference between just a computer program, and an "AI" program? Computers can do a lot of smart things, and companies love the idea of calling anything that seems smart enough "AI", but industry-wise the question of "how smart" a program is has nothing to do with whether it is AI.

A regular, non-AI computer program is procedural, and rigidly defined. I could "program" traffic light behavior that essentially goes { if(light === green) { go(); } else { stop();} }. I've told it in simple and rigid terms what condition to check, and how to behave based on that check. (A better program would have a lot more to check for, like signs and road conditions and pedestrians in the street, and those things will still need to be spelled out.)

An AI traffic light behavior is generated by machine-learning, which simplistically is a huge cranking machine of linear algebra which you feed training data into and it "learns" from. By "learning" I mean it's developing a complex and opaque model of parameters to fit the training data (but not over-fit). In this case the training data probably includes thousands of videos of car behavior at traffic intersections. Through parameter tweaking and model adjustment, data scientists will turn this crank over and over adjusting it to create something which, in very opaque terms, has developed a model that will guess the right behavioral output for any future scenario.

A well-trained model would be fed a green light and know to go, and a red light and know to stop, and 'green but there's a kid in the road' and know to stop. A very very well-trained model can probably do this better than my program above, because it has the capacity to be more adaptive than my rigidly-defined thing if the rigidly-defined program is missing some considerations. But if the AI model makes a wrong choice, it is significantly harder to trace down why exactly it did that.

Because again, the reason it's making this decision may be very opaque. It's like engineering a very specific plinko machine which gets tweaked to be very good at taking a road input and giving the right output. But like if that plinko machine contained millions of pegs and none of them necessarily correlated to anything to do with the road. There's possibly no "if green, go, else stop" to look for. (Maybe there is, for traffic light specifically as that is intentionally very simplistic. But a model trained to recognize written numbers for example likely contains no parameters at all that you could map to ideas a human has like "look for a rigid line in the number". The parameters may be all, to humans, meaningless.)

So, that's basics. Here are some categories of things which get called AI:

"AI" which is just genuinely not AI

There's plenty of software that follows a normal, procedural program defined rigidly, with no linear algebra model training, that companies would love to brand as "AI" because it sounds cool.

Something like motion detection/tracking might be sold as artificially intelligent. But under the covers that can be done as simply as "if some range of pixels changes color by a certain amount, flag as motion"

2. AI which IS genuinely AI, but is not the kind of AI everyone is talking about right now

"AI", by which I mean machine learning using linear algebra, is very good at being fed a lot of training data, and then coming up with an ability to go and categorize real information.

The AI technology that looks at cells and determines whether they're cancer or not, that is using this technology. OCR (Optical Character Recognition) is the technology that can take an image of hand-written text and transcribe it. Again, it's using linear algebra, so yes it's AI.

Many other such examples exist, and have been around for quite a good number of years. They share the genre of technology, which is machine learning models, but these are not the Large Language Model Generative AI that is all over the media. Criticizing these would be like criticizing airplanes when you're actually mad at military drones. It's the same "makes fly in the air" technology but their impact is very different.

3. The AI we ARE talking about. "Chat-gpt" type of Generative AI which uses LLMs ("Large Language Models")

If there was one word I wish people would know in all this, it's LLM (Large Language Model). This describes the KIND of machine learning model that Chat-GPT/midjourney/stablediffusion are fueled by. They're so extremely powerfully trained on human language that they can take an input of conversational language and create a predictive output that is human coherent. (I am less certain what additional technology fuels art-creation, specifically, but considering the AI art generation has risen hand-in-hand with the advent of powerful LLM, I'm at least confident in saying it is still corely LLM).

This technology isn't exactly brand new (predictive text has been using it, but more like the mostly innocent and much less successful older sibling of some celebrity, who no one really thinks about.) But the scale and power of LLM-based AI technology is what is new with Chat-GPT.

This is the generative AI, and even better, the large language model generative AI.

(Data scientists, feel free to add on or correct anything.)

[sparklingchim]

game on | jjk

pairing: jungkook x reader

word count: 2.2k

tropes: footballer!jungkook, fake dating, f2l

rating: pg

warnings: koo gets scolded for sleeping around 🥺, playboy jk <3, hints of a threesome 🫢, oc fights w a laundry machine

summary: jungkook is in desperate need to polish up his playboy image, and naturally, he turns to you for help.

a/n: hii my pretty besties!!!! it's my bday😋 so i wanted to share this silly piece i've been having so much fun writing!!! love uuu n treat urself to smth nice for me today <3 mwah��

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

Jeon Jungkook is a charming man – and he is well aware of the fact. He plays that card effortlessly.

Most of the time, it works in his favour. Gets him what he wants, opens doors, soften blows.

But sometimes, it backfires. Spectacularly.

Which is why, right now, he’s standing in front of his fuming manager, who is radiating enough anger to fill the entire office.

The sight isn’t foreign to Jungkook. He wouldn’t say he is used to it, but he has found himself often enough in this situation to recognise the signs of deep trouble.

It’s not just Jungkook’s charm that’s making things complicated. It’s also the fact that he is famous.

He doesn’t flaunt it – never brags, never name-drops. That’s not his thing. But he’s not stupid either. His name (dare he say it) carries a bit of weight, and he’s learned how to use it. Quietly. Casually. Just enough to make things go his way.

Bending the world to his will... until the world pushes back.

And right now, it’s pushing back hard.

One thing Jeon Jungkook does enjoy about being a pro footballer, though, is the way women obsess over him.

He knows they love him – sees it in the comments they leave on his ig posts, sees it in the DMs flooding his inbox daily, and experiences it firsthand at public events, where hordes of fans scream his name. Jungkook thrives on that attention.

However, something he doesn’t love, and what he was never prepared for, is the media. The way they scrutinise his every move, how his face ends up on every headline anytime he does something remotely noteworthy.

And now, thanks to his latest shenanigan getting caught by the press, here he is. Getting chewed out by Taesung, his manager, while Jiwoo from PR watches with that tight-lipped expression that always means bad news.

Jungkook’s eyes are downcast, bracing himself for the scolding that’s already begun.

“You’ve gone too far this time, Jungkook.”

His manager speaks in a flat, monotonous voice, void of even the slightest hint of disappointment, as if he’d long since given up expecting anything different.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to clean up the mess you leave behind?”

A sense of guilt creeping up on Jungkook, even though he knows if he were just a regular guy, none of this would matter at all. And he finds it a bit unfair.

But to survive in this business, you can’t complain about unfairness.

“Have you completely lost your mind?” Taesung barks.

Jungkook remains silent. He forces himself to.

“If there was more involved than just alcohol-”

“No! Nothing like that,” he denies, his response firm and immediate. “It was just alcohol – and, well, just good vibes because we won the last match, and with the World Cup being next, everyone was just really excited.”

If he had known what kind of trouble a simple, innocent celebration of his team’s win at a club would bring, he would’ve gone straight home yesterday. He would’ve skipped the rounds of drinks, the flashing lights, the loud music, and definitely the attention. But hindsight was useless now.

“Good,” his manager says. “I’m glad you were happy.” Mock sympathy drips from his voice. “Perhaps the last time you are going to be happy this year.”

Jungkook nods, accepting the gravity of the situation. No more clubs, no more parties, no more girls.

At least, not for a while. His reputation had taken a few hits recently, and this latest mess wasn’t helping. He could almost hear the whispers: reckless, irresponsible, unprofessional. The kind of things that could ruin him if he didn’t get a handle on it.

He clenched his jaw. No more distractions. From now on, it was all about the game. He needed to remind everyone why he was Jeon Jungkook — the best on the field, not just the headlines.

“You’re no longer in for the World Cup. You’re out.”

His head snaps up at that. Did he hear that right?

“What?! What do you mean?”

“Myungbo doesn’t want you on the team anymore.” Taesung’s words sound heavy and final.

Jungkook’s heart pounds in his ears.

His world tilts. The room seems to spin, the edges of his vision darkening. This wasn’t just a setback — it was a disaster. The World Cup was everything to him, and now it felt like it was slipping through his fingers. The crushing weight of the news settles on his chest, making it hard to breathe. One silly night is all that happened.

He can’t believe that a single photo of him leaving the club with two girls clinging to each arm has cost him his spot on the national football team. He went home with two girls – so what?

But he doesn’t voice his frustration. He knows better than to add fuel to the fire. Speaking his mind now would only escalate the situation and make things worse. Jungkook knows from experience.

He swallows hard, forcing himself to stay calm. His pulse is still racing, but he takes a deep breath, focusing on controlling his emotions. He has to keep a level head if he’s going to find a way to fix this.

“There has to be a way to fix this.” His eyes move to Jiwoo, his PR agent. “Right?”

His manager fixes him with a stern glare. “Jungkook, remember the promise you gave everyone a few months ago?” Taesung reminds him.

Jungkook cringes. When he made a promise to avoid actions that might damage his reputation, he didn’t think it’d be that serious. He cut back on going out, made the effort to play the role of the “good boy” but really – come on. He can’t maintain that facade for an eternity. Especially after a triumphant victory like yesterday’s.

Taking away his spot on the national football team? He didn’t think that was possible.

“How many more times do we have to fix your problems, because you don’t care enough? How many times do we have to repeat this scenario?”

“I promise I’ll better myself,” Jungkook pleads desperately, looking back and forth between the two of them. Someone has to believe him, help him.

“Do you genuinely believe this country wants to be represented by a 20-year-old boy, who can’t keep his personal life under control?” Taesung asks, eyebrows deeply pinched together. “This isn’t just about you, Jungkook. It’s about the team, the fans, and the nation. They need a role model, not a scandal waiting to happen.”

“I know. I know.” Jungkook scrambles for something convincing to say, desperate to sway their decision. This can’t be it. He won’t let his career take a hit because of something like this. “But – but this isn’t too bad. This is fixable. I can fix this.” His voice quivers with a desperation he barely recognises as his own. “Jiwoo.” Jungkook turns to her with pleading eyes. “You always know what to do. Please, help me?”

“I did propose an idea but-”

“We’re not doing that,” Taesung cuts in. “It’s off the table.”

“What is it?” Jungkook’s eyes bounce back and forth between them. “I’ll do anything. This is – this is everything to me. You have to give me a chance.”

Taesung scoffs. “A chance? As far as I know, you have been given countless chances.”

Sweat coats the back of Jungkook’s neck.

Taesung understands just how much Jungkook has fought to secure his place on the national team. He’s well aware that it’s one of Jungkook’s greatest dreams, a pinnacle of his career that he’s poured countless hours of hard work and sacrifice into. That’s why, each morning, when he wakes up to the latest news of Jungkook’s escapades, he feels a deep sense of disappointment, texting Jungkook with a dejected shake of his head to visit his office first thing in the morning.

When it’s all he wants, like Jungkook claims, why doesn’t he act like it?

“If the head coach won’t give me a chance now, he’ll never do. This is my last opportunity to change his mind, make him rethink. I need to at least try.”

Jiwoo looks at Taesung, waiting for his approval. He nods.

“Very simply put: you need a girlfriend,” she says.

For a second, Jungkook is at loss for words.

“A girlfriend? How’s that going to help?” Jungkook tilts his head in confusion. This is not how he thought Jiwoo was going to save him.

“You need a girlfriend to help polish up your image as a player. It’ll make you appear more like a gentleman, softer and nicer. We need to completely shift public perception and counter the negative image they’ve formed about you. It’s all about changing the narrative,” she explains.

“And that is not something we can easily achieve,” Taesung interjects. “Rebranding your entire persona is not feasible at this stage. You’ve been projecting what kind of boy you are to the media for the past two years. It’s going to be incredibly difficult to make a sudden shift look genuine.”

“No! We — I can make it seem real. This is my only chance,” Jungkook insists, his voice gaining a hint of determination. For a moment, breathing feels a bit easier again. “The World Cup is just two months away. That’s enough time to shift public opinion and prove I’m worthy of representing the country on the team.” There’s a hopeful lilt in his voice as he speaks, clinging to the belief that he might not have to bid farewell to his biggest dream after all.

But Taesung doesn’t look as hopeful as Jungkook feels.

“How are we going to find a girl who will agree to this? Someone who isn’t an obsessive fan, understands this is purely professional, and can keep quiet? You won’t be able to pull this off.”

“I was actually thinking-” Jiwoo starts, but she’s cut off.

Jungkook hesitates, glancing between them before speaking. “Actually... I think I already have someone in mind.” His voice is more measured now. “That’s not the issue.” Jungkook doesn’t need to think twice.

Taesung sighs while Jiwoo looks at Jungkook apologetically.

“You can’t rebrand your entire persona from a playboy to a lover boy within a month, Jungkook. This is over.” His manager shakes his head, a sense of finality glimmering in his eyes.

One thing that Jungkook forgot to mention is that he is an extremely competitive man, too.

~

“This is ridiculous.”

You kick the laundry machine in frustration, but all you end up doing is yelping and clutching your aching foot.

“That’s the third time this month,” you mutter under your breath. “What did I even spend all that money on if it’s just going to break down whenever it feels like it?”

You shoot a death glare at the machine, teetering on the edge of losing your mind.

“Guess I’ll have to use the public laundromat again,” you sigh, grabbing the overflowing laundry basket filled with your and your roommate's clothes, and heading out of the bathroom with a huff.

On your way to the front door, the doorbell rings.

Please, you think. You were hoping for some quiet, uninterrupted time to deep-clean your dorm on this peaceful Sunday with no one around.

But when you peek through the peephole and see Jungkook standing there, your frustration melts away. You swing the door open, the laundry basket tumbling to the floor beside you in your haste.

“Jungkook!” you exclaim. “You’re timing is perfect! Can you please fix my laundry machine again? It’s been acting up, and I’m getting frustrated.” You groan annoyed.

Jungkook doesn’t share the same excitement upon seeing you.

You grow smaller and take an indecisive step back.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, noticing the tension in his features. “Did you lose the match yesterday? I couldn’t keep up because I had too much cramming to do last night.”

While studying medicine had always been your dream, the reality is less exciting. Right now, it means sleepless nights and relentless pressure. You know that pursuing this path will offer you many privileges later in life, but you have to suffer first.

“I need your help.”

His dark eyes, usually bright and full of energy, seem clouded with worry, and his hair falls messily over his forehead, like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times in frustration.

“Are you okay?” You study him closely, scanning his face for any signs of injury. Physically, he seems fine — still tall, muscular, and as fit as ever. But something is clearly off.

“You need to do something for me.”

“I can help,” you reply, your voice soft with concern. ‘But what is it…?”

“Don’t call me crazy for it.”

“Just tell me.”

“Can you be my girlfriend?”

You blink, repeatedly.

“Huh?”

You start giggling when he doesn’t add more. You expect him to clarify or laugh along, but Jungkook stays serious, stepping closer and gently taking your hands in his. You look down at them, then back up at his face, utterly bewildered.

“You’re silly, Jungkook. If someone on the team made you do this, tell them you did the punishment and quit acting so weird.”

It’s too early in the morning for Jungkook’s nonsense.

“No, ___, you don’t understand.” He squeezes your hands when he feels you trying to pull them back. “I actually need you to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Fake date me.”

[hairmetal666]

Everyone in the league knows about Eddie Munson. He has the makings of a great pitcher, except for the fact that his slider has a 75% chance of sliding too high and his fastballs mostly end up in the dirt. His technique is wild, flailing, unrestrained. Which is why Steve is beside himself when he learns about the trade.

The owners, they think that Steve being the best catcher in the league means he can work with Eddie, settle him, make him a real prospect. Steve's input isn't needed with the decision already made, but Munson--with all his tattoos piercings and leather--looks like he'd rather hock a loogie at Steve than take directions from him.

And Steve is the best in the league, the glue that keeps the team together. They're a well-oiled machine, and Eddie is--Eddie is a squeaky wheel.

They meet for the first time, briefly, in the locker room. He's seen the guy before, of course, but now, like this, he can't help but be intrigued by his pale skin and long curls and brown doe-eyes, his lightly muscled frame. And they're in the locker room, Eddie with just a towel around his waist, exposing his toned chest and stomach and the black swirl of his tattoos.

"Steve Harrington!" Eddie reaches out a hand. "Great to meet you, man."

"You too. Excited to have you with us." The handshake is quick and firm and Steve is trying not to be surprised about how excited and genuine the guy sounds, keep his mind away from thinking of how Eddie is naked aside from the towel.

With only a few weeks until the start of the regular season, Eddie starts pitching to Steve. And Steve, he so expects Eddie to fight and grumble and refuse, that his head sort of spins when, on the first day, Eddie claps him on the back with his glove, says, "where do you want me, cap?" and that's that.

He wants to say that they dislike each other, that they're a bad fit, that Eddie is full himself and refuses constructive criticism.

Instead.

Instead it's easy.

Eddie doesn't complain, doesn't argue, just watches Steve, learns him, takes his advice and notes and implements them as much as he can. They like each other, have an easy rapport, get each other. He's tight with all the pitchers, but Eddie is different. They settle each other.

They're best friends. They hangout constantly. And he doesn't have a crush; he doesn't. It would be unprofessional. They're best friends.

But sometimes, sometimes he thinks he catches Eddie looking at him. It's impossible. Of course it's impossible. Eddie couldn't be into the guy Sports Illustrated called "baseball's Ralph Lauren model" in the intro to Steve's Body Issue photo spread. And it doesn't matter one way or the other because Steve won't make a move. He won't jeopardize the team like that.

They don't touch. He touches everyone on the team, often, and Eddie particularly is a physical guy, but aside from that first handshake, he keeps his distance. Steve's afraid--even though it's silly, he's afraid--that once they start touching, he won't be able to stop, and he can't let that happen.

The team is good, competing for first place in the National League. Eddie's success has made everyone else better.

It's late July, they're in first place in the league, and Eddie's pitching a perfect game. There's only been 24 perfect games thrown in the history of Major League Baseball, but it's the eighth inning and Eddie's doing it.

A pitch goes wild, veers high over the umpire's head. Eddie's shaken, Steve can tell with how his fist tightens compulsively around the ball. The next pitch swings wide, towards the batter's knees.

The count is at 2 balls, no strikes, and he can see, even from behind home plate Steve can see, that Eddie's losing it. He heads for the mound, refuses to let it end like this. He closes the distance between them, has a quick internal debate before he puts his hand on Eddie's lower back. They've never touched, this is it, this is--warmth bleeds from Eddie's skin, through the fabric of his jersey, goes straight to Steve's head.

Eddie frowns. "I don't think I--"

"You're going to do it, Ed. I know. I can feel it." He pats his chest, over his heart. "It's gonna happen."

Eddie's breathing settles and it's only then that Steve realizes he's rubbing circles into Eddie's back with his thumb. He's not sure when he started, doesn't want to stop, loves being able to feel.

"Okay," Eddie says.

"Okay."

Steve removes his hand, heads back to home, still tingling with the warmth of Eddie's body even as he crouches behind the plate.

He closes out the inning with three definitive strike outs. The crowd goes wild.

They take the field for the top of the 9th, the crowd is screaming, ready for this, the energy zipping through every player on the field.

It goes by in a blur. Nine pitches. Eddie's perfect game is wrapped up in nine phenomenal pitches.

As the ump calls the last out, there's a moment of complete and utter quiet in the stadium, Steve's heart a pounding hum in his ears, before pandemonium breaks loose. There's screaming, fireworks, someone is crying--

All he can see is Eddie. Eddie's who's thrown his glove to the dirt, is barreling towards him with a triumphant smile bright on his face. Steve stands, runs to close the distance. He sees the moment that Eddie decides to jump into his arms, catches him easily--will always catch him--but his legs are tired and the momentum gets him, sends them tumbling back into the grass.

They're both yelling, laughing, smiling hard enough to hurt. Eddie's hair has fallen out if its tie, tumbling around his shoulders, and Steve gazes at him, can't help it, in this moment can admit that he's so, so astronomically in love.

It's only then Steve realizes that the laughter's stopped, that Eddie's gazing back. Brown eyes shining bright with happiness, cheeks flushed pink, lips parted. Thoughtless, he reaches up to caress Eddie's cheek.

The team reaches them, streaming around them, yanking Eddie and Steve to their feet. The celebration stretches around them, the moment slipping away. He wants to finish what they started but there are interviews, champagne showers, congratulations, that keep them apart. Sometimes, from across the room, their eyes meet, and there's heat there that's new, that sparks something low in Steve's gut.

Hours pass, and finally he finds himself alone in the locker room. He's just pulled on his t-shirt when the door shuts behind him. He spins, finds Eddie, waiting, watching.

He crosses the room without a word, can't not, not now, not after everything. They grapple for a second, the wanting so strong that it takes a second to settle, to find each other. They kiss hard, desperate, seething with desire.

Steve hopes it never ends and it doesn't, just tapers into soft kisses, gentle nips. He can't bring himself to step away.

"Is this for real ?" Eddie whispers.

"I've been insane about you since the trade."

Eddie's smile is blinding. "I used to have those pictures of you--the ones with the little red shorts?--in my locker in the minors. Feel like I'm living in a dream right now."

It lights him up inside, knowing that Eddie wants him, has wanted him. "Let me take you home and show you just how real it is?"

He snorts, but his dimples deepen, eyes shining. "What a line, sweetheart."

"Yeah well, the baseball field isn't the only place where I hit home runs."

[almostempty]

too good to be true

(frankie morales x f!reader) | wc: 10k | other fics  | Ao3

summary: frankie, a regular at your coffee shop, is there for you when your boyfriend joel breaks up with you and disappears practically overnight. despite not knowing each other long, frankie just seems to be perfect for you and you fall hard and fast 

song inspo: can’t take my eyes off of you

warnings/tags: explicit smut, dark!frankie, stalker!frankie, dubcon, lies, deceit, coffee shop au gone wrong, bad bf Joel, abandonment issues, anxiety, breakup grief, sex to avoid processing emotions (yay!), face fucking, masturbation, crying, love bombing (aka emotional abuse), frankie doesn’t have a job bc he nefariously acquired a large cash settlement from his return trip to the jungle– or maybe he has a military pension idk don’t ask questions, revenge porn, jealousy, delusional reader, no y/n, unprotected sex with no consequences bc it’s fiction so it’s free to imagine it raw; f!reader is able-bodied otherwise, no specific descriptions; likely many mistakes and i accept that 

update: i gave this a re-read bc i wanted it to be fresh before i carry on with part 2, and was paralyzed by the typos (kill me). the story hasn’t changed, but i’ve done some heavy editing to hopefully improve some of the flow and impact in certain scenes (there’s probably still mistakes) 

You don’t remember meeting Frankie for the first time—only the feeling. How he slipped into your mind before your alarm even rang. How you sprung out of bed in the dark, already thinking of him. You remember the heat that rushed to your cheeks when you caught yourself grinning and waving at him before he’d even made it across the cafe to the counter. 

Once he started visiting your coffee shop, he quickly became your favorite regular. He had an enticing mix of confidence and calm. Always polite. Always kind. Once you learned his order–dark roast in a for-here mug–you’d have it poured just as he approached the register. 

He’d thank you with his deep morning voice and a smile that made his eyes crinkle before he’d slink away to find a table. He came in at the same time every morning, a man of routine, right when your rush would hit. Everything demanded your immediate attention–the screaming steam wand, the line that formed at the register, the whirring coffee grinder. Frenzied as it was, you’d sink into your own routine. A flow state, slinging drinks and greeting regulars as they trickled in with their suits and shiny hair. 

It made the shift pass quickly, but you never had a quiet moment to start a conversation with the one man you looked forward to seeing. It wasn’t too busy to sneak glances at him though. Sometimes, he’d scroll through his phone, and you’d steal a moment to take in his features—wondering what, exactly, people read in a cafe before sunrise. Other times it was like he knew you were looking, his eyes would flit up, matching your gaze before you could play it off. 

You would’ve denied it at the time–but when he caught you watching, the way he smiled back, unafraid to hold eye contact–it gave you butterflies. You wouldn’t acknowledge the meaning in that or admit to the daydreams that he sparked. It wasn’t anything real! And besides, there was nothing to it. You weren’t single, or looking. He was just a good looking guy that seemed to have manners and a pleasant attitude. 

And, for some reason, that was refreshing. It wasn’t like you had time to get to know him anyway. There was never time for more than a quick good morning, or have a good day when he’d leave his empty mug at the end of the counter. 

Until it changed.  

He started slipping in the front door in the quiet dark of the morning, while the espresso machines were still warming up and you were stocking the display with fresh pastries. You’d slide the mug toward him and he’d stay at the counter while you finished setting up. His curls were still damp from his post-workout shower and you’d let your eyes linger on his neck, his shoulders, his arms between tasks or his eyes, his nose, and his lips between questions. 

The conversation between you flowed so easily you’d find yourself buzzing around the cafe before you’d even had a sip of your own coffee. He’d share as you worked, giving you plenty to absorb as you cleaned and prepped. You learned about when he moved to town, how he lives in another neighborhood but kept coming back for the coffee and the atmosphere. 

You learned that he’s single. Ex-military. 

You laughed, flashing him a grin. “That explains everything,” you quipped. 

“Everything?” he asked. 

“You know,” you waved your hand at him like it was obvious, but he waited patiently for an explanation. “The routine? Up to workout at the asscrack of dawn, getting your coffee before half the city gets up for work. The manners and the whole...” You trail off before completing the end of that sentence. 

Frankie tilted his head, something playful and knowing in his eyes. “I’ll concede to most of that, but my mamá raised me to have manners long before the military.” 

As the mornings passed you learned more. Not just from what he shared, but from your own observations. He remembers details. He asks follow-up questions on Monday mornings about the weekend plans you shared on Friday. 

Did you and your boyfriend see that movie you were thinking about? 

Did you get to sleep in like you’d hoped? 

Did he take you to the farmer’s market? 

Did he like the recipe you wanted to try out? 

It was sweet. 

And infuriating. 

Your stomach twisted. A man you barely knew remembered your plans, your throwaway comments, your interests. He saw you. He wanted to know you. The realization sank like lead, heavy in your chest, lingering long after he left.

In your heart, you knew it wasn’t intentional, but it stung when he’d ask about your plans. Every time you had to come up with an excuse for why they never happened. Poking holes in your relationship. And shining a spotlight on the disappointments that you’d been trying to sweep under the rug. 

You carried that discomfort around like a parasite. It ate at you while you poured lattes and cleaned the ice machine. It soured your mood as you ran errands and walked home. And finally, it spilled over into your relationship. 

As ugly as it was, you almost appreciated Frankie for picking at the wounds—forcing you to finally confront the truth with your boyfriend. Joel had been drifting away and you were afraid to acknowledge it. As if saying it outloud would make it true. But it already was real. The closer you tried to get, the farther Joel would run—emotionally. Well, maybe in other ways too. 

He was slowly disappearing. Staying late at work instead of coming to yours, cancelling on your weekend plans, always too tired to fuck, generally just a bad-tempered brick wall rather than a boyfriend. All things considered, you thought addressing him directly would be the final nail in the coffin—but it wasn’t. 

After some long and serious conversations that left you both exhausted at work the next few days, you’d come up with some strategies to reconnect. He’d agreed with you, acknowledging his own avoidance, and claiming he wanted to make changes. 

It was working, too. You scheduled date nights. You sent flirty texts during the day—even if neither of you had time to respond right away. You assured him you’d rather see him for only an hour between him getting home late and you having to go to bed early than not seeing him at all. 

On those nights, when he had long days that made his whole body ache, you’d give him a back massage. Straddling his ass, rubbing down his shoulder blades, kneading circles with your thumbs, and savoring the view of his broad back and the heat of his body beneath you. 

It was meditative. Your touch dissolved his tension and his presence soothed your anxieties. Sometimes the rhythm and pressure would elicit low groans of pleasure from Joel. Each time it would ladle heat in your core. You’d do everything to find out what sounds he’d make for you. 

Some nights, you’d keep going until you lulled him to sleep. But on your favorite nights, he’d roll onto his back, keeping you on top, watching you ride him until you were both slick with sweat and in need of a shower.

It’s those tender moments that make it hurt so deep now. Like the pain seeped all the way to your bones, threaded through all your muscles, and numbed your nervous system. 

It makes you nauseous. Cycling through rage, shame, and something bleak and endless. 

To know after everything that Joel could throw you away like this. That he didn’t even care enough to have a face-to-face conversation about it with you. He couldn’t give you closure. Just leaving you a note. A piece of paper. Here’s your memo letting you know he no longer requires your services. Barely longer than a postcard. He realized he can’t do it anymore. He can’t be a part of your life. He can’t do just friends. He’s sorry.

Fucking coward. 

The letter is flimsy in your hand as you scan the words for the thousandth time. You’ve got it down by heart at this point, you re-read it just to confirm that it’s real. That you aren’t insane–or at least that you didn’t make up the note—or the whole relationship. 

With a deep sigh, you slip the folded paper back into your apron pocket. It fits neatly. Your token. A reminder that this hell is your reality. 

The tiled floor is unforgiving as you trudge back toward the front counter, plastering on your best customer service smile. 

And of course. It’s fucking Frankie. 

The wrinkle between his brow deepens before he makes it to the register. Are you that easy to read? You’re never going to survive this shift. You turn away from him, pouring the coffee in a daze until it nearly overflows. You dump the mug out and get a whole new one, forcing yourself to stop the tap before it’s a burn hazard. With one more blink you pray you’ve mustered enough strength to survive this interaction without another breakdown. 

“Hey,” Frankie starts softly, as if he might spook you. “You doing okay?” Stupid big brown eyes. Just like Joel’s. They make you weak. You can’t be weak. Pulling your shoulders back you search for a defensive–no, confident–stance. 

“Why? Do I look like shit today?” 

“No, never,” he tries to reassure you. Unfazed by your prickly questions. 

You swallow down a grimace. He’s too kind to you. Too good. 

“Sorry,” you correct yourself, pushing the mug toward him. “I just mean, I would be surprised. I feel like shit.” The words come out grumbly and you drag a hand over your face annoyed with yourself. 

“I take it he’s still gone then?” 

Your head feels heavy as you nod back in agreement. It’s too much to see the concern in his round eyes; you linger on his mouth instead. It feels like a safer place to stare. Until it shifts into a frown. 

“You deserve better, you know.” His voice is quiet. A confession only meant for you and his coffee to hear. 

“Sure,” you sigh. Maybe he’s right. You deserve someone that could look you in the eye when they break up with you. Who could explain with more than a few scribbled sentences why they’d block you and disappear like a fucking ghost. Everytime you run through it, the details feel colder and colder. Harsher and crueler. Maybe you never really knew Joel at all. Not if he could do this to you. 

Your still swollen face burns when your eyes begin to well up again. Anger flashes in your eyes—you’re so sick of the emotional whiplash. The lights in the cafe blur. Your pulse pounds, erratic and sharp. Questions race through your mind. 

Were there signs the whole time that you missed? 

Was it something you did? 

Will you ever know? 

“Hey,” Frankie murmurs, “breathe.” 

It’s soft, but the timbre of his voice draws your attention. 

“Breathe,” you repeat. 

He places a hand on his stomach, modeling deep, slow breaths. Willing away the sobs, you copy him with only a few shudders interrupting the rhythm. The fresh coffee wafts into your nose, earthy and rich. Frankie’s broad chest looks solid, expanding steadily like he’s some kind of breathing guru robot. The thought makes you laugh, but the laugh almost cracks into another sob when everything rushes back in at once. 

“Fuck,” you curse at yourself. “I’m sorry, I must seem pathetic. Or crazy.” You suck in a shaky breath, trying not to have a complete breakdown in front of a customer. 

Frankie doesn’t waver. He assures you that he doesn’t think you’re losing it and you believe him. 

Somehow, you get through the rest of the morning. And the next. Day by day, you crawl through the week. Fighting everything inside of you that wants to scream and decay in bed for the rest of your life. By the end of the week, all you’ve got left to cling to is that it’s your last shift before the weekend. It’s all you’ve got to keep your feet moving and your fake chipper morning greetings. 

There’s no way you could do this another day. Dragging yourself through the motions like an undead barista. It’s survival. On edge, fragile and raw. You can finish this shift and then you’re free to spend the weekend indulging in your worst ideas. Wallowing, ugly crying, binge eating, anything. 

Everything nearly comes apart when Frankie shows up with flowers for you. 

It’s too much. Too sweet. Why does he care? 

Your brows furrow, unreasonably skeptical of a kind gesture. You start to process what he’s saying to you through the fog. He wanted you to have something to cheer you up over the weekend. 

It’s thoughtful. It’s an overwhelming gesture. 

He thinks of you? He worries about you? 

Then a sick voice slithers into your mind. Frankie makes it seem so easy. To notice you. To care. To make your life better. He makes you wonder if you aren’t hard to love. 

The realizations hit like falling dominos. Too fast to stop. Too late to change course.

Frankie notices the way your eyes shine, tears threatening to roll down your cheeks. He apologizes, “If it’s too much, you don’t have to take them. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and I definitely didn’t want to make you cry.” 

The fear dies in your throat.

“They’re lovely, really.” Your eyes are round and wet as you blink sweetly at him. “Thank you.” You give him your warmest smile through your misty eyes. 

You take the flowers home after your shift. They fit perfectly in the crystal vase that was collecting dust on your window sill. 

You move them to the kitchen table where you can see them from your living room too. 

And you stare at them all weekend. 

Your favorite flowers. How did he know? 

You stare and stare until they don’t look real anymore. And all you can think of is Frankie. 

His reliable nature. His thoughtfulness. His kindness. 

The qualities you thought you had found in Joel. 

You let yourself embrace your agony for the weekend. Determined to make it through at least the first stage of grief. As if you can allot a number of hours to it and just check it off your list. Brute forcing yourself through the wreckage trying to re-emerge unscathed. 

Your friends send texts checking in on you. Gratitude flickers in your chest but you don’t have the capacity to respond. To fake it or, worse, to be real. It feels wrong, but even though you can’t fathom the idea of talking to a friend, you’re drawn to the thought of Frankie. Knowing you’ll see him Monday morning. That he’ll check in, too. 

And he does. 

Dependable as ever, he shows up in the cover of darkness. You greet each other with raspy morning voices. The first words of the day, murmured just between you. It feels intimate. Special. Like something that belongs only to the two of you.

The thought sends warmth curling in your chest. You smile genuinely, for the first time in days.

You keep going to work. 

Frankie keeps showing up. 

The world keeps turning.

Soon you get to the point where you can fall asleep without having to exhaust yourself completely. Some mornings Frankie’s jokes make your ribs shake with laughter and some of the suffocating weight sloughs off of your chest. Rest begins to heal you. Frankie’s charm brightens your darkest days. 

One afternoon, you’re dropping an armful of grocery bags onto the counter and your heart squeezes with an ache. The flowers Frankie gave you are starting to wilt. With one twitch of your hand and a shake of your head, you hesitate. You aren’t ready to toss them out. Convinced they’ve got another day in them, at least. 

You sweep the fallen petals and pollen into your hand, then spin the vase to find the best angle left. The flowers may be fading, but Frankie’s presence has taken root in your mind and only grows stronger. 

You lay in bed making mental notes. A joke about a show you both watch. A story from your walk home. A question you meant to ask but forgot—because you got distracted.

By things that shouldn’t be distracting. But are. The shape of his bottom lip. The curve where his neck meets his shoulder. The way his hands look wrapped around his coffee mug, fingers slow and steady, like he’s holding something delicate.

The way he smiles—wide enough to show his dimples—when you bicker over movies or the best takeout spot in town. You replay it. Again. And again.

You smile at your ceiling, telling yourself it’s harmless appreciation. Lying to yourself when you hope he finds his way into your dreams.

The next morning, your jaw drops–stunned. Fresh flowers. Frankie stands on the other side of the counter, holding them out like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s as if he knew. Like he heard through the grapevine that you hesitated to throw the old ones out. That you weren’t ready to let them go. That you didn’t want to lose the evidence of what he gave you

You squint at him, making a playful accusation. “How did you know?” 

“It’s been a week,” he shrugs. “Figured it was time to refresh.” 

A week. It feels like it’s only been a day, and at the same time, it feels like a whole month has passed. 

It helps. 

The following week is much of the same. Morning chats with Frankie. Busy shifts with rushes and endless cleaning tasks. Running errands, trying to keep in touch with friends, trying to keep yourself too busy and distracted to fall back into the sharp pain of loss. Of coming home to an empty apartment. Of waking up alone. Of the way Joel erased himself so completely from your life, you have to find tangible reminders that he was ever real. 

You stop hoping Joel will show up with an apology. Stop waiting for a text. He won’t even hear you out—won’t answer a single question. You let go of the idea that any of this was a mistake.

There’s still a hole rotting in your heart, but if you stay busy enough, you can ignore it. Mostly. 

You stick to your plan, steadfast that time will heal your wounds. Days pass, and you find yourself once again asking Frankie what he has planned for the day. But this time, he hesitates. 

Frankie tells you he’ll be out of town for a few days. You aren’t sure why, but it feels like he jammed his fingers into that hole in your heart when he tells you. Don’t abandon me. Please. 

He must see right through you. 

“Here,” he says, holding out his hand. “I know it’s only a few days, but I was thinking I don’t want to miss out on your remarkably accurate reality TV predictions. You take the napkin with his number written on it. How old-fashioned. It makes your heart flutter. “Keep me updated.” 

You swallow the butterflies and turn the energy into a smirk. “You’re so going to regret this,” you tease. 

You feel lit from within, glowing and floaty for the rest of your shift. Getting the hot regular’s number gives you a rush. It’s not like he asked you on a date or anything, but still, it feels good to have someone want to keep talking to you. 

Until you clock out and immediately start spiraling. Should you text him now just to give him your number? Wish him a safe trip? Play it cool and wait until tomorrow morning? Or maybe he’s busy in the morning? Shit. You never even asked what his trip was for. 

��…

It’s early afternoon when Frankie’s phone buzzes. He smirks. Your shift must have just ended.

You: it’s me! You: figured it’s only fair you get my number now, too

Frankie: Hey you :)

You: hey :) You: i hope the trip goes well

Frankie: Thanks, it’ll be better now.

You: how come?

He thought it would take longer. Thought you’d make him wait. You’re already reaching for him.

Frankie: Well, I just got this pretty girl’s number. Now I’ve got her updates to look forward to.

He exhales, stretching out on his couch. Maybe he didn’t need the ruse at all. You don’t need the absence to suck you in any deeper; you’re already moving on. Good.

He scans the apartment—bare walls, empty space. He needs to fix that. Needs to make it a place you’ll want to stay.

He checks the notes hidden in his phone of places you shop, your favorite color, the way your apartment is decorated. He already knows what you want. What you need. With that thought, he drifts off, satisfied, into a long nap. 

He doesn’t wake until his evening alarm goes off, checking his phone to see what reality show you’re going to be glued to tonight. MILF manor. Who comes up with these? He rolls his eyes, stretching, yawning, and traipsing across his apartment to find some cold pizza in the fridge. 

Holding one slice between his teeth and the other in one hand, he debates whether he should take a drive through your neighborhood or stay in for the night. His phone buzzes again, and he figures it’s a sign. He drops his pants near the hallway and scarfs his cold dinner as he settles back in the living room, unmuting the show and opening your messages. 

You’re funny. 

Sending quick-witted observations and callbacks. 

You force him to pay attention. You’re sharp. If he doesn’t watch, you’ll know. You always call him out for missing the nuance. You challenge that he could predict the next winner if he paid closer attention. 

When you get frustrated with him and huff about how he missed something completely obvious, he memorizes your expressions. The fire in your eyes when you’re passionate. You feel so deeply and express your emotions so freely. 

He likes that about you. Funny. Smart. Bold. Passionate. Sexy.

Perfect. 

He lets his mind wander as he leans back. The room glows from the light of the TV, flashing brighter and dimmer. The look on your face when he said he’d be gone for a few days pops into his mind, how your eyes flashed wide and the soft pout that tugged at your bottom lip. 

You need him. It’s so clear. And you’re so perfect. 

The show is just noise. Static. 

He closes out of your messages. Opening up his photos. Scrolling through pictures of you. Some from social media, and some taken while you were working and unaware. 

Perfect. 

His eyes fall shut as he tips his head back, relaxed and comfortable as he sinks deeper into the cushion. 

“Perfect lips, perfect mouth,” he mutters to himself as he sets the phone aside altogether. 

It’s a simple but effective scene that plays out in his mind. A go-to fantasy since the day he first laid eyes on you. 

He wedges his boxers down just far enough to free his half-hard cock. He tries to start slow, with languid strokes as he imagines the heat of your mouth sucking him deeper. The sight of you looking up at him with your lips stretched around him. 

“Just perfect,” he groans to himself. He can’t hold back his urgency at the thought of you, quickly amping up the speed of his wrist and the strength of his grip. It’s minutes, or maybe seconds before his muscles are tensing and jerking as he comes to the thought of you. 

It eases the tension, but he still needs you. Soon. 

……

The rest of your week passes quickly. 

Your head is in the clouds over your new texting buddy. You check your phone on all your breaks but send yourself into another spiral, trying to work out the balance between enthusiastic but not needy. Responding quickly, but not being too much. You don’t want to come off as crazy.

It fully absorbs your attention. The excitement and the anxiety. The rush when you get a new message and the anguish over every word you type. Rereading your messages until you get a response. Worrying yourself over your silly jokes and banter. But when he responds, it’s addictive. You’re smitten when he matches your energy or sends a flirty quip. 

It makes you smile so hard your cheeks burn. You get distracted taking orders. It’s all-consuming. 

………

Frankie keeps tabs on you the rest of the week. When you walk home from work, when you run errands, when you’re out with your friends. He picks up things for his apartment while you’re at work. At night, he drives down your block. He watches you watching TV. Until dark, then you diligently shut your curtains just as the last dregs of the sunset disappear. 

Tonight, he lingers, still parked across the street from your apartment building. He sends another text, and his eyes flick to your curtains like you might open them back up just for him. You’re such a good girl for that, though–not letting anyone else watch. 

Frankie: I’m back tomorrow. You have weekend plans? 

You: that’s great! no plans for me

Frankie: You want to watch tomorrow’s episode together? 

You: that would be fun! 

Frankie: Perfect :) 

………

You don’t know why you offered to host. Your place is a mess. Since Joel left, you’ve been letting your depression piles calcify. You shove your laundry into the washer, toss your unopened mail into a drawer, and do your best to make it look like you’re a fully functioning adult. 

Something about having Frankie over has you feeling pent up. 

You’re nervous. Excited. And you’re still unregulated and exhausted from the emotional devastation of Joel disappearing on you. You’ve been letting yourself sink into the distraction of making a new friend. A hot, new friend. But as helpful as the distraction is, you still haven’t really processed the pain. 

Maybe it’s too soon to let yourself think about Frankie all the time. Maybe you need to really feel your misery and figure out what you missed. What you did wrong. No, even your body rejects that idea, sending a shiver of anxiety through you. 

Fuck it. 

You’re both single adults. There’s no rulebook that says you can’t entertain a new crush. So what’s the harm? You’re hoping that seeing Frankie in person will help you get clarity on the flirty vibe of his texts. Are they truly flirty, or are you just delusional? 

You do your best to find a casual “just watching trash TV” type of outfit after your everything shower. You bought enough snacks to feed a high school football team, you know, just in case. You flutter around your space, hastily cleaning anything else you can think of, worried about details that only an evil in-law would scrutinize you for. 

Despite your frenzy and feeling on edge all afternoon, the concern all seems to vanish when Frankie shows up at your door. You welcome him in and swoon a little over the fresh flowers he brought you. You still have some nerves that don’t relent, but they’re the smiley, giggly, butterfly type of nerves now. 

As you get settled, it all feels surprisingly easy. 

You make each other laugh. You offer your insane spread of snacks, and he settles next to you on your sofa before the episode starts. He appreciates all of your commentary and banters with you over your strongest opinions. It feels surprisingly natural to be spending time together like this. Without an espresso machine between you. 

You’re taken with his presence. He balances you. Even when he debates your controversial takes and unpopular opinions, he doesn’t get worked up like you. 

His calm demeanor is grounding. His nearness and steadiness relaxes you.  

The stress let down makes your head feel heavy, and without thinking, you rest your temple against Frankie’s shoulder with a deep sigh. It feels comforting until you realize how forward you’re being and snap your head back up. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” you blurt out, scooting away. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“It’s okay,” he reassures you, voice soft and low. 

He’s staring at you so intently. You feel the heat in your face, embarrassed at acting so comfortable with him and self-conscious under his gaze. You still don’t really know what he wants. And you don’t want to fuck anything up. But he doesn’t seem bothered. In fact, you swear his eyes drop to your mouth before they flick back up. 

“More than okay,” he adds, and your stomach flips at his honesty. “Here,” he shifts and invites you to scoot under his arm. You get comfortable, resting your head on his chest. 

You try to watch the TV, but you can feel Frankie watching you. It makes you restless and unable to think clearly. You peer up at him. It’s a charged look—maybe it was obvious all along, but you hadn’t felt confident enough to put the pieces together until now.

“What?” You whisper, unable to fight the smile pulling at your mouth. 

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs. 

Uh oh. Your breath hitches, and something in you cracks. A tear slips from the corner of your eye, and you try to hide it, whispering thanks into his chest and looking down. 

“Hey,” he tilts your chin to look up at him. “Hey, what’s wrong?” 

“I don’t know,” you choke out, trying to will away the emotions that bubble up inside of you. “That’s really sweet of you.” You steady your breathing, slower and deeper. What is wrong with you? You expected something flirty. You didn’t expect something so.. heartfelt?

You slow your breathing. Frankie’s scent—clean, warm, steadying—grounds you.

But why? How does just breathing against him make you feel safe? 

You can’t even think about safety. You can’t count on anyone else. What if he leaves out of nowhere, too? Your thoughts pick up, racing. Falling deeper into your anxieties. You aren’t even on a date; you shouldn’t be worried about this guy abandoning you. 

Your fears eat at you, worsening your fragile state. Your body shakes gently as you try to breathe through the anxiety. 

Frankie runs his hand along your back. He’s so warm, solid, and strong. 

You must seem insane, your emotional flooding has you drowning now. He just keeps murmuring at you about how you’re okay, and he pulls you into his arms to give you a firm hug, regulating you. Fixing you. 

When you lean back to apologize for crying on him, he shakes his head in disagreement. 

“Don’t apologize,” he says it like he means it, like he won’t be taking questions or arguments. You sniffle as you do your best to accept that. “You still look beautiful,” he says, pulling you back towards him. 

It’s everything you didn’t know you needed to hear.

Your face nestles against his neck, warmth pooling in your chest. You shouldn’t—should you?—but the way he breathes, slow and steady, so sure of you, makes you crave something grounding. Something solid. A shiver trails down your spine, and before you can second-guess, you press your lips to his neck. Frankie hums, deep and approving, fingers curling against your back. 

You do it again.

The exact spot you’ve been so distracted by on so many mornings. His skin is soft and warm; you can taste your tears, wet and salty on your lips. You do it again before you freeze. What are you doing? 

Frankie’s hand slips up the back of your neck, cradling your head in his warm palm. It feels like encouragement. You test your theory, pressing another gentle kiss to his jaw where his scruffy beard tickles your nose. 

The TV might still be on, but all you can hear is your breathing and his. The sound of your lips against his skin. And the low-pitched noise in Frankie’s throat that urges you on. Provoking a needful fire within you. Intense and frantic. You nip at his ear before stamping open-mouthed kisses back down his neck, pulling back only to breathe hot and humid against his skin. 

You hesitate, a frenzied desire has you wanting to straddle his lap and take more and more, but something makes you pause. Frankie knows. He feels your weight shifting and makes the move for you, pulling you onto his lap. 

“I know,” he says as his large hands wrap around both sides of your jaw. “Keep going.” The encouragement pours over you like warm honey. Face to face, you wrap your arms around his neck. The last thread of your doubt snaps and you close the gap. Pressing your lips together. Softly for a second, before your mouths are parting and your tongues and teeth work fervently to express your desire. 

Then it becomes a desperate blur, your fingers curling into his hair, tugging until he’s groaning into your mouth. His hands slipping under your shirt, hot against your skin, snaking back down to knead the curve of your ass while you roll your hips, grinding into his lap in search of friction. 

You feel him hardening beneath you and a molten hot thrill radiates between your legs. There’s a raw quality to your movements as you bite at his lip, scratch at his shoulders, and whine with a frustrated edge. 

You’re taking out all your emotional distress on him. Or, rather, you’re begging him to erase it all, to bite back harder, to use force, to dominate. You keep trying to use your body instead of words. Just teeth, nails, and needy writhing. Anything sharp, forceful, rough. An offering. 

Tears still roll down your cheeks, hot with anger, anguish, and everything you can’t name. You aren’t interested in exploring your emotions. You need something more visceral. 

You sit back, hands shooting towards Frankie’s belt, chasing more, when he stops you in your tracks. His hand possessively grips below your jaw, forcing you to look at him. 

Your cunt throbs at the look on his face. The soft, gentle Frankie is gone. His face is hard and dangerous as he studies you. For some reason that makes you want him even more. 

His fingers dig into your cheek eliciting a sharp inhale from you, parting your lips into a small “o” shape, before he releases you. You know you’re a mess. Teary, panting, wild-eyed–but his lips curl into a sinful grin. Reflexively you tilt your pelvis, drawing the heat of your core along the ridge of his erection. 

Your eyes flutter shut, chasing sensation—until Frankie’s chest shakes with a dark chuckle. Condescending. Your hips still. You blink at him. The air thickens. The rest of the room fades. Your thighs tense.

“Keep going.” 

It’s a demand this time, not an affirmation or encourager. His sinister smirk is gone, replaced by a frighteningly blank stare. His carnivorous eyes drop, watching your fingers as you work open his belt and jeans. 

Shit. You can tell he’s big as you trace your fingers along his cock, over his boxers, savoring the heat in your palm. The damp fabric at the tip pleases you, and you peel the waistband down to reveal the glorious vision that has you wetting your lips. 

“Shit,” you repeat out loud this time. A primal, hungry need possesses you as you admire his cock. The glistening head, thick shaft, and dark patch of curls at the base. Just the sight of him is intoxicatingly masculine and dominant. 

You need him in your mouth. 

You slink off his lap, sinking to your knees between his legs. Excitement flutters in your pussy and you feel like you’ve fallen into a trance. Your body moves faster than your mind, tugging at his jeans as he repositions at the edge of the couch. 

“I know,” he mutters under his breath as you wrap your hand around the smooth skin. “I know what you need,” he continues. You can only hum in response. Preoccupied by the slip of your thumb dragging a trail of precome down along the underside of his cock. 

He cups the back of your head, urging you to his tip with a commanding growl. You want to pout for not getting the chance to tease and savor the moment, but you don’t have the time when he slides past your lips and hits the back of your throat. 

You choke, sputtering around him and pulling back. His hand encourages you to try again and you’re eager to take it like he gives it. Refocusing on controlling your breath, you look up to see the fierceness in his eyes on his otherwise blank face. A confusing mix of warning and excitement stirs in your core, making you squirm on your knees. 

The discomfort makes something flicker across his face. 

You try again, determined, like you’ve got something to prove. You pull his other hand to your cheek. Please lead. You catch the start of a smirk on his face before he’s guiding you once again. It makes your mind blank; all you can do is breathe and focus on relaxing your muscles. It’s a welcome release from stress. Grounding you in the present. You can only think as fast as he can glide along your tongue. 

As you build a rhythm, he verges on brutal, but when you’re rewarded with the delicious sound of Frankie groaning because of you the intensity means nothing. Your eyes water as you refuse to gag out of sheer willpower. His thumb smears your tears across your cheekbone, and he pulls you off of his cock.

He takes in your swollen lips, ragged breathing, and wet lashes like he’s committing the details to memory as you catch your breath, before he’s tapping at your cheek. You open wide for him and he rests the head of his cock on your tongue, shallowly tipping you back and forth. 

Your jaw could be aching or your knees may be digging into the rug, but it doesn’t matter to you. It’s much easier to meditate on the weight of his length slipping along your wet tongue. Centering yourself on that thought, your eyes flutter shut. 

You wonder if this side of Frankie has always been lurking beneath the surface. Chillingly collected, but with something viscous bleeding into the edges. You wonder if maybe you’ve called to this part of him with the mayhem of your state of mind. 

“Yeah,” Frankie rasps in his gravelly tone causing you to blink back up at him. You wonder if he can read your mind; if he was answering you. The hint of a smile remains on the corner of his lips when you look up, “Making you feel better already.” He’s presumptive but accurate. 

You give a muffled affirmation that vibrates in your throat as he slides past your lips and you take him deep as he can be. All your senses are filled with Frankie when you inhale, when you swallow, when you blink. You give, pliant for him, trusting him with the control. You don’t care how obscene you look, tears rolling down your cheeks. You just want to hear what other sounds he might make for you. His thumb drags over your cheek again, wiping away the wet streaks. 

“This is the only reason you ever cry for me.” Frankie’s voice is dripping with affection. And possession. 

It makes everything foggy. The sentiment, the delivery, the authority. He doesn’t let you dwell on the unspoken commitment in his statement. Doesn’t give you the time to question him or spiral inward. 

Your head swims until he pulls you up, strips you, and settles you back onto his lap. Some action movie autoplayed after your episode ended. The crashing and explosions of the chase scene in the background don’t ruin the moment, in a twisted way it’s almost a fitting soundtrack for the two of you. 

You pull his shirt over his head, and time slows. The heat between you is nothing compared to his gaze. His grip on your hips is firm, guiding you closer. Dizzying.

You go entirely mindless when the head of his cock nudges your clit, gasping as it slides along your wet seam. It brings everything into focus. Greedily you reach between your bodies to guide him directly to your deplorably empty cunt. 

“Oh, fuck,” your word turns to a groan as he breaches your entrance, and you tense at the stretch, holding still. 

“Keep going,” he orders lowly, and you inch down until he impatiently takes control, slamming you down until you meet his hips. Your mouth hangs open at his move and the immediate fullness. His hardened look softens as your walls ripple and flex, adjusting to his size. 

At least until you start moving, grinding against him, slowly at first. Then the sharp sternness returns. You’re unaware, chasing the friction as your clit rubs against the dark hair surrounding the base of his cock. 

“Knew you’d be perfect,” he says it more like an I told you so to himself than praise for you, but the words affect you just the same. Your chest rises, swelling with pride, and you chase his approval instead of your pleasure. 

You ride him until your thighs burn. His hands are everywhere. Rolling your nipples between his fingers, squeezing all of your soft curves, spreading your legs wider to watch where he disappears inside of you. You bounce eagerly for him, spine arching to draw his eyes to the way your tits ripple from the force of your body colliding into his. 

You whine in disapproval when he interrupts you, pulling you flush against his chest, grazing his teeth along your neck. “Give it to me,” Frankie demands, his voice rough and raw, breath hot along your sweat-damp skin. 

He runs his hand down your body, thumb circling your clit, adding the pressure you need. You edge closer and closer, body taut with anticipation. “Come for me,” he commands. It’s his authority, his gravelly voice rolling through you, that launches you into a shuddering release.

Frankie continues talking while you’re disoriented by the overwhelming pleasure. “For me,” he grunts through clenched teeth as your pussy contracts around him. “I know that’s what you need.” You can only moan as you cling to his broad shoulders. “Only me.” 

You figure he’s just rambling until he grabs you by the jaw again, demanding you respond. Demanding you repeat it for him. And you do. With glassy eyes and you mutter his words back to him. Declaring you only come for him. That you need him. 

Your words unlock something within Frankie. “Good,” he approves. “Good girl.” He praises you gruffly as he holds you steady, pounding into you with an untamed strength. You’re floating, starry-eyed and soft headed at his praise. Murmuring sentence fragments and his name, conjuring throaty grunts from Frankie until he stills, coming deep inside of you. “Only me,” he echoes and you confirm. 

“Only you.” 

In your unguarded state, it’s a welcome commitment. Maybe you haven’t had any real dates yet, but he knows you. He wants you. He tells you he wants to take care of you, and that feels fucking good. 

You collapse against his chest, matching his breathing. The movie playing behind you reaches a tragic twist, setting the third act in motion and solidifying the protagonist's dark path. You run your tongue along the column of Frankie’s throat as the score of the film hangs unresolved on a dissonant chord. He pulls you to his lips, kissing you possessively and captivating you. 

Your bodies flow, connected and attuned. In his lap, in his arms, with his tongue slipping between your lips, you feel wanted. Assured. Content to accept that he knows what you need. 

And he’s unrelenting. Determined to prove it to you. Again and again. 

All night. On the couch, in the shower, in your bed. 

Until the night bleeds into the morning and he doesn’t disappear. 

You take turns waking and watching one another sleep. Reassuring yourselves this is real. 

Until the sun heats your room and you find yourself curled into his broad frame. His chest to your back as he draws his fingers down the dip and swell of your waist and hip. 

“Did you mean it?” you ask, in a strikingly solemn tone for the soft setting. Breath shallow as you stare off toward the window. Not ready to turn and face him in the daylight. 

“Every word.” He punctuates his affirmation with a tender kiss behind your ear. His reassurance satisfies you; warmth blooms from your chest spreading to your fingers and toes. 

You spend a lazy Sunday together. Eating, laughing, fucking, and gazing at each other like lovesick teenagers. It’s too sweet to end. Instead, you become inseparable, taking turns staying at each other’s places until you have to go back. 

The world feels bright again. Lighter. 

He’s paid such close attention. Almost suspiciously perfect. Your favorite takeout. Your favorite movies. Fresh flowers, always.

Somehow, you can never get enough of him. You think about him all day at work, even though he still visits you every morning like clockwork. Your heart swells when he meets you at the end of your shift to walk you home. 

You find yourself canceling your happy hour dates with friends to stay in with Frankie instead. Postponing and rescheduling, you’ll see them soon. It’s like there aren’t enough minutes in the day to get your fill of Frankie. 

You need him constantly—his mouth, his hands, his cock, anywhere, everywhere. You’re never too much. He always wants more. It's a mutual obsession. The two of you feed off each other, dark and insatiable. He frees the parts of you you’ve never let loose. Takes what he wants. Gives you what you need.

With your head in the clouds, all you can see is how much he cares about you. He texts you whenever you’re apart, picks you up after your shifts, shows you off to his friends. 

You barely have to do anything for yourself. He’s always thinking of you, predicting your needs before know them yourself. He picks up your mail for you, runs errands before you get home, and stocks his apartment with all of the products you use and love so you don’t have to go home for days at a time. 

Things are so good that it’s rare when something goes wrong. 

But when it does, it really fucking hurts. 

When you get into an argument, a real one, he doesn’t fight with you. He leaves, swiftly and without another word. He doesn’t respond to your texts or calls. It feels like you’ve been torn in half; you sob and shake alone in your bed until your alarm blares and your headache throbs. 

He doesn’t respond the following day, doesn’t come in for coffee, and doesn’t show any signs of existing. You move through your shift like a hollow corpse haunting the cafe. Time drags agonizingly slowly. 

Every time the door opens your eyes snap towards the entrance, hoping to see the familiar curls and broad shoulders, but it’s not him. You restart your phone just on the odd chance there’s something wrong with it. He wouldn’t abandon you. He knows that would destroy you. 

The void in your chest is cold and dark. Anger simmers somewhere inside of it, but it’s not strong enough to set you off. When Frankie shows up at the end of your shift, the anger is snuffed out completely. His presence immediately erases your heartbreak, and suddenly you’re apologizing before he even gets a word out.

You have to. He has to know you wouldn’t do anything to make him leave. He can’t. He’s calm, accepting your apology and taking you home where he erases your pain. With his hands, and mouth, and cock. Until you forget what the argument was ever about, and what it felt like to watch him walk away. Until it’s back to normal. 

Every day you rely on him more and more; you can’t breathe without him. But when he’s with you, everything feels easy. Right. 

Not many things can throw the two of you off. Your friends seem happy enough for you, despite their questions and insistence that you come out with them more often. You get along well with Frankie’s friends. They’re quick witted and welcome you genuinely. 

They treat you like family, but it doesn’t stop Frankie’s jealousy from flaring up. If Benny smiles at you for too long or if you rest a hand on Will’s bicep when you laugh it only takes minutes before Frankie’s fingers dig into your arm and he whisks you away. 

It gives you a perverse thrill every time. 

When he folds you over the bathroom counter at his friend’s house. Demanding you watch in the mirror as he reminds you with a fierce snarl and devastating thrusts that you’re his. When you can still hear his friends horsing around outside, but he pounds into you with such force, you can’t quiet yourself. He slaps a hand around your mouth to silence you, growling into your ear that you’ll take it quietly, like a good girl. 

Sometimes you aren’t even sure what triggers him. 

Like when he fucks you against the side of his SUV in the parking lot of the trendy bar Benny had invited you both to. All you can piece together is Frankie muttering something about your dress as he yanks the top of it down letting your tits spill into the cool night air. He’s reckless and animalistic, claiming you roughly under the stars and streetlights before you can even get into the car let alone through your front door.

…..

Tonight, you both know exactly what got under his skin. Maybe not the why of it all, but he’s sure you know how he feels, and he wants to hear you say it. 

It started this afternoon. He picked you up from work, like usual, and you chatted in the car as he drove to the grocery store. You sighed, tiredly as you recounted an exchange with a rude customer. Frankie pulled your hand toward his mouth kissing the delicate skin on your inner wrist. 

Predictably, you light up. Like a flower turning toward the sun. Knowing your buttons doesn’t dull the intoxicating effect you have on him, though. He loves how easily you brighten for him, how it only deepens his conviction. That he is exactly where he should be. That everything he does for you is right. That he knows exactly what you need. 

You led him through the aisles, chatting, doubling back for something you forgot. You darted ahead, laughing—

Frankie stopped in his tracks.

Your laughter is cut off.

“What the fuck?” Your voice was quiet, disbelieving.

Joel. Walking past you, bouquet of flowers in hand. He didn’t even look at you.

You called his name, again. Louder. He didn’t even flinch. Didn’t turn. Just kept walking, bouquet in hand, like you never existed.

Frankie grips your wrist, watching your face as emotions flicker—shock, confusion, something darker. He doesn’t give you time to process.

“We’re going,” he says.

“I didn’t know he even lived here still,” you remarked. 

He doesn’t. The possessive fire tore through Frankie’s veins. “We’re. Leaving.” he commanded in a low tone that made your eyes flare wide. 

“What?”

“Now.”

“We can’t ditch our groceries.” 

“Nobody’s gonna stop us, baby.” He argued, as he all but carried you out the door, ushering you in a blur to his car and all the way home. 

Frankie moved swiftly and silently. Wholly consumed by the need to feel you writhing underneath him and crying out his name. He needed it so viscerally, he didn’t even have time to process how he was going to deal with Joel. 

Until you’re breathless and shuddering beneath him. Repeating everything he wants to hear. 

“Only for you,” you repeat as you rake your nails down his shoulder blades and the plane of his back. 

“Again,” he demands. You don’t know if he wants you to keep talking or to come again, but both are inevitable at this point. 

“I’m yours,” you pant, wrapping your legs around him as if you could pull him any deeper inside of you. He shifts slightly, angling your hips and your cunt clenches around him pulling him devastatingly close to the edge as you moan his name. 

He stills and you whine in protest as Frankie stretches past you to pick his phone up off the bedside table. “Keep going,” he orders as he points the lens at you. He needs you to say it again. He adjusts to resume his pace, snapping his hips into causing your lips to part with another moan. 

“I’m yours,” you repeat, “all yours.” He gives you a dark smile as he records you. Capturing all the lewd, wet sounds as he drives his cock into you, the euphoric smile that spreads on your face, and the words you know he always wants to hear. 

“Mine,” he agrees. 

……

You don’t see Joel again. And you don’t have time to dwell on the encounter anyway. Frankie keeps you busy and satisfied, and even surprises you by asking you to move in with him officially. Maybe it feels soon, but you spend nearly every day together anyway and the idea delights you. 

It’s an easy transition. You downsize some of your duplicate appliances, joking with him about how he must have great taste for having so many of the same products. He admits that you inspired a few of his purchases. 

You settle into a routine quickly, not much changes. 

Some mornings, before sunrise, as you slip out of bed for your shift, you wonder if any of this is real. If someone can really care about you this deeply. But by the time you’re showered and dressed, Frankie’s lips are on yours. Sleepy. Warm. Familiar. By the time you’re in the car, you forget the question entirely.

You let your gaze linger this morning. Trailing along his profile as he drives, admiring all the details that you used to wonder about from the other side of the counter. His neck, those arms, his hands, those lips. They’re illuminated in flashes as you pass under the streetlights. 

You catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth. He always knows when you’re looking. He rests a hand just above your knee. He always knows what you need. 

An idea takes root, and you do everything not to smile and give yourself away. It’ll take a few days to organize. He’s almost impossible to surprise. 

……

By the end of the week, Frankie’s on autopilot. Kicking off his shoes and pulling his sweaty shirt over his head before he lopes towards the ensuite for a shower. He only makes it a few strides before he’s on edge, noticing the lights he didn’t remember leaving on. He hears your voice. Relief and confusion twist together in his chest. How did you get back here before him? 

Walking into the bedroom you are a sexy surprise wrapped in red lingerie he’s never seen you wear before, but something is wrong. Your shoulders are curled inward, your cheeks are wet, and you’re hastily tying up your matching red satin robe. 

He scans the room, swallowing thickly when he notices the open closet door and the missing box on the shelf. 

He calls your name softly. 

“What the fuck is this, Frankie?” your voice shakes. Wavering between fear and anger. 

You hold up his phone. Well, his other phone. Shit. 

…..

“Answer me,” you beg. Desperate to understand how you went looking for the box with fuzzy handcuffs and instead found a phone with a new message from a number you still recognized. 

Your heart is pounding in your chest and when he takes you into his arms you flinch. You want to shove him off of you. Despite your hostility, your body is still drawn to his. He always knows what you need. In his arms your heart feels tethered to his, like they could merge through the proximity of your rib cages. Like they beat for each other. 

“You trust me, right?” he asks. 

“Explain, please,” is all you can whisper. 

“It was to keep you safe,” he starts. 

“From what?” 

“To protect you. Joel wasn’t good for you. He couldn’t take care of you. Not the way you deserve.” 

“How would you know?” it’s still not making sense to you. 

“You told me.” He’s so self-assured. Like, he’s always right. Like, he can’t even imagine why you’d be upset right now. “I did it for you,” he adds. 

“Did what?” you need him to say it out loud. You need him to fix this. 

“I know you thought Joel was trying, but he was only going to drag it out. Disappoint you over and over. Can you imagine what it would’ve been like for me? Having to watch you go through that?” 

You don’t answer. 

“I couldn’t watch. I made him an offer, but he’s a stubborn man.” 

You snort quietly at that understatement. Nobody tells Joel what to do. 

“I just had to find the right leverage.” 

Frankie holds you so tight, you can’t wriggle around to look him in the eyes. 

“He couldn’t give you what you need, not like I can. I know what you need. And, think of how fast you got over him anyway. You were mine all along.” 

You’re lightheaded. From the shock of finding the evidence. From his words. From the way you believe him. You want to sit down. You tap at his arms insistently, begging against his chest, but he keeps talking. His deep voice rumbling in your ears. 

“You wouldn’t have understood it then. I had to keep it from you to protect you. So we could have this. What we have now.” 

He’s not listening to you. Not letting you go. You snap. 

“Let go of me!” 

“You have to understand first.” 

“I’ll listen,” you plead. “Just let me breathe.” He lets you step back, but doesn’t release you from his grip. His hands are glued to your arms. He waits, steady and chillingly calm.

The pieces slam into place. The unanswered questions. The way Joel vanished. Oh, God.

“I thought he just left,” you whisper to yourself. 

“He did,” Frankie argues. 

“I thought he didn’t want me,” you continue. 

“He didn’t. Not the way that I want you.” 

Something cold trickles down your spine and you look at Frankie. For a moment he’s a complete stranger. Your stomach sinks and your vision spins. Slamming your eyes shut, you filter through your racing thoughts. 

It wasn’t fate that led you into Frankie’s arms. 

You wound up crying on his cock by design, trying to fuck away the pain of a heartbreak that wasn’t even real. You’ve fallen into a whole new life, while the man you had loved may have never stopped loving you back? 

“You blackmailed Joel Miller?” 

“Technically, it’s extortion.” 

Your hands tremble as you grip the phone. The air feels thinner, your chest too tight. The numbers on the screen blur, but you still recognize them.

The texts. The sent video.

The video.

Your stomach lurches. Your mouth opens, but no words come out. Frankie watches you, patient, expectant. Like he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

It’s all there on the surface. Exposed between the two of you. Who Frankie really is. Cunning and competent. Devoted and dangerous. Possessive and powerful. 

“It worked, until he came to town for someone’s engagement party.” 

“When we saw him at the store?” 

Frankie nods. 

“And then you sent him the video we made that day.” The words fall from your lips as the reality sinks in. 

“Hearing it from you seemed to do the trick. He knows you’re mine and you only want me.” 

Frankie gives you time to study him. Absorbing the information. The gleam in his dark eyes. The same eyes from when he would visit you at work. Just as fierce and just as earnest. 

You’ve always known him for his true self. He’s been yours since he first laid eyes on you. And he knew you needed him. 

“And you did it… for us.” 

“For you.” 

You can see it plainly on his face. He’d do it again and again to have you. Because you’re his. It’s all you ever wanted. It has to be wrong, but it’s the hottest thing anyone has ever done for you. 

You push him onto the bed, straddling him without a second thought. Instinct. Need. He’s already hard beneath you.

"You’re sick," you whisper, breath hot against his skin.

Frankie grins. "You make me fucking crazy."

Your mouths collide, hungry, desperate, perfect.

dividers by @/cyberangel-graphics

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[criibibi]

Synopsis: After losing so much, Spider-woman learns to just keep moving. Only for her to end up somewhere far from home. Her first agenda is figuring out where she is, and how to get back. The only problem is that she ended up somewhere fictional (to her). Playing hero with Batman was not in her bingo cards this year. Hopefully she will be able to make it back home before she catches unwanted attention.

Masterlist: Prev; Next;

Chapter 3 - Weak and Alone

The hairs on your body stood up for a good while before you could relax again. You didn’t know meeting the yellow bat would be this fucking terrifying. Like, c’mon man! You fought many weird, crazy, dangerous, and scary things in your life as a hero, why was coming into contact with one of this world’s heroes that terrifying?

And besides this guy was just- is just a human, not a mutated creature or even an alien, just a regular human like you. But something about him just- put you off.

Crime in the mornings are so rare, how bad was your luck for it to happen when you were there? Wrong place and time, maybe? Or your luck is just shit and that’s that.

You don’t even question how this guy found you-er the robber. Even if he was in the area, Oracle or the other Robin must have been on surveillance duty or something. If you recall only two of Batman’s wards are mostly the “man in the chair” type. Oracle because of what happened to her with the Joker and one of the Robins because he’s one of the smartest ones. Or something like that.

Regardless, you’re okay now. That’s all that matters.

Hands in your pocket you remembered you looted the guy earlier. Taking out  some cash you realized this guy had money. He had three-hundred, so why try to rob a convenience store? Well, whatever, not your problem.

You’ve become really good at pushing your problems to the back of your head.

What is now your problem is finding a library. Lifting your mask back on your face you continue to march forward, regardless of direction. Picking a random bar from your snack bag, you begin to eat it under your mask to calm your stomach so you can think.

“Okay, cheap food and non perishables are what I will live off of.” You don’t plan to stay in this wack world for long, so saving money is key. “Next, find layouts, maps, anything to get a semblance of where I am and what I can do. I need information, and lots of it. Third, I need a generator to power my gizmo. Finally, supplies to build a GHM. ‘Go-Home’ machine.”

So far things are looking very bleak but that's okay. No worries. Um, on the bright side, you haven’t glitched at all, so your gizmo watch isn’t totally off the record. As long as it’s still connected and alive, you’re sure Miguel can find your signal.

You did just suddenly disappear during a fight that was basically your mission that Miguel sent you on. That means Miguel already knows of your unfortunate case and should most likely be looking for you, right? 

He wouldn’t abandon you, right? He’s the one that recruited you after all! He came to you. He knows of your existence and predicament. You have somewhat of a mentor and student relationship for fucks sake! He wouldn’t leave you stranded in favor of his issues with Miles…right?

You’re not getting forgotten… right?

You matter…right?

No! You can’t think like this! You also can’t put all your spiders in one web. You need more options, alternatives. Whether Miguel is looking for you or not (you choose to believe he is), you need to find a way to either go home or get in touch with him.

You gotta do things your own way.

You’re smart, resourceful, use your brain! 

You’re good at improving, inventing, and repairing- a tinker if you will. Taking things apart, fixing what’s broken, or building things. That’s one of your strong suits- it’s time to use that big beautiful brain of yours to find out what’s wrong with this watch.

So in order to do that, you need materials. So how would a broke but smart pretty woman such as yourself find materials that won’t catch the eyes of the batsonas? Simple. One man’s garbage is another man’s treasure.

That’s right baby!

A junkyard. 

Now to find a junkyard, you need a map. So to a library you go!

With newfound determination and energy, forgoing any unsavory thoughts and focusing on buildings and landmarks.

Getting pretty far into the city you managed to find a public library and mentally fell to your knees begging to all the gods to not run into any and all of the bat family here.

So you pass through the automatic doors and immediately feel relaxed. Honestly being in this world makes it hard for you to even feel safe when everything and everyone could be a potential danger to you.

Not to mention how quickly and easily some of the criminals can escape. You reeeeeally don’t want to face the villains of this world. You’d rather your own Vulture than their Scarecrow or whatever. 

Giving the librarian an award winning (and non suspicious) smile, you made your way over to the row of computers. Sitting further away from the camera, you sit down and stare at the dull desktop.

“Okay, good, I’m here, no bats in sight, now what?” Feeling slightly overwhelmed you took a deep breath and then checked the date and location. 

Reading the latest news was beneficial, now you know just who is in Arkham and who’s free at the moment. Thank the gods that the Joker is locked away. You really aren’t ready to face the big bad baddies of this world. 

Soaking in as much information as possible, for hours you learned the latest news, Batman sent the some criminals to Arkham, Bruce Wayne hosting a charity event in a couple of months, Dick Grayson is coming to Gotham (why?), Lex Luther’s recent scandal, Superman saves the earth (again), Damian Wayne’s anticipated art museum opening. Wow, nothing interesting. 

Nearing four hours just sitting there, you decide to call it quits and pull up maps one last time. Double checking your information you make sure that everything was like you never touched it and thensome. 

Waving good-bye to the librarian you headed off to the large junkyard you found. The walk was pleasant and free of crime. Fuck you daylight robber. Though you know it isn’t true, crime happens everywhere and anytime, just some are quieter than others. 

Arriving at the junkyard, you realized just how ginormous it is. Walking around you spot an abandoned warehouse, where equipment usually is stored and you jump with glee. Knowing there are no working cameras around here, you rest easy knowing you can just go ham on tinkering to your heart's desire.

Setting your bags down, you look around. There are tools that were left behind and you were ready to kneel and thank the gods. Looking at the equipment and workbench, you’re thoroughly pleased with what you have to work with. Shedding your hoodie, you step outside and into your paradise.

Finding many useful and discarded materials you quickly get to work in picking apart metals and material. Dragging them inside the spacious warehouse you go back and forth picking and dragging materials.

And the day flew by, just like that. It’s already late afternoon and you looked over your work.

You’ve made great progress with gathering materials. Having a mountain inside the warehouse to work with and on the workbench there was already something in the making. You’re building what is essentially a charger and beacon for your web watch. 

This will give out a signal for Miguel to latch onto and discover your location. The only issue is if Miguel is looking for you, this will help greatly. The other issue is, you need energy, and lots of it. Sunlight here would suck with how gloomy Gotham can be.

So direct sunlight can’t be its only source. 

Regardless you’ll fix and create the panels anyways. For now, since it’s late, you’ll take a break and fix this place up. 

Sike, you just make a web hammock on the ceiling and web your bags to the wall next to you. After discovering the owner of the motel tried to get inside your room (that you fucking paid for) while you managed to finally catch some Zzz’s, it was decided to just leave.

Though you still need food and a place to do your necessities. Maybe you just have to suck it up and go through the centers here.

Sighing in the silence, your mind began to spiral.

The warmth and comfort of uncle Ben as he took care of you when you had nightmares, the gentle embrace of aunt May when you had succumbed to fevers, and the loving presence of Peter Parker when you were at the brink of it all.

You miss them, god you fucking miss them! You hadn’t felt those things in years, not after closing yourself from everyone when you lost them. Sure you had the mentor and student relationship with Miguel, but you never let yourself get close.

Not with Miles and the others, because you felt like a protector, a role model, someone who can’t show weakness.

Not with the hundreds of other Peter Parker’s either. Those Peter’s are just as smart, charming, dorky, and special as your Peter Parker. But they aren’t your Peter Parker. And they never will. Your Peter was even more special, more smart, more charming, more dorky, more charismatic, more everything! He was everything! And then… he left.

No, he didn’t leave.

You just couldn’t save him. You must not have been enough for him. You had seen the signs! You could have done something! But you didn’t. You got complacent, cowardly. Afraid to lose what you have. 

Uncle Ben’s death taught you to treasure what you have before it’s taken away. Aunt May’s death taught you to keep things as they are, so they don’t break. You vowed to never make those mistakes again.

So when you met Peter Parker, you made sure he knew just how much he meant to you. How special he was, and how important he is to you. You weren’t blind, you noticed the painted smiles he wore at times. How life seemed to be dragging him down. But you were too afraid, too complacent. You didn’t want to tip the scales and possibly break something too fragile. You never pushed, or prodded because you knew if someone did that to you, you’d leave.

But the most important thing was that Peter isn’t you. Peter was strong, faaaar stronger than you, he isn’t glass. He held on for soooo long, and still tried to hide his pain from you. But you knew. You also knew that Peter knew that you knew. You just never pushed.

Peter Parker’s death demonstrated just how powerless you are. How much of a coward and paranoid you became. If you just talked to him, maybe he would still be alive. 

With you…

Maybe, you would have accepted his confession once you mustered up the courage to take a leap and accept his feelings for you.

Just maybe.

But, there is no maybe anymore. There will never be Peter Parker and You. Because there hasn’t been another you so far. 

And you live with that guilt and hatred towards yourself. But if Peter’s death taught you anything else, it’s to keep moving.

You have to keep going, for Peter’s sake. And for your sanity.

Because the more time you spend in this universe and not in your own, where you can visit Ben, May, and Peter’s graves, you are slipping ever so slightly.

You’re losing your fucking mind.

You just want to go home.

-

“Nothing Bruce. It’s only been a day but so far nothing.” Catwoman’s sharp voice cut through the silence.

Batman doesn’t reply in acknowledgement but nods and leaves the rooftop, leaving Catwoman peeved.

“I told you I’d keep looking, maybe it was nothing. You’re just too paranoid.” She huffed before going her separate way.

Batman felt his eyebrow twitch. First, this disturbance that apparently leads to nothing (that’s not true, he can feel it.) Then it’s news about a freak who caught two crooks beating a civilian. At first he didn’t pay it any mind until they kept spouting about a person in a suit shooting a sticky substance.

Gordon couldn’t get a sample because of how sticky the substance was and only for it to dissolve thirty minutes later. Jim Gordon also couldn’t add anything to this person’s claim because it was night and dark and he could only see the silhouette of the person.

But then again, that’s just two things that were off. A coincidence sure, but he doesn’t really believe in coincidences. Not in Gotham.

Placing his hand on his earpiece he spoke, “Anything?”

“Nothing to note. Maybe she’s right. What if this shift was just a coincidence?” Oracle replied.

“Not likely,” He heard her huff, and he sighed. “But not impossible either.”

Oracle would take that over a paranoid Batman any day. It’s the closest thing to an agreement then she will ever get. “I’ve been scanning the whole day but so far, nothing. Not even something similar.” She mumbled to herself.

Just as she takes a small break and sips on water, she hears footsteps approaching.

“How can I help you, Duke?”

“Hey, sorry to bother you if you're busy. Looks like you could use a break.” He replied.

“Honestly, yes. With the whole issue near the East End, I need it.” Barbara swirled her chair around to face Duke.

Duke rubbed his neck in apprehension. “Did you-”

“Find anything?” Oracle finishes for him. He nods. “No. Scanned her face and everything but nothing came up. Then I checked beyond, outside of Gotham. Truly nothing. She’s a ghost.”

“Or, maybe a survivor?” Duke proposed.

“Possibly. Many trafficked survivors and escapees have made it to Gotham.” Barbara entertained the idea.

“Do you know where,” after a hesitant pause he let his hand fall to his side, a slight glint in his eyes that went unnoticed. “She is staying?”

“She was staying at a motel near Park Row. She hasn’t returned since.” This was cause for alarm for Duke but he kept it in.

“Where-” He tried.

“Relax Duke. You know most would call this- what’s the word, ah, stalking.” Barbara teased, causing Duke to flush slightly.

“You’re right. I just…” He straightened up before he chuckled at his memory of you. “I never got her name.”

“That’s cause she never threw it. Not even the guy from the store got it.”

“Alright, thanks though.” Duke nodded and headed out.

Barbara bid him well and returned to the screen. Wondering how you, a random civilian, caught Duke’s attention. But then again, after scanning your face on the screen she too couldn’t help but find herself unable to look away. 

And yes, you could say that you’re pretty, she can see that, but there is just something about you that makes you different and she can’t figure out why. Just what about you has her curious. But then again you are a civilian and she won’t mix personal interest with work. 

Despite parading that Bruce was being paranoid about the disturbance in the air. It was strong enough to send an alert to her, and it could be something dangerous. But it happened so fast that you could blind and you would miss it.

For now, the thought of the pretty civilian will be put on the back burner, but not forgotten. She’ll get to you when she solves this stupid case in front of her. That and the mysterious spider person that three people (not including her dad) apparently saw.

“Coincidence? Probably not.” typing the keyboard she clicks enter and watches the monitor scan Gotham for the same frequency as the disturbance to see if she can put up anything, even a trace.

Nothing.

Clicking enter, she watches the screen again.

Prev; Next;

I realized have like ZERO outline for a fleshed out story sucks balls. Well, let's see where this goes together. I ordered some Signal/Duke comics and I am excited to see them arrive. Anyways, which new bat person do you think you'll meet next? There is only one right answer and it isn't Duke.

You're name isn't Tinker, but it's probably what I'll use as your alias.

[atinystarcafe]

Yeosang fic recs

────୨ৎ────

✴ : smut ᯓᡣ𐭩 : absolute favourites

[Last updated: 10.04.2025] ⋆˙⟡ If any links don't work anymore please let me know I'll get it fixed as soon as possible ^^

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ Series ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Obsessive - @mingigoo ✴ | enemies to lovers au, brothers best friend!yeosang (COMPLETED)

You tried to pay no mind to your brother’s friends and their flirty antics, but it always confused you when only one of them seemed disinterested in you. Even though you’d never admit it, he intrigued you—to the point where when you kissed drunkenly at party, you wanted more. And you were going to get it.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ Oneshots and drabbles ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Love Like This - @xomakara ✴ | single parent!yeosang x dog mom!reader

You recently moved into this very nice neighborhood with your dog, Goober. When Yeosang and his daughter introduce themselves to you, his daughter falls in love with Goober right away. As you spend more time with your neighbors, you realize that you have fallen in love.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Lessons In Intimacy - @honeyhotteoks ✴ | barista/camboy!yeosang

you didn’t mean to actually meet the man who’s audio porn was single handedly getting you off every night, but you do.

Senses - @vampzity ✴ | sub bf!yeosang

valentines was always one of your favorite holidays to spend with your beloved boyfriend and you wanted to make it special. it was time to spice up your sex life up with the help of a blindfold, leaving yeosang to satisfy his cravings for you.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Operation: Passenger Princess - @sungbeam | college au, frat boy!yeosang

yeosang doesn't remember your name, but he remembers what kissing you tastes like and how you like your eggs in the morning. just your regular prince charming trying to find his cinderella, or in this case, his passenger princess..?

Waiting For You - @alittlekdramatic | idol!yeosang

You and Yeosang mutually agree to end your relationship, but realize how much you need each other when he leaves for tour. Don't worry, it's a happy ending!

Uno! - @hwaflms ✴ | jealous bf!yeosang

{ ✉ } 1 new message from yeo <3 : tell that dumbass to move his hand before i move it for him.

Winter Blossom - @atzfilm ✴ | alien au, alien!yeosang x human!reader

earth abandoned centuries ago, you travel the cosmos alone. you land on a smaller planet, meeting an exiled dweller that calls himself yeosang.

The Most Lonely Creature - @atzfilm ✴ | fantasy au, dragon serpent!yeosang

finding a yeouiju in the forest brings terrors unlike you've ever seen– in the shape of a water god

All About You - @koyagifs | best friends to lovers au

everyone knew how head over heels yeosang is for you. and everyone knew how head over heels you are over yeosang.

Treasure - @koyagifs | pirate au, pirate!yeosang x pirate!reader

yeosang always knew you were his treasure the moment you joined their crew.

Entropy - @in-san-ity ✴ | mafia au

things never went according to plan; career wise, family wise, relationship wise and especially not when you were suddenly saddled with an infant to raise but you learned to roll with the punches. except the next challenge you were about to face wasn't a punch, it was a machine gun.

Nothing To Prove - @makeitmingi | bf!yeosang

 In a laidback relationship, you and Yeosang do worry that you're taking the other person for granted. So the two of you decide to take matters into your own hands, individually and without the other person knowing. Although in actuality, you are both worthy of each other's love.

Stay - @sorryimananti-romantic | friends to lovers au, archer!yeosang x princess!reader

you encounter archer yeosang not in the sports competition you had just sneaked out from, but in the forest where he saves you on your way to meet your 'boyfriend'- you're not sure what to call him. yeosang doesn't recognise you as the princess of this nation, however, you encounter him again as your replacement tutor and you become friends with him, sharing problems you face and sneaking out with him because you crave adventure. you find yourself falling for him because he makes you feel like no one else, and he finds himself falling for you but he thinks he's not worthy of you- even when you tell him again and again how brilliant he is. will he end up staying?

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Ideal Woman - @the7thcrow | gang!au, rival gang member!yeosang

at the only bar in town where the lines drawn between different gangs becomes blurry, you spot your intellectual rival involved in one of the biggest underground organizations the city has to offer. responsible for the recent heist on your warehouse, as well as the death of multiple of your gang’s own members, he’s understandably considered someone that you should not be talking to. you buy him a drink.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Arrows And Affection - @edenesth | historical au, admiral!yeosang

Admiral Kang never misses his mark—until today. No matter how many times he draws his bow, the bullseye remains untouched. The wind hasn't changed, nor has his skill faltered. The only difference? The presence of a certain someone who has somehow turned his unwavering focus into a battlefield of its own.

Relax - @moonhoures ✴ | bf!yeosang

after yeosang gets injured, you have no problem helping him in any way he needs ;)

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Gemini - @ncteez ✴ | friends to lovers au

the two faces of one man, only one of them is a façade. yeosang rambles elaborate stories of his sex adventures with his group of friends, mostly so the stories get back around to you. the issue is that you believe them, and now he has to act like he’s actually done them. 

Muse - @desirehorizon ✴ | royalty au, prince!yeosang x artist!reader

in which it takes a thorough examination of the crown prince to revitalise your creativity

Sensitive - @puddingyun ✴

Pull Me Closer When The Night Is Over - @323cutie | best friends to lovers au

Sweet Disaster - @03jyh23 | bf!yeosang

Puppy Love - @starrysvn | enemies to lovers au

Study Session Gone Wrong (Or Right?) - @domm1etae ✴ | nerdy!yeosang

How did yeosang end up as your boyfriend? - @vent-stink | bf!yeosang

Untitled - @domm1etae ✴

────୨ৎ────

Did you finish all the fics? Check out the other members too! ⤵ Hongjoong | Seonghwa | Yunho | San | Mingi | Wooyoung | Jongho

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ jujutsu kaisen x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack with plot

"You hate your job. The pay is bad, your manager is worse, and customers are somehow both entitled and clueless. Just as you finish contemplating whether unpaid breaks are a human rights violation, weird new people keep showing up to the café. They all seem to know each other. Sometimes they talk in cryptic phrases. What the hell is this domain and why do they want to expand it? One time, a man with stitches on his forehead walked in, made prolonged eye contact with you, and then left without ordering anything. You’re pretty sure he was a serial killer. Another time, the one with white hair and sunglasses indoors mentioned a "higher mission", and you’re 90% sure this is how cult documentaries start. One of your regulars only speaks in weird food-related phrases. You assume he has some kind of medical condition, but no one explains anything to you. But you are not about to ask questions, because ignorance is bliss and also job security. And unfortunately, they are all weird and they seem very interested in coming back."

꒰ masterlist ꒱ ₊⊹. ꒰ chapter 1 ꒱ ₊⊹. ꒰ chapter 3 ꒱

ᨳ♡₊➳ or read on archive of our own!

The morning rush had ended a while ago, leaving you with a few stragglers tapping away on laptops, a couple on their second hour of an intense whisper-argument, and some guy in the corner who had been staring at a single muffin for a concerning amount of time. Business had been slow after the morning rush as per usual, this meant you’d had plenty of time to reflect on things that didn’t deserve the mental energy you were giving them. Namely, Choso. It had been a few days since your encounter with the world's most socially inept man and his human golden retriever of a brother.

That guy had been… odd. Not in a bad way, necessarily—just in a "probably spent his childhood in a cave and was learning about the modern world in real time" way. The guy had stared at you like you were a cryptid when you asked what kind of coffee he wanted. You had spent way too long trying to figure out if he had just been raised extremely sheltered, or if something was actually wrong with him. Either way, the guy had stared at his latte like it held the meaning of life, and you weren’t sure whether to find it unsettling or endearing.

Because, seriously. That was not a normal interaction.

Most customers came in, ordered their drink, paid, and left. Some lingered. Some had weirdly specific orders that made you question their sanity. Some just sat there typing aggressively on their laptops like they were composing an email that would change the fate of mankind.

None of them, however, had ever been like Choso.

Since then, you’d been left in peace, which was all you could really ask for in life. Life at the café had returned to its usual monotony. The usual entitled customers still came and went, Greg the Manager still did absolutely nothing while pretending to be busy, and the espresso machine still sounded like it was trying to contact the underworld whenever it turned on. In other words, business as usual. Everything was normal.

Which, naturally, meant something was about to ruin it.

The bell above the door jingled. You sighed, plastering on your most convincing Hello valued customer, I sure do love working here! expression before turning around.

The first person to walk in was a tall blond guy in a suit, carrying himself like he had somewhere better to be. He looked exactly like the type of guy who drank his coffee black and silently judged people who put sugar in theirs. He had the air of someone who used Google Calendar religiously and paid for everything with a metal credit card. The second he stepped into the café, he surveyed it with the deeply unimpressed expression of a man who had already decided he hated it here. You immediately got "overworked businessman" vibes. He looked like he hated fun. You respected that.

The second guy, however…

Oh, no.

Oh, this one was going to be a problem.

He was even taller than the blond one. Very tall. Like, shouldn’t be allowed to exist in regular human spaces tall. He had white hair, wore sunglasses indoors, and was dressed like some kind of high-fashion hobo. He had a self-satisfied grin that made you think he had never experienced a single consequence in his entire life. Something about him screamed problem. His whole vibe was just "that one coworker who does absolutely nothing but still gets paid more than you."

"Nanamin!" Tall Guy whined, dramatically throwing an arm around his companion's shoulder. "See? This place is cute! You never wanna go anywhere fun."

The blond man—Nanamin?—exhaled through his nose with the weariness of a man who had dealt with this for far too long. He shrugged the arm off. "I don’t need fun. I need coffee."

"Okay, but coffee can be fun—"

"Coffee is a means to an end."

"See, this is why you have no joy in your life."

You plastered on your most professional smile, already dreading whatever was about to happen. "Welcome! What can I get started for you?"

Nanamin exhaled slowly, the sigh of a man who was one bad decision away from quitting his job, leaving the country, and raising goats in the mountains. "A black coffee. No sugar."

Bless. A simple, no-nonsense order. You liked him already. You punched it into the register. "Sure. What size?"

"Large. The biggest you have."

"Got it."

You turned expectantly to the taller one.

Tall Guy hummed, tapping a finger against his chin like he was making a deeply philosophical decision. "Hmmm. What do I want? What do I need?"

You resisted the urge to check the time.

"Do you have anything sweet?"

You gestured to the massive menu behind you, which had an entire section labeled Sweet & Flavored Drinks. "Yeah."

"Okay, okay. But like, really sweet?"

"Yeah."

Tall Guy nodded, his wide grin never faltering. "Good. I’ll take the sweetest thing you have."

"...You sure?"

He leaned forward, grinning like a child about to cause chaos. "Hit me with your worst."

You stared.

Alright.

You rang up a Death By Sugar—an abomination of a drink loaded with caramel, white chocolate, vanilla syrup, and enough whipped cream to suffocate a small animal. It was the kind of thing you usually only made for children with zero parental supervision.

Tall Guy looked downright delighted when you told him.

"Yay!" Tall Guy beamed. "And make it with love!"

"I am physically incapable of that."

Nanamin gave a single, approving nod. "Good work ethic."

Totaling their order, you glanced at them. "You want your names on the cups?"

Tall Guy nodded adamantly. "Of course! That’s the most important part!"

Nanami exhaled heavily. "Nanami."

Ah, so not 'Nanamin' then.

"Just put 'The Strongest' on mine," Tall Guy added with a wink.

You didn't know what the hell he meant by that exactly, but you did not react.

You took your sweet time making their drinks, mainly because Tall Guy was watching you with the shameless enthusiasm of a child at a magic show.

"You’re really good at that," Tall Guy commented as you poured steamed milk into Nanami’s coffee.

"Yeah, it’s almost like I work here."

Nanami sighed. "Gojo, stop harassing the barista."

"How is that harassment? I’m being nice!"

"You are being a nuisance."

Tall Guy—Gojo, you guess his name is—gasped, utterly scandalized. "I’m adding joy to their day, Nanamin."

You handed Nanami his drink before he could respond. He accepted it with a grateful nod, took a sip, and immediately looked one step closer to inner peace.

You handed Gojo his monstrosity. "Look at all the caramel drizzle!" He took a sip and moaned. "Ohhhh yeah, that’s the good stuff."

Nanami looked like he had just witnessed a public execution.

"Please never do that again," he muttered.

Gojo, of course, did it again, staring directly into Nanami’s soul as he took another dramatic sip.

You were so glad these people weren’t your problem outside of this café.

"Glad you like it," you said dryly.

To your mild horror, they stuck around after getting their drinks, settling into a table near the counter. Nanami was reading a book. Gojo was not reading a book. He was watching you.

Oh no.

"Hey barista," Gojo called. "You ever get bored working here?"

You stared at him.

"Like, when it’s not busy. What do you do for fun?"

You considered telling him you started counting ceiling tiles just to make him go away. Instead, you said, "Mostly, I wait for my shift to end."

Gojo laughed. "You sound like Nanamin!"

Nanami did not look pleased with that comparison. He exhaled through his nose like he was actively restraining himself from committing a felony.

It was at this moment the door opened again.

You glanced up—

And nearly dropped the milk frother you were holding.

Because there, standing like a glitch in reality, was Choso and Yuji.

Yuji, ever the golden retriever, grinned. “Oh, hey! You guys are here too?”

Gojo turned. “Huh?”

Your eyes darted between them.

They all knew each other?

Of course they did.

Choso approached the counter, completely ignoring the other two men. His expression was blank as ever, but the moment his eyes landed on you, something shifted.

“Barista.”

You braced yourself. “Choso."

“I have returned.”

“Yes. I can see that.”

“I would like another latte."

You nodded, trying to ignore Gojo’s eyes burning into the side of your skull and the way he was grinning like he knew something you didn't. “Got it.”

Gojo crept towards Choso with that same knowing grin. “Choso, buddy, pal. This is a big deal.”

Choso frowned. “What is?”

“Oh, you know,” Gojo drawled, “you like the barista.”

Yuji coughed violently. Nanami looked ready to walk into the ocean.

Choso, to your utter confusion, considered this. Like he was running some kind of internal diagnostic.

Then, after a very long pause—

“Yes.”

Silence.

Yuji choked once again. Gojo lost his mind, cackling. Nanami, to his credit, simply closed his eyes as if this entire experience had finally broken him.

You, meanwhile, stood there with Choso’s latte in your hand, processing the fact that a man who seemed to barely understand how cafés worked had just admitted, without hesitation, that he liked you.

Nanami, who had been spectating in exhausted silence, shook his head. “I regret coming here.”

Gojo pouted. “Oh, don’t be like that! It’s fun!”

“Nothing about this is fun.”

"I think it's fun!" Yuji piped in with a wide smile.

Ignoring them, you turned back to Choso. “So. I guess you, uh, really liked the latte, huh?”

Choso nodded, looking far too serious. “It was the best thing I have ever consumed.”

You stared at him. He stared back, intense as ever.

God. This was your life now.

Choso, completely unaware of the sheer weight of his words, took the latte from you with his usual blank expression.

“Thank you, barista.”

And just like that, he took a sip, eyes half-lidding like it was the greatest thing he had ever experienced.

You exhaled. “You’re welcome, Choso.”

Gojo, still wheezing, turned to Yuji. “You have to let me know how this plays out.”

You just stared at Choso, who was still enjoying his latte like nothing had happened, wondering how your life had spiraled into this.

"Alright," Gojo said, standing up and stretching like he’d been working hard at sitting down. "We’ll be back!"

You had never heard a more ominous sentence in your life.

Nanami placed a few bills on the counter—far more than necessary—and gave you a knowing look, like he already pitied your future.

You watched the four of them leave, took a long breath, and checked the time.

Somehow, you still had four hours left on your shift.

Great.

[rocknrollsalad]

rating: t cw: hook up, mentions of sex, nothing on camera but it's implied, steve Harrington has bad parents tags: no upside au, reconnecting later in life, rockstar eddie, regular guy steve word count: 779

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt "star gazing"

Eddie had come back to Hawkins for the only reason that could ever possibly drag him back to this cesspool of a town; his uncle. The unspoken assumption was that it'd be for Wayne’s death, but Eddie was fine with being wrong about that. Even if it meant one more trip back than he wanted.

A cut and dry visit to look at houses turned to drinking and, in the biggest surprise of all, going home with the king of Hawkins High. Something Eddie had always dreamt of, he was secure enough in who he was now to admit it.

They were, oddly, both in town for similar reasons. Eddie was getting Wayne a new place and Steve was selling his parents' old place. Leaving them both to revisit things they hadn’t for the better part of a decade. Even better, it granted Eddie the chance to see Steve’s high school bedroom, to play like they were sixteen again.

Drunk enough to not make it weird, they fooled around on the twin bed. Nothing more than a bit of fun and quick orgasms but healing all the same. Something helped by them squeezing together on a mattress meant for one, in just their underwear, after cleaning up. Not quite cuddling but a closeness Eddie wasn’t used to from his hook ups…or maybe conquests was a better word here.

Everything was silent, no hum of machines or buzz of lights, just a vacant house Steve had slept in last night and was looking to wipe his hands of. Wayne would never go for a place like this or they could kill two birds with one stone.

Still, the quiet was nice. Far better than talking about how they’d changed or Eddie admitting all those gym classes he spent staring. All they had was each other’s body heat and the familiar glow of neon green from the ceiling.

The longer Eddie looked, the more he recognized in the layout of stars until quiet wasn’t an option. “Is…is that Orion’s belt?” he asked, pointing to three stars in a row.

“Well, I mean, it’s the whole thing,” Steve answered, tracing the path of neighboring stars.

He was so much more subdued than the version of him in Eddie’s head, that one perpetually in high school. The calm voice, almost shy, had Eddie wanting to curl up on top of him. Stake a claim for more than a night.

“Okay, so did you do that?”

“Yeah,” Steve said with a grimace Eddie could hear. “It’s like how people were really obsessed with Egypt and the pyramids? It was stars for me.”

“Apparently, those things are connected,” Eddie joked.

“My grandpa gave me this book and it was like I couldn’t read enough. I spent a whole winter break up here mapping this out. Mom loved it, I’d never been so quiet, but, I don’t know, probably a waste of time.”

“No!” Eddie fought the urge to pounce on Steve and scream that this was the hottest thing he’d ever learned about him. A bold statement given the short shorts and that time he watched Steve tell off a teacher for picking on a kid. “But it’s me talking. I made a career out of really, really loving weird shit.”

“You did it even when it didn’t pay.”

“Hey!” With a half-assed swing in Steve’s direction, Eddie didn’t make contact but feigned annoyance. “So how much do you still remember?”

“Well, it’s a good party trick to pull out when you can see the real stars. It’s…”

“Oh my god, you can even use the stars to get laid?” Eddie whined like it wasn’t totally working on him.

Steve shrugged hard enough to shake the bed.

“Alright then Magellan, what do you got?”

“So Orion is this way, right? The shoulders, the bow, all that. If you follow the other hand, in that area is Gemini. See the two bodies?”

Eddie followed Steve’s finger across the ceiling and stopped fighting the urge to pull closer. He already knew how to identify Gemini but that didn’t matter right now. Possibly ever. With a nod, he told Steve he followed. Eddie gave the man the floor and let him talk.

And talk he did. For hours, Steve pointed out constellations gave explanations, and told stories. He’d retained the information and not just to get laid. Which was good because, in a secret that couldn’t be tortured out of Eddie, this was way better than the sex.

As he dozed in and out, Steve ran his fingers through Eddie’s hair and told him about how hard it was to get some of the more line-like constellations right.

[mindfulstudyquest]

“ dopamine detox ,, and why you should delete all your social media right now

"just five more minutes" and then you end up scrolling on instagram or tiktok for hours. i know that feeling. even if you know rationally that focusing on the really important things ( such as studying, working, learning from books or whatever ) is much healthier for you and your future, you can't help it.

you know that start studying for the exam you have next week will benefit you much more in the long run, but you still prefer watching tiktoks and scrolling on instagram. you could say that is pretty obvious: one activity is easy, and doesn't require much effort, whereas the other one is difficult and implies that you are focused.

but it's actually like this? so then why some people manage to be consistent in studying, or working, or exercising? they simply just have more motivation than you? and how can you start having the same motivation as them?

to answer this question, we have to take a look to a very important molecule produced by our brain: dopamine.

dopamine is often considered a pleasure molecule, but it's a false belief. dopamine is actually the molecule that makes us desire things, and it's that desire that gives us the motivation to complete every kind of task. for example, your brain doesn't release dopamine while you're eating a cheesburger, it releases it while you're going to mcdonald's to buy it, because you anticipate that the food will make you feel good, even if it actually makes you feel worse.

to your brain, it doesn't matter if the high-dopamine-activity is damaging to you.

your brain organizes priorities based off how much dopamine is expecting to get:

if an activity releases too little dopamine, you won't have the motivation to accomplish it.

if an activity releases a lot of dopamine you'll be motivated to do it, and repeat it over and over

so, which activities releases dopamine? basically, any activity where you can get an immediate potential reward releases an high amount of dopamine. but if you know that there's not an immediate reward invoved ( such as in studying, where the reward is in the long run ) your brain will not expect to release much of it and you'll be less motivated to do that task.

nearly everything releases some amount of dopamine, even drinking water when you're thirsty, but the highest amount of it is released when you're getting a reward randomly, for example while playing on a slot machine. even if you loose money, you eventually expect to get a bigger reward.

therefore it is not so surprising that the most additive social networks ( tiktok, instagram, pinterest ) are designed as slot machines. you don't know what the next post or video will be, but you expect something great, so your brain releases a large amount of dopamine.

in today's society our brains are overloaded with stimuli that induce an unnatural production of dopamine ( scrolling on social media, playing video games, watching internet pornograhy, etc. ).

it's frightening that people don't know how harmful this lifestyle is: our bodies have a biological sistem called homeostasis, which means that our bodies keep the internal physical and chemical conditions at a balanced level, whenever an imbalance occurs, our bodies adapt to it, for example, when it's very hot our body temperature rises and we start sweating to cool down.

but homeostasis manifests through tolerance too. for example, someone who hardly ever drinks alchool will be tipsy after one beer, on the other hand, someone who drinks alchool on a regular basis will need two, three, four beers in order to get drunk, because their body has developed a tolerance to it. it's not much different with dopamine.

so if you get used to large amounts of dopamine, you won't be able to do the things that you did before, because they don't produce as much dopamine and it's more difficult to motivate yourself to do them. once your dopamine tolerance gets too high, you are no longer able to enjoy low dopamine activities.

as if you were a drug addict, there's only one way to get out of it: you have to perform a dopamine detox. you have to avoid all high dopamine activities in order to allow your body to adjust to a normal level of dopamine production and start finding motivation again in the things that improve your personal growth.

it's not easy, you will be nervous and frustrated, maybe you won't make it through a full day without social media, but day by day it will get better and better, and eventually you'll be able to appreciate small things again.

imagine that you're eating your favorite food - for example, chocolate cake - every single day. after a while, chocolate cake doesn't taste good as before, even if it's literally the same cake. on the other hand, if you eat it once a month, it will taste great, because it's not something you've gotten used to.

this is exactly what dopamine detox does. be safe guys, and start recovering now.

[ source: https://youtu.be/9QiE-M1LrZk ]

[team7-headquarter]

Team 7 is for the fans who can stomach complex and interesting relationships that evolve with time and follow a nonlinear progress.

They're some of the most traumatized individuals in Konoha and one girl who has zero preparation to deal with it. Compared to Team 7, all the other teams were normal. Neji was a slave and Hinata was neglected, but they still had their clan around them, okay? Even when Rock Lee was probably a bullied orphan, his story is closer to Sakura's at worst. Everyone else had healthy families or they were at least regular people.

Do I really have to make emphasis on the Team 7 men's backgrounds? It is a miracle they were as "normal" as they were. It is a miracle only Sasuke became an antagonist.

If you don't like Team 7's dynamic that's okay. It is your opinion and everyone is entitled to have one. But don't claim they didn't care about each other like it is a fact. They do not have perfectly healthy relationships, but it doesn't mean they don't care or that they don't consider each other important. They live in a highly militarized world that they struggle to comprehend because the system has targeted them since they were kids. They didn't have the benefit of a family who taught them or gave them a good example on social behaviors (yes, even Sakura— her parents are nonexistent and irrelevant to the canon).

Sasuke used to have a clan and you can see it in the way he first interacted as a kid with Naruto and Sakura. His behavior afterward was a direct result of political machinations that were in place from the very beginning of the Shinobi world. It's the same with Naruto; Sakura and Sasuke were his first friends after a life of having no one, so of course he is "obsessed" with them. Kakashi Lost everyone and then they make him responsible for the saddest + most problematic kids in Konoha. Sai was tortured and trained to dismiss feelings and he had to learn how to smile. Sakura was a normal 12 years old girl forced to navigate those circumstances and guess what: it was their model of friendship she adopted. Her friendship with Ino was somehow chill (friends who could have been codependent, but rather become rivals so they could both grow on their own), but that was her only friendship and the influence and impact of a life with Team 7 was too great for her not to adapt herself to it.

Yamato is the normal one. That's how insane the situation is...

Maybe in another life Sasuke and Naruto could have the childhood friendship of Shikamaru and Choji or the type of chill rivalry between Neji and Rock Lee. Maybe in a world where they didn't have the fate of the world on their shoulders, they were more normal. Maybe in that universe Sakura would have been properly guided so she doesn't believe her growth is only measured in beauty or making a boy notice her; maybe she would be confident enough as a child to better navigate her friendship with Sasuke and Naruto, instead of having to learn it through trial and error. Maybe Sai would have grown with the social tools to be in a no-awkward friendship, maybe he'd openly connect with others through art and not insults. Maybe Kakashi's regrets would be less and their weight wouldn't hamper on his ability to connect with his students. Maybe his own PTSD would not stand in the way.

As it is, Team 7 is full of individuals who fight for the right to form connections despite the odds being against them. They hold to each other with both hands despite the fact it'd be easier and less painful to let the other die. They don't care if their friendship is not perfect, they still want it.

It's unhealthy, it's insane, they shouldn't have to do it, but they want to. Because. They. Care.

[solecist]

more context for 악어(acau)'s translation (troubles? future troubles?)!

@blockgamepirate mentioned pronouns in context of translation in a reblog and that got me thinking about a bunch of things lmao but mostly about 반말 (banmal).

악어 decided really early on into his experience with the translator to try to use banmal bc he felt like the translator was picking up on it better, and he probably thought this because of two things:

banmal is usually shorter than 존댓말 (jondaemal) which is the polite/default way of speaking. and when i say default i mean my parents sometimes use it to refer to each other. it's more than just politeness, it's also a certain amount of respect? with younger people (high school, college, maybeeee graduate student age) people tend to use banmal with friends. older people use banmal to talk to children, and children use banmal except when talking to older people. i think the easiest way of showing just how much shorter banmal is, is to use "안녕" (korean "hello") as an example. "안녕" (annyeong) is actually banmal! you absolutely wouldn't say this to someone you've just met - you would say "안녕하세요" (annyeonghaseyo) which is jondaemal. but do you see how the second is three syllables longer? there's more of a margin of error with three more syllable and that's why the machine translator doesn't work as well with jondaemal.

The most casual way of speaking banmal uses pronouns. korean doesn't have gendered pronouns really, and the pronouns it does have seem. rude? generally? children use pronouns a lot and adults use pronouns when speaking to children but otherwise.... if you're not friends (and young honestly have yet to find an midsized (40+) adult regularly use pronouns) calling someone "you" is like. an insult. it works (that is, it doesn't feel like an insult) in 악어's stream for me because it felt like he was speaking in a significantly simpler/slower register after a while? like the register you'd use for kids. but i did want to put it out there! because if you're trying to learn korean through 악어's stream, you're probably listening to him use banmal! and that's just something to be aware of.

more pronoun thoughts! in terms of gender - korean doesn't have gendered pronouns. the closest you get in third person is something like "that girl" so machine translate will almost never get it right. it will default to masculine (in my experience) or the first person ("i" "me") so that's something to keep in mind. honestly my dad often defaults to masculine third person pronouns because he forgets pronouns are gendered in english and that there's more than one of them lmaooo. korean does gender relationships A Lot (oppa is the one that most people will know - brother from female speaker to older male listener) but pronouns wise there's. no gender oop.

i just wanted to put this out there because as 악어 becomes more a part of the qsmp community, we'll probably slowly pick up on the more regular patterns of awkward machine translation from an east asian language to english, and more specifically from korean to english. and if it's confusing that's ok! assume good faith - 악어 from what i can tell isn't a streamer who'll use insults a lot or curse, and his normal way of speaking to his audience is very soothing/polite/jondaemal, so i hope that people keep watching him throughout this introduction period!

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

The Perfect Blend

Pairing: Johnny “Soap” Mactavish x Plus Sized! reader

Warnings: FLUFF WITH SOME SPICE, mentions of insecurities but don’t worry, Johnnys got you

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy, Johnny is a flirt

Word Count: 1.1k

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

Working at the local café, you’d grown used to the ebb and flow of regulars, but John “Soap” MacTavish was something else entirely. He started coming in daily, his presence impossible to miss. With his mohawk, sharp jawline, and unmistakable Scottish accent, he wasn’t exactly inconspicuous in your quiet town. He ordered a black coffee and whatever pastry you had on special, always giving you a grin that felt like a secret shared.

By the third day, you found yourself looking forward to seeing him. And by the end of the week, he’d struck up a conversation.

“Dinnae worry, lass, it’s no’ gonna bite ye,” he teased, watching as you wrestled with the coffee machine.

“Oh, yeah?” you shot back, grinning as you finally got it working. “I’d like to see you handle it, Mr. Action Hero.”

He chuckled, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Ye think I can’t take on a wee machine?”

Setting his coffee in front of him, you raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure my job’s safe, but thanks for the offer.”

It surprised you how easily you could talk to him, even with the little voice in the back of your mind reminding you of how you looked. You knew you weren’t exactly the “type” most men chased after, and sometimes you’d catch yourself wondering if he was just being friendly. But each day, Soap peeled back more of your usual defenses. You learned he was in the military, though he kept the details light, and he discovered your passion for baking and your dream of turning the café into a full-blown bakery. You found yourself feeling more comfortable around him, even daring to hope that he might actually see you as more than a barista.

One morning, while the café was unusually quiet, Soap looked at you intently, a warm smile softening his face. “Ye know, I keep comin’ here fer more than the coffee, lass.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but a doubtful thought crept in. You forced a chuckle. “You don’t have to say that, you know.”

Soap leaned in, his eyes holding yours, steady and sincere. “I mean it. Ye’re somethin’ special—honest, strong… and ye make a mean scone. It’s rare to find someone like ye.”

The way he said it felt like he saw past all the worries and insecurities you tried to hide, and for a moment, you let yourself believe it.

A week later, Soap finally asked you out. After agreeing to meet him at a nearby restaurant, you spent the afternoon trying on outfits, feeling a bit ridiculous for being so anxious. You’d always been self-conscious about your size, and though you knew how to dress in a way that made you feel comfortable, a part of you worried if you’d look good enough standing next to him. Soap was so handsome and fit, the kind of man who could make anyone do a double take. As you caught sight of yourself in the mirror, that old, familiar doubt crept in.

But when you met him at the restaurant, his face lit up in a way that made some of your worries fade. He greeted you with a warm smile, eyes soft as he looked you over. “Ye look beautiful, bonnie,” he said, so genuinely that you almost believed it.

“Thanks,” you managed, feeling a bit shy under his gaze.

Once inside, though, the attention he attracted became hard to ignore. People’s gazes seemed drawn to him, admiring and a little starstruck. And standing next to him, you felt more aware of yourself than ever. You noticed the way others’ eyes slid past you and lingered on him, and though he stayed focused on you, a knot of insecurity twisted in your stomach.

After the food arrived, Soap caught the way your gaze drifted down, shoulders tense, hands fidgeting with your napkin.

“Ye alright, lass?” he asked softly, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand.

You mustered a weak smile. “I’m just… not used to this kind of attention, I guess.”

His expression softened as he took in your discomfort. Without another word, he squeezed your hand again, his voice gentle and reassuring. “Tell ye what—how about we get the food to go, aye? We’ll head back to mine, and we can eat in peace.”

You felt a weight lift, and a real smile tugged at your lips. “That sounds perfect.”

Back at Soap’s flat, he made you comfortable on his couch, draping you with a warm blanket and setting out your takeout on the coffee table. The night drifted into easy conversation, shared laughter, and soft moments as you both settled into the comfort of each other’s company. With him there, you began to forget your insecurities, feeling more like yourself again.

As the evening wore on, Soap’s gaze grew warmer, more intent. He leaned in, his thumb brushing softly along your cheek. “Ye know ye’re incredible, aye?” he murmured.

A blush crept over your cheeks, and you glanced down, feeling a bit shy under his gaze. “I’m just…me.”

Soap’s hand slid to cup your face, lifting it so you met his eyes. “Ye’re so much more than that, bonnie. Every bit o’ ye—yer kind heart, yer strength, the way ye light up a room… and aye, ye’re beautiful.” He brushed his fingers along your shoulder, his gaze traveling down with a look of genuine admiration. “Every curve, every smile… I wouldn’t change a thing about ye.”

The sincerity in his words washed over you, and you felt yourself softening, the doubts easing. Slowly, he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. It was gentle at first, but then his arms wrapped around you, holding you close, and his kiss deepened, filled with a warmth and affection that made your heart race.

In his bedroom, his touch was reverent, every caress slow and purposeful, each movement designed to show you just how deeply he cared. His fingers traced down your arms, across your back, lingering over the curves you’d always felt so self-conscious about, yet he treated them with such tenderness that you felt truly cherished.

“Ye’re perfect, bonnie,” he whispered, his gaze full of admiration as he took you in, letting you see just how much he meant it.

That night, every touch and kiss was a quiet reassurance. He adored you for who you were, without reservation. And with each passing moment, you felt that love settle, knowing that, in his eyes, you were everything he wanted. In his arms, every doubt melted away, replaced by a warmth that felt as deep as it was unshakeable.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[ro-bee]

Hi!

Could maybe say something more about your Goat Realm?

What is story of Puppy narinder here?

What heretics look like here and how are they behaviour? (I'm curious about it because I love these beans. I'm all ears to any littlest detail)

How other bishops look like?

And anyway anything. I'm all ears to all ramble!

Drink your water!

HELLOOO

It is time for the goatverse yap section ! Everybody cheers!!

Anyway little disclaimers :

1_ is very work in progress... Unfortunately all my focus is on those two gay furries and not much on the world so I don't have many drawings to show :(

2_ it's heavy... And I mean there are strong themes and stuff (I'm not gonna go in details here) ... You'll see it better when I finish one of my many projects but it will require a lot of time... Like a lot, sorry... Anyway :)

Goat's world is very harsh. Here we live by the philosophy of kill or be killed very often, despite that there are some people that manage to live in piece and tranquility (example: goat's family and people that don't venerate any specific bishops or that venerate Kiran)

The world is ruled by the 5 bishops (these design are still concepts expect our beloved wolf lol)

Four of them command on different regions, Kiran being the god of death rules the purgatory

He doesn't have many followers like his siblings but he prefers it like that, it doesn't really matter to him because people souls would end up to him anyway.

His siblings have more of an evil alineament, they use their godhood for bad often, taking entertainment on their followers pain. Kiran is the opposite and witnessing his followers suffering fills him with sorrow, that's why he always gives his followers a painless death, is the last he can do for them... After all their souls gives him power :)

Anyway I think I already explained kiran's plan here , tldr bro is sad people suffer so he thinks that killing everything is a good solution

A little thing I want to add to kiran's backstory thing (idk):

I think that unfortunately we're not gonna have a ratau in this world, since Kiran's objective is to get rid of pain with putting everyone's soul to rest I think he won't let any previous vessel go away after failing (I'm not doing this because I hate ratau, he's my dad I love him so much)

So goat had no guide in what they were doing

Heretics here are just like regular heretics(?), if you wanted to know more about their design unfortunately I don't have anything with them :( I have some sketches in the comic I'm working on but I need to keep it as a surprise

Most of them are just regular people that want to survive...

Talking about people who want to survive:

Goat wasn't always this fucked up in the head, this whole deal changed them for the worst. Before the crown they lived a normal peaceful life with their family, when they lost everything they were forced to learn how to fight back to survive. So they spent many years running away and fighting back, they felt terrible at first but then it started to feel normal, almost enjoyable. Getting the crowns powers made killing people fun for them so yeah lol this is the evolution of goat going from calm Lyra player to killer machine, they have a loooooot of anger issues lol.

About the bishops... I'm currently drawing them better and they still have no name right now...

Their personality is the opposite of the canon one basically

The leshy is calm less impulsive

The geko is a prudent and a bit coward

The kraken is fearless and violent

The scorpion is ruthless and impulsive

Kiran is their older brother and loves them very much!! the feeling is not very mutual but anyway :)

I need to work a little bit more on them ngl

Aaaand I think this is all? Hmm idk feel free to ask more :)

[ingravinoveritas]

i stg if david wins a bafta for rivals and not good omens i WILL lose what’s left of my sanity

Oh, boy. I'm at a conference at the moment and running around like crazy, so only dipping in periodically. But for those who haven't seen, the nominations for this year's TV BAFTAs have just been announced, and David was nominated for his role as Tony Baddingham in Rivals...

First and foremost, it is absolutely amazing that David has now received only his second ever nomination for a (regular) BAFTA. Long well overdue, for sure--to the point where it's become an ongoing joke, even--and he more than deserves to be recognized for his work as an actor.

But there are definitely a couple of things that are odd about this. The character David plays in the show, Tony, is not really one of the main characters--unlike Alex Hassell or Aidan Turner's characters who are, and yet neither one of them were nominated. It's David's (arguably far more recognizable/bankable) name that was put forward, even though he has significantly less screen time than both of them.

It's also peculiar that he was nominated in this category instead of Male Performance in a Comedy, which arguably would have made a lot more sense, given the type of show that Rivals is. And looking at the other nominees, David being in this category stands out because there is such an incongruity between his performance/show and all of the other shows, and it does not seem as if he is being set up to win.

That said, perhaps the most disenchanting thing about this nomination is that while David was by no means bad in Rivals, it is not necessarily his best work. He deservedly received a nomination for Good Omens last year, but I would argue that there are other projects for which he was just as deserving of nomination yet did not receive one--namely, Broadchurch and Des. The very idea that David would be nominated for Rivals but not for Des seems almost too ridiculous to comprehend, especially given the passion and weight that he has given to Des and playing that particular role.

And sadly, we also can't ignore that awards shows do tend to be political in nature, to some extent. Michael not being nominated for A Very Royal Scandal, for instance, which is likely due to Prince William being the president of BAFTA, something I only learned last year. In the case of David, he just hosted the film BAFTAs this year, and then you also have the roaring engine of Disney that likely was the driving force behind this nomination, advancing David's name because of his visibility more than anything else.

I think that is what rankles me most of all, actually--is that David could be nominated for bullshit reasons such as the above instead of because he delivered an award-worthy performance. Again, this is not to say that he was bad in Rivals or didn't deserve to be nominated--only that it feels like it would've been a lot more meaningful if he was nominated long before now for first-rate performances that he took much more pride in, and not because of whatever behind the scenes machinations are going on.

So those are my thoughts on David's BAFTA nomination. Again, it's definitely a wonderful achievement and should be celebrated, but there are still issues worth (reasonably, civilly) discussing...

[bunysliper]

8x18 fic prompt: beckett tells castle how he betrayed her in her dream

Staying In the Loop

Gentle fingers trip along her spine, making lazy circles and swirls on a path to the curve of her shoulder. It's an absentminded touch, meant to lull instead of excite, and Kate finds herself drifting, basking in the contact and the silence that's only broken by the quiet rhythm of their breathing.

"I take it you liked the surprise," Castle hums after a few minutes have passed, amused satisfaction dripping from every word.

Beckett snorts, sinking deeper into the sheets and pressing into his hand. Yes, he is proud of himself, and he should be.

"It wasn't what I expected," she admits. "Of course, I wasn't expecting anything…"

"I know you weren't," he murmurs. He drops his head, dotting a kiss to her shoulder. "Except you kind of did."

Lifting a hand, she brushes her fingertips over his jaw. Castle nuzzles into her touch, scraping his stubble over her palm.

"I was a little bit mean to you about it - my dream, I mean."

He smiles and the movement of his lips tickles her hand. "I think I can forgive you. Especially after this evening's activities."

Even as she chuckles, she feels a pang; he hadn't deserved to be hassled beyond a little bit of teasing about his actions in a dream. He hadn't done anything to her in the real world, and his sneakiness to restore her motorcycle had been the opposite of malicious. Why had she assumed his intentions to be harmful, just because she'd picked up on his machinations subconsciously?

"Still, I'm sorry."

Rick kisses her palm. "What'd I do in this dream, anyway?"

Licking her lips, she considers making a joke, brushing off the whole thing and drawing his head down to hers to make him forget.

"Kate?"

"You went to Gates," she admits, ducking her head to kiss his shoulder. "You went to Gates and told her all about the LokSat investigation, and it got me demoted, practically fired."

He stiffens underneath her, making her lift her eyes in alarm.

"Rick?"

Her husband shakes his head emphatically. "I haven't gone to Gates, Kate. I wouldn't. Not-"

"Unless you thought I was going to get myself killed," she finishes for him, resting her forehead against his. "I know. I know that. But in the dream, it was just… it was a regular day, and you decided to tell her everything, and it cost me my job. It was like you did it out of spite. I was so, so angry with you."

"I could tell," he quips, but he touches his lips to her forehead, too. "I only ever want to keep you safe; you know that. I-" he exhales, "well I guess I can't say I would never do that, because I have, but…"

She lifts an eyebrow, squirming beside him so she can prop herself on her elbow. "You've learned your lesson, since you risked brain damage the last time?"

"Yes. But also, if I want you to keep me in the loop, I have to do the same for you."

Kate nods. "Yeah."

Rick brushes his knuckles over her cheek. "I'm sorry for what dream me did."

"I'm sorry I blamed you for what dream you did," she says, leaning over to kiss him.

"I'll make sure that idiot doesn't do it again," he murmurs against her mouth, sinking his fingers into her hair.

Kate shifts, lifting the sheet just enough to throw a leg over his hips and settle her weight on him once again. "Good."

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

Hope you liked this, Anon! Thanks for being patient! This has, apparently, been sitting in my drafts for a while? I have no idea why I never posted it. But here it is!