#these are just me trying to concept something

[taro-bae]

can u do twst 3rd years reacting to you saying "I love you" for the first time? :3

Twisted Wonderland - Third Years

Summary: reacting to you saying "I love you" for the first time

Characters: Third Years + Che'nya (I love him so much)

CW/Notes: gn!reader, fluff, romantic, preestablished relationship (let's say dating for some time now)

Trey Clover

It was a long day of classes and Trey's duties with housewarden responsibilities. But one thing he was never tired for was checking up on you, making sure you're hydrated and feeling your best. Trey made his way to you, happy to see you after a being on his feet all day. He was doing some small act of service for you when you hit him with the statement that caught the calm vice-warden off guard.

The words "I love you" repeated in his head. It took him a moment to process what you just said. He gazes at you sheepishly with a soft smirk, "say it again...?". Trey look directly into your eyes trying to catch every micro reaction from you and grasp your true feelings. And after you say it again he steps closer to you meeting you at eye level. He might look composed with a light smirk on his lips, but inside his heart completely melted for you.

"I love you too~" he says dropping an octave lower, keeping his voice calm and cool, specifically to tease you. Trey, being quite the tease loves seeing your cheeks flush with colour, even if it is barely noticeable. He opens his arms pulling you into an embrace as one of his hands pats your head. Still with that smirk he'd pull you right into his chest letting you hear his heartbeat.

Cater Diamond

Cater paused when you confessed to him, telling him those three words. His expression faltering a bit. This wasn't exactly the first time someone confessed their feelings to him. However, this time it felt different. This time it felt genuine ans sincere, like you actually meant it.

"I... Uh..."

He had his share of admirers and crushes, but this confession felt more...real. Cater now felt more flustered and unsure. He's used to hidding his feelings and putting on a happy carefree face, but this time you saw it slip a bit on his face when his expression softened. He seemed more vulnerable but recovered quickly.

"I love you too, cutie~♡"

That night he almost cried himself to sleep feeling actually loved and appreciated by someone. Especially that that someone is you.

Leona Kingscholar

"...what?"

Leona thought he misheard you. He was sitting on his bed, book in his lap when you caught him completely off guard leaving him in disbelief. When you repeat it again, his eyebrows frown slightly, but in his eyes you can see something hidden. He sets the book aside, the gravity of your words setting in leaving a sense of surprise and vulnerability as he tries to process them.

"Why the hell would you love me?"

Leona may act dismissive and find it difficult to accept comfort or love, even from his partner. Though his eyes convey something else. He scoffs and looks away, his tail thumping behind him while his ears lay flat. He doesn't want to be seen as weak, he has a reputation to maintain. "Stupid herbivore..." he thinks, but his dark tan cheek feel warmer. He's not good at expressing his emotions, and will need time until he even tries to say it back.

"You....ughhh, fine...I-...I might love you too..."

Vil Schoenheit

You love Vil, but the question is; who doesn't? He has an enormous share of fans and admires showering him in compliments. Although, they don't matter as much as yours.

Love is a bit of an odd concept in his life, in respect to his career and status. When the words "I love you" leave your lips he's taken aback. Despite his acting abilities and marvellous composure, Vil isn't the best with romance. He looks into your eyes seeing the devotion and pure adoration in your gaze. His own heart is pacing faster than he'd like, but he knows he loves you too.

After taking a controlled breath he speaks trying to keep his voice steady, "I love you too, my dear." Vil takes your hand in his, the look in his eyes turning serious, "this stays private between us, the media can be relentless to say the least...but I'm glad that you love me. And I love you the same"

Rook Hunt

It is certain that he said it to you before many times. Rook is patient whether you were ready to say it or not. He was dying to hear the first time you tell him that you love him, he's a sucker for romance.

When you approached him and finally said those words to him he wasn't actually caught off guard, his hunter mind is always prepared. However, he is over the moon. Instantly picks up both your hands together, kissing your knuckles while maintaining direct eye contact. "Oh~ Mon Amour, finally blessing me with your kind words! je t'aime aussi!"

His affections double after your confession, be prepared to receive lots of affection that point onwards.

Idia Shroud

"This level is for absolute NOOBS, the boss is set u-... HUH! WHA-?!"

Absolute chain reaction. Why do you do this to him. Poor boy was just sitting playing his games, while ranting to you, with his favourite anime in the background when you drop the bomb on him. Idia will spiral, his anxiety getting the better of him. For Idia, romance was a dead zone he wasn't interested in for a long time, until you.

"Did I mishear them? No, no, no...that can't be right? They said they LOVE...ME? maybe they meant the game...right right...the game...Wait no....UGHH WHAT DO I SAY...this so awkward..."

Idias hands begin to sweat, the tips of his hair turning a brighter pink. As well as his face, the red visible in contrast to his pale skin. A mumbled "A-are you sure" leaves his mouth without thinking. His heart and mind are absolutely racing escalating to a small panic attack. A few tears weld up in his eyes, he needs some reassurance that you mean it and will never leave him.

"You're n-not just saying that are you..." after you give him a hug he melts into your comfort hiding his face in your neck. He whispers a quiet "Don't leave me..."

Malleus Draconia

Malleus was lonely practically his whole life, starved of genuine affection and love. That changed when you came into the picture.

It was on a late night walk where you agreed to accompany him while he tells you about the gargoyles around campus. The intimate and quiet atmosphere was a perfect moment for you to tell him how you feel, letting the words slip from your tongue. Malleus stopped, meeting your gaze directly. He needs a moment to think and catch his breath.

One of his hands lifts to softly caress your cheek with the back of his fingers. His gaze is soft and loving when he looks down at you.

"You truly know how to make me happy, my beloved. Please allow me to love you...eternally."

For Malleus it didn't matter who you were or what happens after. All that matters is that you love him and that he's no longer alone.

Che'nya

He was teying to annoy you as he always does, sneaking in and appearing infront of you upsidedown to try steal a kiss. That is when you decide to get hin back for all his teasing and pranks.

"Che'nya, I love you" He freezes, body stiffening and cheeks dusted pink. His eyes would widen, mouth falling open slightly before shutting again as he attempted to form words. He's a sucker for true love, and a hopeless romantic at heart, your words mean a lot to him.

He blinks with wide yellow cateyes, his brain attempting to register just what you said before the words finally processed and a wide cheesy grin would break out across his face. He steps forward, hands catching your waist gently as he pulled you flush against his chest, head tilting as he spoke.

"You love me?"

When you confirm, his grin only grows wider, ears and tail perking up in happiness. "I love mew too, lyubimaya/lyubimiy~" He purrs back littering your face and neck with kisses.

Che'nya is mine >:(

Russian Che'nya Russian Che'nya Russian Che'nya!!!

I'd kill to call him Тёма (short for artemiy/artema) or Котик (kitty male endearment form) to his face!!!

UGGGHHH IM DOWN BAD FOR HIM

[dnpbeats]

I feel like dan and phil still kind of play up the dichotomies between them when actually they are soooo similar and I find it rly interesting. Or idk, maybe they don’t even play it up anymore but the vestiges of it are still there. They definitely don’t do it to the extent they used to, and like obviously there ARE differences in their personalities/interests/etc, but I feel like there are also so many examples of the phandom (myself included) assuming something was decided by one of them when actually it was the other

like okay, the song in tatinof. The whole joke within the show was that phil really wanted to sing this song and dan was like 🙄 and dragging his feet until eventually he’s like “okay fine we can sing.” Now obviously this was a bit for the show, but it definitely fit with the personas they presented at the time with phil being all fun and whimsical and dan being the more serious one. The bit felt like a reflection of real life/their personalities as we knew them… and then story of tatinof comes along and dan is like “yeah I was the one who insisted on there being a musical number.” Now idk, looking back i’m not shocked it was dan, but at the time it was definitely surprising yk! Something that had “phil” written all over it (which they KNEW, which is why Phil was the one who wanted to sing within tatinof) was actually dan

but I find myself still today sometimes being surprised by things like this. with the dapc slime video, I (like others) assumed phil was the one who came up with the concept/directed it because phil is the horror guy! And it was somewhat reminiscent of phil’s old school YouTube stuff. like you think of the basket and dapc slime coming from the same person, it checks out. But turns out nope, it was dan who came up with the idea and directed it. And then with the phouse, everyone felt like the style was very “dan” bc there was no color anywhere it and was so sleek and modern and then phil was like no this is my taste too 😭 I think he talked about it once in the context of the living room but he also specifically said the entryway was his idea, even though to me it's something that's very "dan"

of course at the end of the day dan and phil are separate ppl with different personalities and i’m not trying to say they like have no identity separate from each other. Just like. I feel like sometimes I get so caught up in the idea that they’re day/night dark/light grumpy/sunshine etc that I forget they’re also like. idk. two vines that have been growing together for so long and are so intertwined that you can't tell where one starts and the other begins

[fanzou]

✗ Genre: Smut

“What, best friends don’t fuck?” He poses the questions so innocently, like it’s nothing. He’s kneeling between your legs and his very prominent bulge is inches close to you.

“S-Sanji…” You’re blushing like a damn virgin, “If someone finds us out—”

“—But they won’t, we’ll be quiet, princess. Trust me.” He’s rubbing his broad hand across your lap and your skirt is threatening to expose so much more than you wanted it to, and you’d venture to think that’s exactly what he was trying to make happen.

You’re nervous, only because anyone could walk right through that wooden door into the dark room you both were in. Sanji doesn’t give a shit, and it’s written all over his face and body.

You let out a shaky breath. “Okay, fine… but make it quick alright?”

His breath hitches, and you can see his muscles relax a little bit over your demand. He’s waited so long for this and tonight was the perfect night to finally make a move. Everyone was drunk out their mind anyways, so it didn’t matter. You were the only two fully conscious on board, though the concept seems surprising.

He’s removing his belt, and his long fingers moving so skillfully makes the heat in between your legs so much more noticeable. It’s practically radiating off of you and Sanji digs his thigh closer between your legs.

You didn’t wanna seem eager but the image in front of you was nothing short of exciting and it’s getting you to almost hypnotically move your hands to take off your panties while the man across from you already had his cock sprung and ready to put inside of you. What can he say? You told him to make it quick.

With your bare cunt facing him and your legs spread wide, you’re practically begging him to start his attack. Even though this was something that he wanted to make special, thoughtful and something never to forget, he guessed this could suffice.

Sanji lines himself up, and presses his cock against you. The intrusion was so much more than you thought it’d be. And it feels amazing. Amazing in the worst and best ways, the way it fully splits you and stuffs you all the same. It’s pleasurable and painful at the same time.

But you can’t let anyone sniff you both out. You’ll just have to get your quick orgasm in before anyone starts to suspect where you both have run off to. “Fuuuuuck… g-go… faster.”

And so he obeys, so much for truly being able to relish it.

He’s hardly a man who liked to be rushed during sex, his curved cock is grazing your insides just a little rougher than when he started and the whimper you let out proves it. “D-Don’t worry my love… next time… it’ll be so much more better. But I couldn’t stand it anymore. ‘Really fuckin’ needed you… oh shit.”

Your pleasure subsides for a second trying to puzzle together his insinuation, but then you hear something; footsteps.

Your eyes widen and dart at the door, then to Sanji, but he doesn’t care, he just comes closer to you and puts hand over your mouth. His grin gets wider and wider.

And he’s fucking you so much more quieter but there’s so much power in his thrusts, he tries not to push against your thighs too much because he knows the slapping will probably alert whoever was walking towards your room. He sloppily tries covering your sides with a blanket, this’ll work, he says, and he’s back to fucking you just a little harder than he did before.

You make it known to him, vocally, that you really appreciated the gesture.

The footsteps get louder and closer to where you can almost feel the vibrations off the floor. Sanji’s hand is like tape around your mouth, he wants you quiet but he fucks you like he’s daring you. He looks at you, then he looks to the door.

The steps are right by the door now, and they stop. Your heart drops.

“Where do you think shitty cook’s gone? Need him to get me some more booze.”

Sanji’s ecstatic. Like he wants Zoro to walk in, walk in on you getting fucked like your life depended on it. And you could sit here and pretend that you were absolutely in great terror of being found out by someone about the predicament you were in, but your pussy told the truth.

Much to Sanji’s disappointment, his sloppy and drunk footsteps walk the other direction. He removes his hand and watches your frustrated expression manifest.

You were clenching around him tighter and tighter and he knew exactly what that meant for you, the closer proximity between his cock in your tightened cunt made him feel like reeling into his own orgasm.

“You wanted him to walk in. Didn’t y-you? Yeah. You’re so d-dirty… ‘Wanted this more than me, huh princess?”

You could only take so much dirty talk. “Saaaaaaanji… stop talking… oh—” he pushes impossibly deep inside of you, and that’s when you let go. It was too much.

You squirted everywhere. And that was an understatement. It was bad. Like a lot of it went onto the floor and you’d have to clean it immediately after. But for now, Sanji’s chasing his own high. “You’re so… perfect. Fuck you’re amazing. Where do you want me, beautiful?” His thrusts get messy and the blanket is long gone, his skin on yours.

Not wanting anymore mess and a more obvious crime scene, “Just c-cum on my—fuck—stom-ach.

He obeys, and pulls out, he strokes himself on your stomach, with some of it pulling into your belly button. “Yeeees princeeeeess, oh shit…”

His chest is moving up and down and he stares at you lovingly before he smiles, it’s a genuine one, not laced with anything impure or malicious this time, fortunately for you. He’s back to normal Sanji.

“So… what would you have done if he walked in?” You ask him, genuinely curious.

“He’s plastered so, would’ve just made him watch us fuck. He probably wouldn’t have remembered it anyway.” He lays down next to you. “And if he did? ‘Nother thing to hold over his head.” You nuzzle into his chest for the short duration of time you had.

✗ A/N: Was drunk writing this. Do not mind the grammatical errors if there is any.

[witherby]

36 REBLOGS ON FLIGHT OF FANCYYYYYYY

AYYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYA

—🦈

Yayayayayayayay! Enjoy!

Flight of Fancy

Part 3 of Damian x Winged!Reader

Masterlist is Here!

You spend a while in the air, examining bats while trying not to disturb them. The first couple clusters you approach all scatter with panicked squeaking and fly out of the cave's multiple exits. Damian watches you readjust your strategy, trying different speeds and distances, until you figure out that you can watch them peacefully if you don't beat your wings so hard and don't get closer than about six feet away.

You're so polite as you watch them, holding Damian's words in mind. You keep your hands laced together behind your back, content to simply observe, and Damian does the same of you but on a more professional scale.

Armed with a pad and pen, he takes down all the information he's collected of you so far:

Bleeds gold

Physiologically a teen/young adult

Wingspan approx. 2x their height

White wings, full range of motion

Capable of long-distance flight

Limited world knowledge (didn't know the word for bat)

Learns languages via salivic exchange

Kidnapped from home (unknown location)

Real name unknown

Date of birth unknown

Species - winged metahuman

Dubbed "Project Angel" by Le—

Damian is about to finish writing, but the notepad gets snatched out of his hand by his older brother Jason.

"Whuh'ssits?" He mumbles around a mouthful of burrito, holding his snack in one hand and the pad in the other, high above Damian's head.

"Red Hood!" The boy snaps, irritated and embarrassed. He jumps for the pad but it's too far, and elects to start climbing his brother like a jungle gym. "Give me that! I'm making important observations about my ward!"

"Ward?" He smirks, after swallowing. "What ward? Looks like you're cooking up another OC to draw."

Damian's cheeks flush a brilliant red. The domino mask barely conceals his embarrassed, wide gaze. Even if he was doing that, which he wasn't, it never hurts to plan out his concepts before following through!!

"Look up, genius! And go put on something to cover your stupid face!"

"Am I a genius or stupid?" Jason asks, shaking him off. "Are you gettin' shy on me? You love showin' off your art when it's done, what's the problem —"

The pad gets ripped from his hands and Jason goes flying when a powerful gust of wind knocks him backwards. You land protectively in front of Damian, with your wings fully extended to make yourself look bigger, and bare your teeth. Distantly, he notes that you have pointed canines.

"Are you injured?" You ask Damian.

"No," he says, lifting a hand as if to place it on your back. He hesitates, unwilling to hurt or disturb your wings, and drops it again. "Stand down. That man is my brother, not a threat."

"Brother..." you mutter, frowning.

"Kin," Damian tries, which you seem to understand. "Hood, are you injured?"

"Am I in— I just got blown across the fucking room!" Jason snaps. When he sits up, he's got the red, half-mask on that covers him from nose to jaw, and he's aiming a gun at you. The severity of his appearance is significantly dulled by the burrito innards splattered all over the front of his hoodie.

"Who are you."

"This is your kin?" You ask, dubious. "He is aiming a weapon at us, from which you could be harmed. That's normal?"

Damian's mouth forms a thin line. There isn't time to cover the family's overcomplicated dynamics right this second, so he just kind of shrugs and nods.

"Mostly, yes," he admits. "Let me by."

You fold one of your wings against your back so Damian can step past you, then re-extend it and continue glaring at Jason. Jason glares right back, finger hovering over the trigger.

"Put the gun down. I rescued them on my patrol tonight." Damian steps right in front of the pistol. Jason eases his finger off immediately, but doesn't lower it. "Batman has tasked me with keeping them safe until they can be relocated in the morning. They're not a threat."

"Tell that to my busted back," Jason grunts, but he does eventually concede to putting his weapon down, and climbs to his feet. "Jesus, my favorite fucking hoodie is wrecked. If I can't get these stains out, you owe me a new one, Winx Club!"

"That's not my name," you scowl, feathers ruffling. The rippling effect it has is mesmerizing.

"Do I look like I give a shit? I'm heading upstairs, this blows." Jason stuffs the gun in the pocket of his hoodie lackadaisically, then points a finger at Damian as he takes his leave. "It's bad enough you've got a whole petting zoo of animals. Don't start collecting humanoid strays, too."

"Go to bed, Red Hood," Damian grumbles, turning to you. Your eyes trail after Jason, maintaining your threatening stance until he's completely out of sight. You straighten up and relax your wings, slowly folding them up again.

"I dislike him," you say, crossing your arms.

"He's a... difficult personality," Damian says, fully aware of the hypocrisy of that statement. He barrels forward, curious. "You stood up for me, even when he was seconds from shooting you. Why?"

You tilt your head like he's asked a particularly stupid question.

"You saved me," you state simply. "I am indebted to you."

"It's my job to save others. I protect this city with my family."

"I am not from your city, and you helped me all the same."

"You're in it, however temporarily, which makes your well-being my priority."

You hum, head gently tilting one direction in contemplation. Damian absently compares it to a bunny, or a curious puppy dog.

"Even so," you conclude, "I will repay your kindness. If it's in my power to do it, you will have it, Robin."

"I don't need anything from you," Damian says, not unkindly. "There's no debt I'm owed. I wanted you safe, and that's the long and short of it."

You don't argue it further, but there's still a small frown on your face. Again, Damian's eyes are drawn to your lips. He feels his heart rate get a little faster.

"Would it sate you if I asked for knowledge in return?" He offered. "You can still say no; I'm not going to make you tell me anything you don't want."

You perk up a bit, nodding. You both snap your heads when Jason shows back up, shouting.

"HEY, DID YOUR NOTEPAD SAY "LEARNS LANGUAGES VIA SALIVIC EXCHANGE" BY THE WAY? HOW DID YOU FIND THAT OUT?"

Damian turns back to you with burning cheeks. He notices that you blush gold, too.

[stove-top96]

Wicked Game

Ch. 00

Y Batfam x GN Reader

featuring: platonic Tim Drake.

1.3k words

It’s been a hot minute. I broke my hand snowboarding, then had tests. The writing for this one is significantly better, I’m taking a creative writing class for extra credits and decided to try something new with how I formate my chapters. I’ll be posting a chapter to both my story and my concept soon. This idea has just been in my head and the story I have planned out is exciting.

Class Schedule

1st period: Art

2nd period: Maths

12:00 - 13:00: Lunch

3rd period: biology

4th period: English

3:50 Dismissal

4:00 - 6:00: Basketball practice

(Friday 5:00 -> Basketball game)

You twirl your pencil between your fingers, lazily watching as everyone else scribbles notes, following the math equation Mr. Snyder is rambling on about. It’s been ten minutes on the same question, and you’ve checked out about thirty minutes ago. Not that it’s Mr. Snyder’s fault—Gotham Prep has the best teachers. It’s just maths has never been your thing. It’s 2 weeks into the new semester and you're already falling behind. Probably not a great start.

You glance up at the clock—11:53. Ugh. Lunch can’t come soon enough. Mr. Snyder’s voice makes time drag on and on. You dash out of the classroom the moment the bell rings and head straight to Brandi’s locker.

“Girl, I’m literally gonna lose it. I can’t handle these people, they’re insane,” you spill out, frustration pouring from you. Rants like these have become more frequent.

“Tell me about it,” Brandi shoots back, her voice sharp with annoyance. “I’ve never met people so out of touch with reality. These pretentious assholes.” She grits her teeth. “How are they even real?”

You nod, walking together towards the cafeteria. Brandi continues her rant, but it’s nice—almost comforting—to know someone else feels the same way. She’s the only other Scholarship student in the grade—your only friend.

Lunch is its own endeavour. Students give weird looks as you two eat your packed food. The two of you learned very quickly that these kids were in a league of their own, and didn’t take too kindly to outsiders.

As you and Brandi talk mindless gossip, lunch flies by. biology’s next it’s your favourite. There’s nothing better than Mrs. Young’s lectures. She’s able to bring life to the lessons, and the material has a way of sticking.

Heading to class a little early you grab a seat near the back. It’s the only table without another person there. Mrs. Young tends to be late to class, so what better way to pass time than to scroll on your phone. Engrossed in TikTok a voice snaps you back into reality.

“Mind if I sit here”

Glancing up from your phone, you recognize the face almost instantly— you’d be stupid not to— Tim drake. Dark brown hair, bright blue eyes and a ‘pretty boy’ face. He’s practically the ‘it boy’ of the school, popular, friendly, and stupid rich. There’s still plenty of other open seats around the class. Probably beside people he’s better acquainted with. But he wants to sit with you? “Sure” you shrug, not like you were gonna talk to the guy.

The bell rings for the end of lunch, Mrs. Young still hasn’t shown up. The silence between you two is suffocating, even inside the room filled with mindless chatter.

“I’m Tim by the way” his introduction was meant to ease the awkwardness. He knew that you knew who he was. “y/n” you answer, praying the teacher will walk in, anything to get you out of this conversation.

”you’re on the basketball team right? You got in on an athletic scholarship?” He asked, ignoring the way you slump into your seat. “Yep” you mumble. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for students to recognize who’s on scholarship and who isn’t—especially athletes. But for him to know you're on the Basketball team 2 weeks into the school year— Kinda weird. But questioning him would mean talking to him, and you weren’t gonna engage.

Before the silence could get too awkward Mrs. Young walks in, and begins the lesson. The lymphatic system. It wasn’t your weakest subject but definitely not your strongest. Today is especially hard. Mrs. Young is unusually keen on racing through as much of the topic as possible.

You rush to write notes and keep up with the teacher but before you’ve even finished 1 sentence she’s erasing the board. Sighing in defeat, you slump back into your chair. Maybe if you just listen to the teacher you’ll be able to grasp most concepts? you’ll just scan through the textbook after practice.

Tim must’ve noticed your defeat, because a moment later he slides over his notebook. God, even his handwriting is perfect. Copying down the rest of his notes.

“thanks.” You mumble, he nods with a subtle smirk on his face.

The next 45 minutes follow the same pattern—you write down as much as, then copy the rest from Tim, and repeat.

It's only until Mrs. Young claps her hands together. The loud sound grabbed everybody’s attention “We finally get to start our first group project of the semester!” Her excitement is met with groans from the class. “because I don’t want you guys to get too comfortable I took the liberty of choosing your partners”. Your stomach drops. Not that you knew anyone here it was still obvious who would make a good partner and who wouldn’t.

As Mrs Young lists off names you don’t recognize “y/n l/n” your head perks up. “And Tim Drake”. Fuck. Your stomach twists. You really didn’t want to go with him. Sure, he’s nice enough to share his notes for sure but he’s still Tim Drake, it’d be much less drama to avoid him.

Tim didn’t even bother hiding his smirk. “The project must be a poster of any negative or positive feedback loop. Be sure to discuss details with your partners. I won’t be giving much class time, so plan accordingly”

The bell rang signaling the end of class, and you were quick to pack up and get out. The sooner you’re gone the better.

“So how do you want to do this?” Tim asked as he slung his backpack over his shoulder. “I don’t really care. you pick”

gym’s next, so you should leave as soon as you can. “Let’s work on it tomorrow after your basketball game. We can choose our topic together,” he answered.

Great, now you’re gonna have to spend your evening with the guy. “My game will probably take 2 hours,” you said. That should probably be enough to get him to back off.

“I’ll watch, I like basketball” you raise a brow. “I guess” you shrug.

The rest of the day blurred together— same mind numbing stories in English, same repetitive drills in practice. By the time it’s all over you’re already on the subway heading home. A wave of exhaustion falls over you.

Unlocking the Door to the empty apartment, you want nothing more than to crash into your bed and doom scroll for the rest of the night. Still you figure you should eat something and take a quick shower first.

Scanning the fridge and cupboards like expected there isn’t much. With a sigh you grabbed a box of cereal and poured a bowl before heading to the bathroom to shower.

The evening passed uneventfully. You weren’t expecting your mother to be back anytime soon, so it was just the quiet hum of the apartment.

A buzz from your phone snapped you back to reality.

<Unknown Number>

Hey y/n it’s Tim Brandi gave me your number for the project.

You roll your eyes. Why would Brandi do that? It's totally unlike her. Tim must’ve been persistent. Hovering over the message you debated answering or not. After a beat you typed back.

<Y/N>

Cool, I’ll see you tomorrow then.

Short and simple, Tim probably won’t send another message. With a sigh you put your phone on silent, and roll over to finally get some sleep. Once you get through this project you’ll never have to talk to him again.

little did you know the project will be the least of your worries.

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 3: "The one with the birthday party" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERIST

Chapter Summary: At Frankie’s mom’s birthday party, you aim to keep a low profile, doing just enough to blend in. But the night takes an unexpected turn—his family pulls you in more than you anticipated, catching you off guard with their warmth. And then, just when you think you’ve made it through unscathed, the pavement has a surprise for you too. WC: 18.8k (CAREFUL, THIS BABY IS LOOOONG LOL)

A/N: Alright, it's here at last! You have no idea how much I've been looking forward to sharing this chapter. For some reason, life kept getting in the way and I couldn’t finish it sooner, but NOW IT’S FINALLY DONE! I’d love to know what you think—your feedback always helps me improve, and I really enjoy reading your comments! <3 LOVE YOU YOU ALL, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!!! If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifs!

Friday, August 9th. 

“Hey,” you said as you opened the door, stepping aside to let Frankie in. You barely glanced at him before turning toward the other room. “I’ll be ready in a minute.”

He walked in without a word, shutting the door with a soft click. His silence felt heavier than it should have, like an unspoken critique. You gestured toward the door on the right, in front of the stairs that led to the second floor and to your apartment.

You went into the bookshop, and he followed you, his shoes heavy against the floor.

Inside, Frankie lingered by the doorway, his eyes darting around the room as though assessing it for structural integrity. You ignored him, sliding behind the counter to finish typing something on the computer.

“What are you doing?” he asked, leaning on the edge of the counter with the practiced impatience of someone who believes they’re above waiting. His tone had a sharp edge, as if the concept of you having a to-do list offended him. “Can’t this wait?”

You exhaled, a soft, deliberate sigh that was barely audible over the quiet clatter of the keys.

“Just finishing an order. If you’re going to stand there and criticize, at least try to look useful.” A few more taps, and you turned the screen toward him with a mock flourish. “There. Done. Satisfied?”

Frankie didn’t bother responding, his attention shifting to you instead. His gaze dragged up and down, his expression a mix of scrutiny and reluctant approval.

You stepped around to the other side of the counter, reaching for the bookshop keys. With them in hand, you paused in front of him, your gaze drifting down the length of his body.

“Well, this is… unexpected,” you said, letting your eyes linger pointedly on his polished black coat, white buttoned shirt and neatly pressed pants. “You look decent.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smirk. “And you look…” His eyes trailed to your dress, narrowing. “Half-dressed.”

“Excuse me?”

Frankie crossed his arms, tilting his head as though giving your outfit a second appraisal.

“I’m not joking. Did you forget part of your dress? Or is it supposed to look like that?”

Confused, you glanced down at yourself. You were wearing one of your favorite dresses—a white one with delicate straps and a fit that was snug but not tight, elegant in its simplicity. It was modest enough: the neckline wasn’t too low, the hem rested just above your knees. Perfectly normal. Perfectly appropriate.

“There’s nothing wrong with my dress. You’re just being annoying and mean.”

“Your back,” he said flatly, gesturing with his hand.

Your fingers flew to the back of the dress, and sure enough, they met the unzipped fabric.

“Oh,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I… I was going to zip it upstairs. I have this little hook thing for it—”

“For god’s sake,” Frankie cut in, pinching the bridge of his nose like this was the single most inconvenient thing anyone had ever asked of him. “Turn around. I’ll do it.”

You stared at him like he’d just suggested performing open-heart surgery.

“You don’t have to—��

“It’s a zipper, not a marriage proposal. Turn around.”

Reluctantly, you turned, feeling his presence close behind you. His fingers were quick but precise as he tugged the zipper up, the movement so mundane yet strangely charged. The warmth of his breath hit the back of your neck, and you froze for a second, hyperaware of the proximity.

“There,” he said gruffly, stepping back as if the contact had been nothing more than a chore. “Happy now? Let's go.”

You turned to face him, adjusting the straps with an exaggerated shake of your shoulders.

“Ecstatic,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Truly life-changing.”

Frankie rolled his eyes and made a beeline for the door, opening it with a sharp glance over his shoulder.

“Are you done with the dramatics?”

Adjusting your bag on your shoulder, you followed him outside, muttering under your breath just loud enough for him to hear.

“You’re lucky I didn’t ask you to tie my heels.”

The party was being held in the gilded elegance of the Golden Room at Hotel Le Grand. Frankie had mentioned, in passing, that he and his sisters had been planning the event for months—though it was clear Luna had been the one to shoulder the real burden. Frankie didn’t strike you as someone who knew how to color-coordinate table linens or confirm catering orders. Luna, on the other hand, sounded like the kind of woman who thrived on spreadsheets and perfectly executed itineraries.

You walked down the wide, carpeted hallway toward the entrance, feeling an unfamiliar kind of nervousness bloom in your chest. It wasn’t fear exactly, nor excitement—it was something in between, something that lived in the pit of your stomach and coiled tighter the closer you got. You could hear the faint hum of voices, glasses clinking, the muffled thrum of music filtering out from the room ahead. Frankie’s pace slowed beside you, his polished shoes scuffing lightly against the floor.

When you turned to look at him, his expression was hard to read. He was studying you, eyes narrowing slightly as if you’d done something suspicious, though you couldn’t imagine what.

“Wait,” he said abruptly, stepping closer and grabbing your arm—not roughly, but firmly enough that you stumbled slightly.

“What—”

He didn’t answer, just pulled you along a few steps before opening a nearby door and tugging you inside.

“What the hell are you doing, Francisco?” you hissed, glancing around the dim, utilitarian room. It smelled faintly of dust and lemon cleaner, the air heavy with the static quiet of spaces not meant to be used by guests. Stacks of chairs loomed in uneven piles against the walls, making the room feel even smaller.

Frankie shut the door behind you with an exhale.

“Let’s go over it one more time,” he said, his voice low and edged with impatience.

“You’re kidding.”

“Just—humor me, okay?” He glanced at you, his dark eyes darting quickly over your face before he looked away again, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Are you nervous?”

“No,” he replied, too fast. He planted his hands on his hips, his expression careful. “Santi introduced us. We’ve been dating for two months. We kept it private because we wanted to talk to him first. It’s… fine. Normal. Our relationship is easy.”

“Easy?” 

“Yes, easy. It just happened. The usual.”

“You’re so nervous,” you said, fighting the urge to laugh. “Look at you.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re definitely nervous.”

“I just need you to promise me that you’re not going to do anything to ruin this. Okay? Can you promise me that?”

You scoffed, clicking your tongue in mock offense.

“Why do you automatically assume I’m the one who’s going to ruin it? If you want my honest opinion, you’re way more likely to mess this up. Look at you—you’re sweating.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. You look like a dog with its tail between its legs,” you said, lightly poking his shoulder with two fingers.

“You are going to make me fucking nervous if you keep talking like that,” he said, pushing your shoulder with two fingers, a perfect imitation of your earlier gesture.

You exaggerated the movement, stumbling back as though his touch had been far more forceful than it was.

“Deny it all you want, but I’m not the nervous one, and I’m not going to ruin this. I still need you for the wedding, remember? Or has that slipped your mind?”

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head in exasperation.

“I guess so. What a ridiculous plan,” he said, his voice dripping with faux superiority. When his gaze found yours again, it was sharp. “And I’m not nervous.”

Frankie didn’t seem to realize how obvious his nerves were. His eyes darted around like they were chasing his thoughts, moving too quickly for comfort. Every so often, his eyebrows would twitch in a way that betrayed the tight control he thought he had over himself. And you’d noticed it earlier, too, during the car ride—his restlessness, the way his fingers drummed against the steering wheel, harder and faster than usual. It was almost endearing, if not for the fact that he refused to admit it. Instead, he was blaming you.  

A thought sparked in your mind and you couldn’t stop yourself from leaning into it. Your eyes brightened as you tilted your head, feigning an exaggerated air of curiosity.  

“Well, if you say so,” you sighed, looking away for just a beat before locking eyes with him again. “So, where can I touch you?”  

Frankie froze, his entire body going rigid.  

“What?” 

“Where can I touch you?” you repeated, slowly, as if he might need help processing the question. “Like, can I hold your hand? Touch your face? Your arms? Anywhere that’s off-limits? I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”  

You could feel the corners of your mouth twitching, fighting the urge to fully smile. God, this was too easy. He looked equal parts horrified and confused, his eyebrows knitting together as his eyes widened slightly.  

“Stick to the basics,” he said, his tone clipped and no-nonsense. He was trying to regain control, though the way he crossed his arms over his chest only made him look more defensive. 

“And what exactly are the basics, Francisco?”  

“It doesn’t matter. This is a family event. Just don’t—don’t overdo it.”  

“Well, that’s a start,” you said, nodding like you were taking mental notes. “So, can I hold your hand? Or is that too intimate for you? If I make you nervous, you can just say so.”

Your voice had softened into something almost saccharine, a honeyed sweetness that didn’t belong to you. 

Frankie stared at you in silence, his dark, intense eyes fixed on your face like they were trying to strip you down to your core. You could almost feel him siphoning your energy, leaving you lighter, emptier.

“Yes, you can hold my fucking hand.”

“Great,” you said brightly, nodding as if you were in complete agreement. “And what about kissing?”

“There’s no need.”

“No need? That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” You paused, letting the silence settle just long enough to be deliberate. “Now I’ll tell you what I’ll allow.”

Frankie frowned, his head tilting slightly in irritation.

“There’s no need. I don’t plan to—”

“You can hold my hand, my shoulders, and my waist. My waist, but no lower—understood?” You raised your index finger for emphasis, looking up at him with mock authority.

Frankie blinked, caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. He stifled a laugh, though you caught the way his mouth twitched at the corners.

You shook your head, crossing your arms over your chest like a disappointed teacher.

“What? Are you seriously planning to convince your family that you’re head over heels for me without even touching my shoulders? That’s ambitious, Francisco. And, honestly, not very convincing. You’re out of your depth here. And nervous,” you added, tilting your head to one side with a knowing smirk. “But I get it. You’re not exactly the picture of confidence, are you? In fact, you strike me as one of those guys who find it really difficult to socialize with women. You know the type.”

Frankie’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might actually snap. But instead, he nodded slowly, biting the inside of his cheek as a bitter, humorless smile spread across his face.

“I’m very sociable with women, sweetheart,” he said, his voice smooth and edged with something sharp. “The thing is, I have to like them first.”

You raised your eyebrows, disbelief etched across your face.

“Well, I think that makes you a bad actor. You’re not cut out for the job.”  

Frankie leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze, steady and unflinching, fixed on you like he was deciding whether you were worth responding to.

“Oh, no?”  

“Yeah, you know, for the act,” you said, tilting your head.  

“You’re ridiculous.”  

“And you’re a nervous coward.”  

Frankie didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stared at you, his silence stretching long enough to make you shift under the weight of his gaze. You could see the wheels turning in his head, and for a brief, panicked moment, you thought he might just open the door, leave you standing there alone, and abandon the whole charade.  

But then, his face shifted. A smug expression slid into place, slow and calculated, accompanied by that crooked smile that always made your stomach tighten—not in a pleasant way, but in a way that felt like a warning.  

“And what about you, Meryl Streep?” he asked, his tone light but laced with an edge. “You want to talk about bad acting, but yesterday, after I kissed you, you looked completely out of place.”  

You sighed, a deliberate move to buy yourself a second to think.

“Sorry,” you said finally, tilting your head like you were truly apologetic. “I guess that happens when I get the most unpleasant kiss in the world.”  

Frankie laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

“Then it shouldn’t bother you that this party is kiss-free, should it? Little physical contact, just the necessary effort.”  

For a moment, you felt the wind knocked out of you—not by his words, but by the realization that he had managed to flip the conversation so seamlessly, deflating your earlier momentum. But you recovered quickly, letting a slow, understanding smile spread across your face.

You leaned in slightly, your hand lifting toward his face. Frankie, ever cautious, instinctively moved his head back, but you didn’t stop. Your fingers found his cheek, warm under your touch, and your thumb rested lightly at the corner of his mouth.

“You have no idea how much I’m going to enjoy it when you come begging for a kiss or a small demonstration of affection, Francisco,” you said softly, your voice dripping with satisfaction. “Because even though I know how much you hate this whole thing, I also know that your need to make this convincing is even stronger.”

You dropped your hand and stepped back, feeling a delicious sense of control settle over you like a second skin.

Frankie’s jaw tightened as he turned toward the door, his hand gripping the handle tightly, knuckles faintly white. He paused just before opening it fully, glancing over his shoulder at you, his eyes sharp and impatient.

“Ready?”

“Yes,” you said lightly, brushing past him as you moved toward the door.

Already in the hallway, Frankie fell into step beside you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours. Without warning, his fingers found yours, intertwining them in a quiet, deliberate motion. His steps were slow, measured, as you both neared the doorway leading back to the crowded hall.

You turned to him, a soft smile playing on your lips.

“I thought that—”

“No way,” a voice cut in from behind, smooth and teasing. “Sneaking off to a closet during Mom’s birthday party? That’s risky, Frankie.”

Frankie froze, his grip on your hand loosening for a second. He turned, his face momentarily pale, but when he saw her, something shifted. The tension in his jaw melted away, replaced by a warm, easy smile. You followed his gaze.

The woman approached, a grin already forming, arms outstretched. She pulled Frankie into a tight embrace, her dark eyes bright.

He kissed her cheek before pulling back.

“How are you?” he asked, his voice lighter than before. “How’s Mom? Is she happy?”

“She’s great, so so happy. She wants to see you,” the woman said, and then her attention flicked to you. Curiosity glimmered in her gaze. “Aren’t you going to... introduce me to your girl?”

Frankie hesitated, like the thought had only just occurred to him. Then, his hand slid to your waist, his grip warm and steady as he pulled you closer.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, and your name slipped from his lips with an unfamiliar sweetness. “My girlfriend.” He paused, like he was testing the words, then smiled. “And baby, this is my sister, Maia.”

The way he said it caught you off guard. There was a natural ease to it, like he’d said it a hundred times before. Like it wasn’t the first time he was calling you that in front of someone else. Baby.

Your mind went back to what Frankie had told you the night before. Maia, of all his sisters, was the most perceptive. She’ll figure us out if we’re not careful.

You turned to her with a genuine smile. She was beautiful—big brown eyes framed by long lashes, dark hair swept back effortlessly. There was something about her features, the sharp cheekbones, the knowing glint in her eyes, that reminded you of Frankie. 

“Oh, it’s so nice to meet you,” you said, meaning it. “Your brother’s told me so much about you. You look gorgeous.”

Maia’s grin widened, a pink flush rising to her cheeks.

“Oh, stop, really? You’re gorgeous.” She reached out, touching your arm lightly. Her hands were soft. “I wish I could say the same, but this idiot kept you a secret. He’s told us next to nothing.”

“Maia,” Frankie started, already formulating an excuse.

"It’s my fault," you cut in, glancing at him briefly before turning back to her. "I asked him to keep it private, at least until we told my brother."

Maia's brows lifted. "Oh? And why—"

Frankie exhaled. “She’s Santi’s sister.”

Maia’s mouth fell open slightly, then curved into an amused, knowing smile.

“Shut up,” she said, her tone laced with delight. “You’re dating your best friend’s little sister?”

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“Can you believe it?” you said, glancing at Frankie before turning back to her. “And I’m dating my brother’s best friend. Talk about a cliché.”

“Unbelievable,” Maia echoed, her laughter bright and infectious. “And what did he say when you told him?”

“Oh, Santi thought it was a little ridiculous at first,” you admitted, glancing at Frankie, amusement dancing in your expression. “But he got over it pretty fast.”

Your eyes met his then, full of plastic love.

Maia smirked knowingly.

“Well,” she said, tilting her head, “this just got interesting.”

Frankie cut the conversation short, brushing off Maia’s questions with the kind of firm, practiced ease that suggested he’d been doing it his whole life. She rolled her eyes but didn’t press further, leading the two of you deeper into the party.

His hand found your waist again as you stepped inside the hall. The space was vast and elegant, bathed in the warm glow of fairy lights strung overhead. White tablecloths stretched across the tables, each adorned with delicate centerpieces of white lilies—his mother’s favorite, according to Frankie. The scent was soft, fresh.

Maia wove through the gathering guests with the effortless familiarity of someone who had done this a thousand times. You, however, were hyper-aware of every step, every shift of movement. The closer you got to the main table, where the rest of his family sat in easy conversation, the more your nerves crept up, curling around your ribs like vines. Without thinking, your fingers sought Frankie’s again, gripping them tighter than necessary.

He leaned down, his breath warm against your ear.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice a quiet reassurance meant only for you. “I’ve got you.”

You nodded, even if you weren’t entirely convinced.

Then Helena spotted Frankie, and everything else in the room faded.

Her eyes went wide, bright with unfiltered joy. “Francisco!”

She pushed back her chair in an instant, standing with her arms already outstretched. Frankie barely had time to let go of your hand before she pulled him into a tight embrace, holding him the way only a mother could—like she needed to be sure he was still whole. She kissed both his cheeks, then held his face between her hands, searching it, memorizing him.

“Esta fiesta es increible, mi amor (this party is incredible, my love),” she told him, eyes still shining. “The best gift of all. Just having everyone together, that’s all I wanted. All my babies with me.”

Frankie smiled, a real one, the kind that made his entire face look younger, lighter.

“Feliz cumpleaños, ma, te mereces esto y mucho más. Una fiesta increible para una mujer increible, ¿o no?. (Happy birthday, Mom, you deserve this and much more. An incredible party for an incredible woman, right?)” 

You felt something swell in your chest at the way he said it, at the way his voice sounded softer in spanish—his voice warm with love.

Helena beamed, then turned toward you.

The shift was subtle, but sharp. Her gaze landed on you with something keen behind it, something appraising. 

“Mom,” he said, his fingers brushing your back again, “I want you to meet someone.” He pulled you closer, and when he said your name, it was softer than usual, careful. “She’s my... She's my girlfriend.”

The word hit the air, and you felt Frankie tense beside you, just for a second.

Helena didn’t react right away. She simply looked at you, studying, deciding. And then—she smiled. Broadly, like she’d decided something in your favor.

She repeated your name, and up close, you saw it now—how much of her was in Frankie. The same warm brown eyes, the same mischievous pull at the corner of the mouth, like they were both always half a second away from teasing you.

“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” she said, reaching for your hands. “What a lovely surprise, sweetheart.”

Your face warmed immediately, heat spreading down to your chest, and you knew you were blushing. Next to you, Frankie smirked, clearly amused by your reaction.

“Thank you so much,” you managed, shifting slightly closer to him for balance. “And happy birthday. It’s really wonderful to finally meet you, Helena. Francisco has told me nothing but amazing things about you.”

“Oh, thank God,” she teased, tossing her son a look before giving his arm a gentle pat. “And I do hope you’ll fill in the gaps. I’ve been waiting so long for this one to bring someone home, you have no idea. If you only knew!” She clasped her hands together in mock prayer. “Now, come—come! Come meet the rest of our family.”

Before you could react, she had already taken your arm, gently pulling you away from Frankie. You barely had time to glance back at him, your expression somewhere between help and save me, before you saw the exact same look mirrored on his face. He could do nothing but follow as Helena paraded you toward the table.

Introductions unfolded in a series of warm, overlapping voices.

Luna was stunning, exactly as you’d imagined. Her dark hair was swept back, save for a few loose strands that framed her delicate features. Her green eyes carried a quiet curiosity as she hugged you gently, greeting you with the kind of reserved kindness that made you think she was someone who observed before she spoke.

Next to her was Henry, her husband, who greeted you with a polite nod and a brief kiss on the cheek. Jamie, their son, waved shyly from his seat, his big brown eyes round with something close to awe. His curls bounced slightly when he moved, making him look like some kind of cherub from a Renaissance painting.

Then came Grace, Frankie’s niece, who stood just long enough to kiss your cheek before shyly murmuring, “I like your dress.” She had the kind of effortless sweetness that made you instantly want to protect her.

Her mother, Sofia, was beside her. Of all the sisters, she resembled Helena the most. Her dark curls fell over her shoulders, her smile was warm and knowing, and something about her presence felt effortlessly welcoming.

And then Maia, despite having already met you, stood again to press another kiss to your cheek, like she simply had to.

Once everyone was settled, Helena guided you to the empty chair beside her, which you realized—only as Frankie moved toward it—was the seat he had been planning to take. He hesitated for half a second, then shifted to the free chair on your right instead.

You exhaled, trying to ignore the way your nerves still buzzed under your skin. But when you turned your head, Frankie was already watching you.

He leaned in, his breath just barely grazing your ear.

“Calm down,” he murmured, his voice low, easy. “Just do the minimum.”

You huffed a quiet laugh.

“Like you?” you whispered back.

Frankie gave you a crooked smile, his eyes gleaming with the urge to fire something back at you. But he held it in.

“So, how did you two meet?” Grace asked, her voice sweet, playful. She turned to Frankie with a teasing grin. “I didn’t know you had it in you to charm such a pretty girl.”

Frankie let out a low chuckle. You felt heat creep up your neck.

“Oh, you’re going to love this,” Maia said, eyebrows arching in anticipation.

“Frankie was a total heartbreaker when we were kids, baby,” Luna added, her tone rich with amusement. “The girls loved the whole brooding, shy boy act.”

“I was shy,” Frankie defended, frowning slightly, as if the memory still perplexed him. “I think that was just my secret weapon.” He shrugged, then winked.

Helena shook her head, smiling.

“And how did this happen?” She turned to you, her gaze warm, almost knowing. “Francisco hasn’t told me a thing, no matter how much I insisted on it. I can’t believe he kept it a secret—especially with someone as lovely as you.”

“I thought he was about to take a vow of celibacy,” Sofia chimed in dryly, swirling her wine before taking a sip. “After he turned down that date with Genevieve’s daughter, we were convinced. She’s very pretty.”

“What’s celibacy?” Jamie piped up.

Henry, sitting next to him, burst out laughing.

Frankie exhaled through his nose, then leaned in, his arm draping over the back of your chair. The shift in posture was subtle but intentional. You felt the warmth of him at your side.

“Yeah, well, did you ever think that maybe you all just wore me out with that?” His voice was even, but his eyes moved slowly across the table.

“Ay, sweetheart, we were just worried,” Helena said, her concern soft and painfully genuine. “We just want you to be happy, genuinely happy. And after everything that’s happened…” She hesitated, her gaze lingering on her son.

Frankie stiffened, his jaw tight. His eyes flicked to hers, a silent warning: Don’t say it.

Helena caught it instantly. She inhaled, then softened her expression. “I’m just happy to hear you say that you’re happy with someone great.”

You turned to look at Frankie. He was still close, his face unreadable, his body warm next to yours.

What exactly had he told them? That he was happy? That he was in love? How intense was it all according to him?

“How did you two meet?” Sofía asked, her voice light but perceptive, her gaze flickering between you and Frankie. She had noticed his discomfort—of course, she had.

“It’s a funny story, actually.” His eyes found yours, holding them for a fraction too long, something unspoken passing between you. A silent negotiation. A mutual recognition. “Do you remember Santi?”

Everyone nodded. Even Henry, who had never met your brother but had certainly heard his name before.

“Well,” Frankie said, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world, “she’s his sister.”

For a second, there was silence, the air thick with realization. Then—

Helena, Luna, and Sofía all widened their eyes in synchronized surprise. Grace, on the other hand, grinned like she had just won something.

“You’re Santiago’s sister?” Helena asked, reaching out and taking your arm gently, warmth in her touch. She looked genuinely delighted, like this was some grand revelation that connected dots she hadn’t even known were unconnected.

You nodded, already feeling heat crawl up your neck.

“Oh my God, Francisco, why didn’t you tell me?” She asked her son, her tone accusatory.

Frankie shrugged, but before he could speak, you jumped in.

“Oh, that was because of me,” you admitted, smiling at her. “I asked Frankie to keep it private until I had the chance to talk to Santi. I… I wanted to tell him first.”

Luna, who had been watching with her chin propped on her palm, suddenly straightened, her lips curving into something sharp and entertained.

“Wait, but how?” she demanded, eyes glinting. “Was it sudden? Was it a secret? Please tell me everything.”

Frankie clicked his tongue.

“Jesus, relax.”

“Hey, we��want to know!” Maia chimed in, twisting in her seat to get a better angle on you both. Grace nodded eagerly beside her, practically vibrating with interest.

Frankie glanced at you then, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—caution, amusement, curiosity. A silent question.

You held his gaze, then gave the smallest nod. Permission granted.

He turned back to them, exhaling like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“It just happened,” Frankie said, his tone edged with impatience, like he was eager to get it over with. “We’d known each other for years, but we never really talked. Not much, anyway. Then Santi asked me to pick her up in Dallas because he couldn’t go, and he’d already promised. So I did.” He paused, tilting his head slightly, like he was considering the weight of his own words. “It was the longest trip of my life.” He glanced at you then, a slow, almost taunting smile curving his lips. “But I think something changed there. Don’t you?”

You held his gaze, matching his expression, refusing to break first.

For his family, this was a love story. For you, it was the beginning of a nightmare in a roadside diner, the longest meal of your life.

“Oh, of course it did,” you said, letting your hand fall onto his knee without warning. You felt him tense under your touch—so subtle no one else would have noticed. But you did. The corners of your mouth lifted, amusement flickering in your eyes as you smoothed it over with something softer, something that could be mistaken for affection.

“Actually,” you continued, turning toward Helena, who was watching you with quiet curiosity, “we never got along too well. The few times we saw each other, we ended up arguing, or worse.” You flicked your gaze back to Frankie, like you were measuring his reaction. “I always thought he disliked me. He always seemed uncomfortable, like he was disgusted by me.” You let the words hang in the air for a second longer than necessary before adding, lightly, “Apparently, not at all.”

“He liked you,” Grace said, beaming as if this was the best news she’d heard all night. “It’s so obvious.”

“Ah, typical,” Maia chimed in, crossing her arms, as if she had seen this exact scenario unfold a hundred times before.

Helena, still completely engrossed, leaned in slightly. “So what happened then?”

Frankie exhaled, his voice smoothing into something more deliberate, as if the story was forming in real-time.

“She left something in my car. I went to drop it off at her place a few days later. We talked for a while and—”

“And he kissed me,” you cut in, turning to look at him, eyes sparkling with amusement.

Frankie’s expression barely changed, but you caught the flicker of irritation in his eyes, the way his jaw tensed for half a second. He had been telling the story clean, simple, effortless. And now, suddenly, you had made it romantic. More than it needed to be.

Helena squeezed your arm gently, as if this moment—this entire fabricated story—was something to be treasured.

“Oh, who would have imagined it!” she said, delighted. “And what did your brother say? Was he angry? Did he approve?”

You tilted your head, considering. “Well, at first, he was just… shocked.” You smiled, remembering the way Santiago had looked at you when you told him your plan the day before, like he genuinely thought he had misheard. “I don’t think he was angry, exactly. More like—‘of all the people in the world, you and Francisco?’” You mimicked your brother’s voice, shaking your head. “His exact words: You two couldn’t even be in the same room without arguing.” Okay. That was fake, he never said that, but was it a lie?

Helena laughed, eyes warm.

Frankie sighed beside you, and when you glanced at him, his gaze was already on you—steady, unreadable. A story told a little too well. 

“Well,” he said finally, his voice dry. “I guess people change.”

“Well, actually, I don’t find it strange at all,” Helena said suddenly, glancing at her daughters as if they should have known this already. “When I met your father, I didn’t like him. Not even a little. I thought he was insufferable, so arrogant. He asked me out five times, and I turned him down every single time. I was convinced he was conceited.” She shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “In reality, he was just… shy and a little bit awkward.”

You smiled, genuinely this time. Maybe that had been true for Frankie's father, but not for his son. With you, Frankie hadn’t been misunderstood—he had been downright mean. What had he called you once? Ah, yes, “little insufferable brat.” 

The memory made you tighten your grip around your glass.

Luckily, the party had started to fill with more guests, and Helena excused herself to greet them. Frankie’s sisters kept you in their orbit a little longer, but their questions were harmless. You answered lightly, intentionally keeping your responses vague, avoiding any personal detail that might reveal too much.

By the time dinner was served, the conversation had shifted entirely, now centered on Helena’s upcoming trip. She was going to Maui with her two sisters.

“Maybe I’ll just stay and live there,” she mused at one point, raising an eyebrow as she sipped her wine. “If the sand convinces me.”

“I think you’re going to love it,” Luna said. “Honestly, I think it’s the best thing you can do. Travel. Go to all those places you always told us about.”

Helena smiled at her daughter, but there was something behind it. A flicker of sadness, a private grief.

“Oh, yes,” she said, exhaling softly. “I just wish I could have had my Gabriel with me.” She smiled as she said it, but the words landed heavier than anything else had all evening.

You glanced at Frankie without meaning to, and that’s when you noticed how he was looking at his mother. Not just listening, watching, the way someone does when they know exactly what’s behind a statement like that. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The same quiet ache was there, in his eyes, in the way his fingers curled loosely around the stem of his glass. Then he caught you looking and dropped his gaze to his plate.

After dinner, Luna and Sofía stood under the spotlights, microphones in hand, offering heartfelt words to their mother. Helena sat at the center of it all, her expression soft, her eyes shining as she listened. Friends and family followed, sharing anecdotes—some sentimental, others ridiculous.

You found yourself genuinely enjoying the evening. Frankie's family was incredible—funny, loud, and full of life. The stories they told about Helena were the kind of stories that made you want to listen forever. 

At one point, Eli, one of her oldest friends, recounted a story about the time she and Helena had snuck into David Bowie’s hotel as teenagers, only to steal a pair of underwear that—to this day—they weren’t entirely sure had belonged to Bowie himself or just some unfortunate member of his team. Either way, they still had them, tucked away somewhere.

The entire room erupted into laughter.

You were still caught in the story, your attention fully on the speaker, when you felt the weight of Frankie’s arm settle lightly against your back. He leaned in, his mouth near your ear, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“You didn’t have to say all that,” he murmured. 

It took a second for you to register what he meant.

“Huh?” You turned slightly over your shoulder, catching the sharpness in his expression.

“This doesn’t have to be romantic.”

You blinked at him. Then scoffed.

“There’s no way it’s not romantic,” you whispered back, exasperated. “I’m your best friend’s sister. It just happened. How do you expect people not to romanticize it?”

Frankie exhaled, his hand briefly flexing against your back before he pulled it away.

“Just… just leave it to me from now on, okay?”

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the spotlight, where Helena’s friend was still mid-story.

“Fine,” you muttered.

The party carried on the way these gatherings always did—laughter spilling into the air, the clinking of glasses as a few heartfelt toasts were made, voices overlapping in lively conversation. At the center of it all stood the towering delicious cake, drawing admiration before being sliced and passed around on small plates. Cameras flashed as family members huddled together for pictures, arms wrapped around shoulders, cheeks pressed close, and after a few more anecdotes and a couple more glasses of wine, Frankie leaned in, his breath warm against your shoulder as he murmured that he needed to find the bathroom. You nodded, barely looking up, stretching your legs as you stood. The air inside had started to feel thick, a little too warm, a little too full of laughter and clinking glasses.

You wandered toward the courtyard at the heart of the hall, a quiet oasis strung with soft lights, vines curling around wrought iron railings. The hotel was stunning, all old-world charm and careful elegance, the kind of place you’d never had a reason to visit before tonight.

Sinking onto a small stone bench, you exhaled slowly, watching the golden glow of the party through the enormous windows. Inside, the music throbbed, rich and nostalgic—ABBA, because of course it was. Guests twirled and swayed, arms flung around each other, faces flushed with wine and joy.

You lifted your glass to your lips, the white wine still pleasantly cool, still sweet. For a moment, you stared down at your shoes, tracing patterns on the stone floor with the tip of your toe. This was ridiculous. All of it.

What the hell were you doing here, at Frankie’s mother’s party? How had you let yourself get talked into this? His family was lovely, yes. His mother, especially. But did you really need to be here, sitting among strangers, smiling politely at old stories that weren’t yours? And Harry’s wedding—did you really want to go to that, after everything?

“Enjoying the peace and quiet?”

The voice startled you out of your thoughts. You turned to see Helena stepping into the courtyard, lifting the hem of her dress as she walked. Her cheeks were flushed, her dark hair slightly undone from all the dancing.

You smiled despite yourself, tilting your head.

“It’s beautiful out here,” you said, glancing around as she lowered herself onto the bench beside you. “It’s a beautiful place.”

She hummed in agreement, smoothing the fabric of her dress. “Yes, it is. My kids did a good job.”

“It’s a wonderful party. You have so many people who love you.” You hesitated, then laughed lightly. “The stories were funny.”

Helena smiled, and for a split second, you saw Frankie in her—the dimple that appeared when she laughed, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners.

“I really liked them,” you added.

“Yeah?” she asked, turning to you, her expression open, curious.

You nodded.

“Good,” she said. “Me too.” Her gaze drifted toward the party, toward the window where music and voices poured through. “The years go by, and sometimes I forget just how much has happened to me. It’s strange. Sometimes it feels like my life after Gabriel passed away is… something separate. Like a different life entirely, like I became another woman without even realizing it.”

She looked down at her hands, twisting her ring absentmindedly.

Frankie had never talked to you about his father, but you knew. He had died suddenly two years ago. Santi had mentioned it in passing on the day of the funeral, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite place—grief, exhaustion, maybe both. You had called him that morning, not knowing what had happened, and when he told you, it felt like the air had changed. Gabriel. You remembered the name, the way Santi had said it so carefully, like it was something fragile. He loved him, that much was clear. Like a second father, he said.

Helena’s words pressed against something in you, something raw. You and Santi had lost your own father a couple of years ago, when you were twenty-three. It had been sudden, too—death always seemed to be, no matter how much warning you had. Your mother had taken it the hardest. She couldn’t bear to stay in the house they had shared for nearly thirty-five years. The grief sat too thick in the walls, in the corners of every room, in the quiet that used to be filled with his voice. So she left. Packed her things and moved to New York to live with your aunt. Sometimes, when she called, she sounded lighter. Other times, she just sounded far away.

You glanced at Helena, something warm and unspoken passing between you.

“As if you had been torn in two,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “As if there was the version of you that knew him, and a new one that spends every day missing him.”

Helena turned toward you, studying you in the dim light. Then she nodded, her gaze drifting back to the party, to the golden glow of the room beyond the window.

“That’s right,” she murmured. “But I’m very lucky, aren’t I? To have a family like this?” She turned back to you, a small smile playing at the edges of her mouth. “Tell me, do you like us?”

You let out a breath of laughter, shaking your head slightly.

“Oh, of course I do,” you said, meaning it. “You have a beautiful family.”

Helena studied you for a long moment, her smile still in place but something shifting behind her eyes. A quiet kind of consideration.

“Can I ask you something?”

You hesitated, then nodded, suddenly unsure of yourself, worried you weren’t as good an actress as you had hoped.

“How is he?” she asked, her voice warm, gentle. There was no interrogation in it, only concern, the careful curiosity of a mother trying not to overstep but unable to help herself. “I don’t want to be that kind of mother, but… I think I am.” She smiled, a little self-deprecating. “Of all my children, he’s always been the most sensitive. Did you know that?”

You swallowed, your fingers tightening slightly around your glass. You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? You didn’t know Frankie. Not really. Not in any way that mattered. Your impression of him had been built on a handful of unfortunate encounters, on snide comments exchanged in passing, on the way he always seemed to carry himself like he had something to prove.

She watched you hesitate, and before you could scramble for an answer, she reached out, her hand landing gently on your leg, a mother’s touch—steadying, reassuring.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I don’t mean to pry—”

“Oh, no,” you cut in quickly, shaking your head. “I’m sorry, I…” You let out a breath, deciding there was no point in pretending. “He’s fine. Maybe a little nervous about tonight.”

It wasn’t a lie.

Helena sighed, nodding knowingly.

“Oh, yeah. I noticed that. That boy isn’t very good at hiding things, dear.” She smiled again, her expression fond. “He’s always been like that. Very transparent with his feelings. From the moment he arrived, I could tell—he looked as nervous as a cat backed into a corner.”

You laughed, unable to help it.

“Oh, yes,” you agreed. “On the way here, he was humming this song, and I swear, it was the funniest thing. And before we even walked in, he gave me this whole speech—like, a full-on monologue.”

Helena let out a laugh, shaking her head.

“But you have nothing to worry about,” she said softly. “I already like you very much.”

Her hand came up, brushing against your cheek for the briefest moment, warm and gentle. You felt yourself smile, unthinking, almost reflexive.

“And I’m really sorry about what I said at the table,” she continued, her voice quiet, careful. “I am happy that he’s happy. It’s just… when he told me the other day that he was seeing someone, I really thought he was lying. I hate to admit that, but I did.” She sighed, shaking her head lightly. “My daughters and I have been… a little difficult with him. And I know he wouldn’t want me to talk about this, but I feel like I have to.”

You nodded.

“Of course,” you murmured, your brows pulling together.

She looked at you then, as if weighing something, as if considering whether or not she should say the thing already forming on her tongue.

“I worry about him,” she admitted finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “After Rachel…” She hesitated. “Did he ever talk to you about her?”

You nodded once.

“Well,” she exhaled, leaning back slightly. “I had never seen him like that before.” She glanced away, her fingers smoothing over the fabric of her dress. “Of course, it wasn’t just her. It was everything. His father’s death shattered him, and Rachel… well, she only made it worse. And Francisco has always been strong, but underneath all that, there’s his enormous heart, and he tucks everything away in there. He carries it all.”

Her eyes softened, as if remembering something.

“And when he finally started to come back to himself, I noticed he was… lonely,” she admitted. “I know I can be overbearing, and I know he’s probably told you all about the blind dates.”

She raised her eyebrows, smiling a little.

You laughed, nodding. “Oh, yes. Absolutely.”

Helena let out a small chuckle, shaking her head, but the warmth in her expression didn’t fade. She studied you for a long moment, as if trying to piece something together, as if she had already made up her mind about you and was simply waiting for you to realize it, too.

“I think you’re a good person,” she said at last. “No, I know you are. My intuition is rarely wrong about these things.” She tilted her head slightly, considering you. “And you’re Santiago’s sister. I know no one of his blood could have a bad heart.”

She leaned forward then. “Can I trust you?”

Your breath caught for a second.

You stared at her, your smile slowly slipping away, your expression shifting into something more uncertain. Could she trust you?

No.

She couldn’t.

You were nothing more than a woman her son had convinced to pretend. A stranger caught up in a performance. And yet, here she was, speaking to you with nothing but honesty, with nothing but trust. Her words settled into you, heavy and warm, and you felt something tighten in your chest, something uncomfortable, something that almost hurt.

“Hey. There you are.”

The voice cut through the quiet, startling you. You turned instinctively, your body tensing before your eyes even landed on him.

Frankie.

He stood in the doorway, framed by the soft glow of the garden lights, his expression pulled into something that looked like a smile, but wasn’t. His eyes gave him away—something sharp, something unsettled lurking just beneath the surface.

Helena moved first. She stood, smoothing out the skirt of her dress as if shaking off the weight of your conversation. By the time she reached her son, any trace of emotion had been neatly tucked away.

“I’ll leave you two,” she said lightly, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I can’t abandon my own party just yet.”

Frankie barely glanced at her, his gaze still fixed on you. Helena disappeared through the doorway, her presence vanishing as quickly as it had arrived.

You stayed where you were, fingers pressed against the fabric of your dress, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up.

“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice was low, edged with something you didn’t like. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

He moved toward you, sinking onto the bench beside you. Too close.

“What the hell were you doing talking to my mom?”

You exhaled sharply, already exhausted by the conversation before it had even properly begun.

“I just needed air,” you said, leveling him with a look. “She just… showed up.”

“Well, no. Don’t.”

You blinked at him. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t talk to her.”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head.

“What did you want me to do, Francisco? Turn my back on her?”

He didn’t answer right away, just studied you, his jaw tight.

“What did you say to her?” 

The accusatory edge in his tone made something twist inside you—something hot, something unpleasant. Your heart kicked up a little, the way it had when you were younger and had done something wrong, when an adult’s disappointment settled over you like a heavy weight. But this wasn’t that. You weren’t a child, and Frankie sure as hell wasn’t some authority figure.

Still, something about this—his sharp words, his narrowed eyes—made you feel small. And maybe, just maybe, that conversation with Helena had already set something loose inside you. Had already made you feel like the fraud you were.

“I didn’t say anything,” you said firmly. “Seriously.”

Frankie let out a harsh breath, rubbing a hand over his face before gesturing sharply with his hands.

“You already ruined it,” he said, his voice low but forceful. “What was that at dinner, huh?”

“What?”

“Everything. I thought we’d been clear. Nothing too personal. Nothing too over the top.”

You inhaled, slow and steady, trying to keep your irritation in check. But it was creeping in, needling its way under your skin.

“I didn’t do anything wrong, I just acted how we agreed—”

“No,” he interrupted, turning to fully face you. His expression had hardened, frustration and something else—something darker—etched into the lines of his face. “You went too far. You did it wrong.”

Your stomach twisted.

“I did exactly what we agreed on,” you repeated, your voice sharper now. “It’s not my fault your mom wanted to talk to me—”

“You said too much—”

“No, I was just being myself but a little—”

“Exactly,” he cut in, his voice a little louder, a little rougher. “You shouldn’t have been you!”

You felt it like a slap.

Your breath hitched, your throat tightening, heat rising to your face before you could stop it. The burn started behind your nose, your vision blurring slightly at the edges.

Frankie’s expression shifted just the slightest bit, his mouth pressing into a tight line, as if he had only just realized what he’d said. As if he could see it—the way you were gripping your empty wine glass too tightly, the way your whole body had gone rigid.

But he didn’t have time to take it back.

Because you stood so quickly the bench wobbled slightly beneath you. And then you were moving—away from him, away from the awful heat crawling up your neck, away from the sharp edge of his words.

“Hey—” Frankie started, standing just as fast, his voice breaking through the air. But it was useless.

The music swelled, drowning him out, swallowing whatever poor attempt at damage control he was about to make.

You didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

Couldn’t.

The farther you walked into the party, the harder your heart pounded, the sound of it loud in your ears, almost drowning out the music. The heat in your face hadn’t faded. Neither had the sharp, lingering sting of Frankie’s words, pressing like a bruise against your ribs.

You exhaled, slow and deliberate, eyes scanning the room. The dim lighting worked in your favor—candles flickering on the tables, the dance floor bathed in a shifting wash of blues and reds, everything softened by the haze of too much champagne and conversation. You doubted anyone would notice you slipping away.

For a brief second, you considered heading straight for the door. Walking out, stepping into the night, inhaling air that wasn’t thick with perfume and laughter and the weight of everything that had just happened.

But instead, you turned on your heel and went to the bar.

You weren’t going to leave. Not yet.

You were angry, and there was an open bar. It would be stupid not to take advantage.

You slid onto a stool, pressing your elbows onto the smooth wood, and ordered a margarita.

The bartender nodded, reaching for a bottle of tequila, his movements fluid, practiced. You watched him pour, shake, pour again. The salt rim sparkled under the low lights. When he finally set the drink in front of you, you didn’t hesitate—lifting the glass to your lips and taking a long, slow pull. The cold hit your tongue first, followed by the sharpness of the lime, the bite of the alcohol. You drank like you had something to prove, and by the time you set the glass back down, it was already halfway empty.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw movement.

Frankie.

He slid onto the stool next to you, his presence shifting the air before you even fully registered him. He didn’t say anything. Just sat there, his body angled toward you, his forearm resting on the bar, his fingers absently grazing his mouth like he was considering his next words. Or maybe biting them back.

Your jaw tightened.

Then he ordered a whiskey, and you rolled your eyes—not at the drink itself, but at the sound of his voice, at the way it cut through the music and curled under your skin.

Still, he didn’t speak. Just watched you, his gaze flicking toward you every few seconds, charged with something unreadable. You refused to meet it, keeping your attention locked onto anything else—the melting ice in your glass, the vodka label in front of you, the way the bartender’s hands moved as he made another round of drinks.

And so it went.

You started your second margarita. He started his second whiskey.

Minutes passed.

Then, finally, you turned to look at him for the first time since the courtyard.

He was already looking at you.

“I know you’re nervous, but that doesn’t give you the right to talk to me like that.”

Frankie opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he could get a word out.

“You’re not going to talk to me like that,” you repeated, quieter this time, sharper.

His eyes flickered—something hesitant, something almost guilty.

“I’m—”

“Look at me,” you murmured, leaning in just enough that your words landed between you, closer than they needed to be. “I spent hours getting ready for this. Hours making sure I looked perfect for this stupid charade. Do you have any idea how long it took me to fix my hair? No, you don’t. Because you’re a complete idiot. An idiot who treats me like shit when I’m the one standing here, at your mother’s party, pretending to be someone I’m not—for you. And do you know why I'm doing this, Frankie?” Your voice wavered, not with weakness but with the sheer force of your anger. “Because I chose to. Not because you deserve it or I need you for another stupid lie. Because let’s be honest—” you tilted your head, smiling coldly, “—we’re not even fucking friends.”

His gaze hardened, but he didn’t look away.

“You owed me,” he said simply, like that was supposed to mean something.

You let out a quiet scoff, your eyes flicking to the dance floor, where Maia was watching the two of you from a distance, her expression unreadable.

When you turned back to Frankie, something had shifted in your eyes—something lighter, something amused. A slow, deliberate smile tugged at your lips as you lifted a hand, resting it against his cheek.

His brows knit together in confusion.

“Your sister is watching,” you murmured.

His shoulders relaxed, his expression softening just slightly. Your thumb brushed over his cheek, slow and calculated.

“Forget about the wedding,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. You tilted your head, your smile still sweet, still deceptive. “Because after tonight, I don’t want to spend another fucking second with you.”

Frankie let out a low breath, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“I’m useful to you,” he said, his voice smooth, certain.

“You’re useless to me.”

He leaned in just enough that your knees touched. “I don’t think so, shortcake.”

"Huh?" You let out an incredulous laugh, letting your eyes flick across his face—his mouth, his jaw, the slight smugness settled into his features. Beneath your hand, you could feel the warmth of his skin, the steady pulse beneath your palm.

Your fingers slid from his cheek to his neck, and you squeezed, just enough to make a point.

“To me,” you whispered, your breath brushing against his skin, “you’re nothing but a pathetic, desperate little loser trying to convince his mommy he’s something he’s not.”

Frankie let out a quiet, bitter laugh, the kind that barely curled the edges of his mouth but darkened his eyes in a way that made your stomach twist. He lifted a hand and wrapped his fingers around yours, prying them gently from his neck. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he laced his fingers with yours, lowering your joined hands to his chest.  

His body shifted forward, closing the already dangerous space between you. If you leaned in even slightly, your nose would brush against his.  

Your breath hitched, the heat pooling in your cheeks betraying every emotion you were trying to suppress. Anger, frustration, something sharper beneath the surface.  

Frankie studied you for a second, his expression unreadable. Then he spoke, his voice low, edged with amusement.  

“You sound a little too confident for someone who might be a pathetic, desperate loser herself,” he murmured. 

You swallowed, your pulse a steady, insistent beat against your ribs.  

“Can I ask you a question?” he continued, his fingers flexing against yours.  

“No.”  

He ignored you, tilting his head slightly, considering something. And then—  

“Which came first,” he asked, voice almost teasing, “the moon or the sun? I thought you were afraid of needles.”

You stared at him in silence, the smug smile on his lips igniting something hot and restless inside you. It wasn’t just anger—it was something stranger, something you didn’t want to name.

Your tattoo.

He must have seen it earlier, when he helped you with your dress. A small moon and sun, delicately inked on your lower back—a reckless decision from a night out drinking with Emma. She was the sun, you were the moon. At the time, in your drunken haze, it had seemed like an aesthetically brilliant idea. Sober, you weren’t so sure.

A quiet laugh slipped from your lips, amusement curling at the edges of your mouth. Your fingers tightened slightly, gripping the fabric of his shirt beneath his hand.

“Look at you, a regular voyeur,” you murmured, tilting your head. “Why do you ask, Francisco? Is it you talking, or the whiskey? And how many glasses of wine had you had before this? Three? Four? ”

His grin didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened, his gaze trailing over your face like he was enjoying something about this moment, about you.

“I really didn't think of you as the type of person who would wear a tattoo like that.”

You raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a half-smile.

“Ah, funny. So, you spend a lot of time thinking about me and what I wear? Or is it only when you’re bored, staring at the walls of your sad, monotonous life?”

“Said the woman who spends her nights with a cat and an imaginary boyfriend,” Frankie said, grinning as he watched you roll your eyes. The dim bar light caught the edge of his smile, sharpening it. He lifted his glass—dark amber, expensive—and took a slow sip. You followed the movement of his throat, the way the muscles shifted beneath his skin.

“Mr. Darcy’s excellent company. And at least I have a cat. What do you have?”

Frankie made a show of looking around, scanning the crowded room like the answer might be hidden somewhere between the swaying bodies on the dance floor or in the clinking glasses behind the bar. Then his gaze settled back on you, steady, assessing.

“What do I have?” He hummed as if considering it, then leaned in just slightly. “I think I really want to have another drink to make being around you more bearable.”

You pressed your lips together, biting back a retort. The warmth of alcohol sat low in your stomach, and the room was just a little too bright, a little too soft at the edges.

Across the room, Frankie’s sisters were dancing, their hair spilling over their shoulders, their laughter rising above the music. Maia caught your eye, her face flushed, and raised her eyebrows in an invitation. Without a second thought, you hopped off your stool, smoothing the fabric of your dress.

Frankie watched you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. He parted his lips like he was about to say something, but before he could, you turned and walked away. His mouth actually dropped open when he saw where you were going.

Maia pulled you in by the arm, and just like that, you were dancing, your body falling easily into the rhythm of the music. The moment felt expansive, electric. A kind of joy buzzed beneath your skin—the kind that only came from being a little tipsy and surrounded by people who knew how to have fun. You let it take you, the laughter, the music, the hands brushing against yours as you moved.

And yet—his words clung to you like the aftertaste of something bitter. You need to seem... normal. Forgettable, even. Like he was the authority on that. Like it was his job to keep you contained, manageable.

Well, if he wanted you to behave, maybe you should do something to really piss him off.

You turned to find him, just to check. Luna leaned in, murmured something nice about your dress, but you barely registered it. Frankie was still at the bar, one arm draped lazily against the counter, the other wrapped around his glass. His expression was unreadable—neutral, detached—but you knew better. You knew him. And if you had to guess, he was furious.

A song passed, then another. Your cheeks were flushed, your hair a little wild. Helena was dancing beside you, swaying Jamie from side to side, both of them beaming. The kind of easy happiness you never saw at parties in your own family. Frankie was still there, but his eyes weren’t on you anymore. He was looking at his phone.

Two songs later, you weren’t thinking about him at all.

You were laughing, lost in the pulse of the music, your head tipped back as you let it all go. Then—fingers wrapped around your arm. Warm. Familiar. Frankie.

Helena appeared beside him, her voice bright and teasing. “Finally! A girl shouldn’t dance alone when her boyfriend’s around.”

Frankie didn’t answer. He just smiled at his mother—an easy, charming kind of smile that didn’t fool you at all—before tugging you toward him. You stumbled a little, your hands catching against his chest as he turned you, pulled you in close.

Your breath hitched, but your smile didn’t falter. You tilted your chin up at him, your fingers settling on his shoulders.

“Are you going to dance with me now, honey?” you asked, your voice syrupy sweet, thick with amusement.

His hand tightened around yours.

Yeah, he was mad.

And you were having the best time.

Frankie licked his teeth, a slow, deliberate motion, like he was holding something back. A smile curved at the corner of his mouth, tight and humorless. He leaned in, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

"I see what you're doing," he murmured, his voice slurring slightly, softened by alcohol. "I think you should stop."

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you lifted your chin, closing the space between you until your lips were just beside his ear.

"I'm just having fun," you said, your voice light, teasing. "Completely harmless."

He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Amusement flickered across his face, but his eyes told another story—sharp, dark, frustrated. Like enduring this moment, enduring you, required every ounce of patience he had left.

Then, without warning, his hands slid to your waist, fingers pressing in just enough to make you aware of them. Before you could react, he pulled you closer, the movement rough, unhesitating. Your chest bumped against his, knocking the air from your lungs in a quiet, startled gasp.

Your eyes met, and something flickered in the space between you.

"What are you doing?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, a nervous smile pulling at your lips.

Frankie tilted his head, his expression unreadable, his gaze steady on yours.

"I’m playing your game, didn’t you want to dance?"

You could smell the whiskey on him, the faint traces of something else—lavender, salt, the remnants of the night on his skin. Your hands were still on his shoulders, fingertips pressing into the fabric of his shirt, and for a brief, unsteady second, you let yourself feel it. The warmth of him. The way his body fit against yours.

You flicked a glance around the room, searching for familiar faces—Maia, Sofía, Helena, someone who might be watching. But no. Everyone was lost in their own drunken happiness, in laughter, in swaying bodies and half-empty glasses.

Then Frankie moved.

He stepped forward, hands firm at your waist, steering you with him. The crowd swallowed you both, the music vibrating through the floor, through your ribs, through him.

"This isn't a good idea," you murmured, but you didn't pull away.

Frankie barely reacted. His hand traced up your arm, fingers curling around yours, guiding them into place, his movements seamless, practiced. He looked down at you, his mouth twitching at the corner, like he was already enjoying whatever this was more than he should.

"Oh no? Why not?"

His face was close. Too close.

Then, before you could register it, his cheek brushed against yours, a fleeting touch, just enough to make your breath hitch. The warmth of his skin, the slow, deliberate way he moved to the rhythm of the music—it was too much, all of it. Your fingers tightened around his without thinking.

You exhaled, a slow, shuddering sigh, and with it came the scent of him—warm skin, whiskey, and something else. Something deeper. Was it cologne? Was he wearing fucking cologne?

Whatever it was, he smelled fucking good.

Your eyes fluttered shut, as if that might help erase the fact that Francisco Morales, of all people, smelled good, and that his body was pressed against yours, and—worst of all—that none of it felt bad. In fact, your feet lifted slightly onto your toes, seeking some fraction of closeness, your body betraying you in real time.

It was the alcohol.

It was absolutely, one hundred percent the alcohol. That, and the undeniable, frustrating fact that you were touch-starved. When was the last time a man had held you like this? You couldn’t remember. Your mind was too foggy, too wrapped up in the moment, in the warmth of him, in the firm weight of his hands.

But then it hit you.

It was Frankie. Frankie was the one holding you.

Your eyes snapped open, the realization jolting through you like a slap. Without thinking, you yanked yourself away, stumbling backward. It was clumsy, too sudden, and your own body felt unsteady, like it hadn’t caught up with your decision yet. Your pulse roared in your ears.

Frankie just watched you, an amused, almost devilish grin tugging at his lips. And then, slowly, that amusement shifted into something else—confusion, curiosity—as he took in your wide eyes, your rapid breath, your entire mess of a reaction.

You didn’t wait to see what he would do next. You turned and bolted, and didn’t stop moving until you were outside, back in the courtyard.

The air was crisp and cool, a sharp contrast to the heat burning beneath your skin. You stepped into the garden, tilting your head back, letting the night air kiss your cheeks. It helped, a little. It grounded you, just enough to breathe, just enough to press your hands against your ribs like you could steady your own heartbeat.

"Hey, you okay?"

You stiffened at the sound of his voice.

Of course he followed you.

You didn’t turn around. You heard his footsteps approach, felt him standing just a little too close beside you. He was silent for a moment, and for some reason, that was worse than if he’d said something right away.

"You should drink some water," he said finally, his voice quieter now, less sharp around the edges. You caught the sound of his palm scraping over the back of his neck. "And so should I, honestly. I think I drank—"

“Stop pretending to care,” you snapped, cutting him off. Your voice was sharper than you meant it to be, your arms folding tightly across your chest. And why were you angry? You weren’t even sure. You just were.

Frankie let out a soft, amused breath. He clicked his tongue, then shifted his weight, considering you.

“I’m not pretending anything. I promised Santi I’d look after you.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, finally turning to face him.

“What, like you’re my fucking babysitter or something?” You shook your head, your words dripping with frustration. “I’m twenty-nine, Francisco. I can take care of myself.”

Frankie’s jaw tightened. His hands went to his hips, his eyes dropping to your feet like he was biting back whatever he actually wanted to say.

“Fine,” he muttered.

The silence between you stretched, thin but not fragile, the kind that neither of you felt the need to break. You both stood still, eyes moving across the garden as though searching for something worth commenting on. The music inside thrummed against the walls of the house, muffled but insistent, the bass vibrating faintly under your skin.

And then you became aware of your body—every muscle, every inch of discomfort. The dull ache in your feet flared as if your nerves had only just remembered to complain.

You exhaled sharply, tilting your head back, exposing your throat to the cool night air.

“My feet are killing me,” you murmured, shifting your weight, closing your eyes for just a second. 

Frankie snorted. You cracked an eye open in time to see him glance down at your heels—six inches of poor decision-making, glossy under the dim garden lights. His gaze moved up your legs, thoughtful. Then he scratched his chin, eyes narrowing slightly, as if making a decision.

“Sit down,” he said after a pause, nodding toward the bench you’d been perched on earlier, next to Helena. “I’ll be back in a second.”

Before you could ask where he was going, he was already walking off, disappearing through the door.

You hesitated, then lowered yourself onto the seat—not because he told you to, obviously, just because you wanted to. You stretched your legs out, rolling your ankles, relishing the brief relief.

A couple of minutes passed. The music shifted to something softer, slower. You had just started to wonder if Frankie had left you out here for good when the door creaked open again.

He stepped back outside, a crease between his brows and—

You blinked.

“What are you doing?” Your voice carried an edge of suspicion. “What are those?”

Frankie knelt in front of you, setting a pair of slippers at your feet. His expression was flat, unimpressed.

He sighed, already irritated, already prepared for your resistance.

“They’re new, don't worry,” he said, like it was nothing, like this was something he did all the time. His fingers curled around your ankle before you could flinch away. Warm, certain. “Sofia gave them to me, but they’re too small and... not my style anyway. I left them in the car to exchange them, but I never got around to it.” He shot you a pointed look, as if to say, So really, I’m doing us both a favor. “Might as well put them to use.”

Before you could argue, before you could come up with something clever to deflect the strange weight of this moment, he unclipped your heel and slid it off with practiced ease.

You swallowed. Watched him. Felt a strange, unwelcome awareness creep up your spine.

The pads of his fingers brushed over your ankle as he repeated the motion with the other shoe. His focus stayed on the task, entirely unbothered. Meanwhile, something in your chest wound too tight, a tension that hadn’t been there moments ago.

You didn’t like it.

Frankie slid the slippers onto your feet, adjusting them slightly before leaning back on his heels with a groan. He pushed himself up, exhaling through his nose, then dropped onto the bench beside you. A hand scrubbed over his face, rubbing at his eyes, and a yawn slipped past his lips.

You looked down at your feet, flexing your toes experimentally against the soft fabric. You weren’t sure what to say.

But, despite yourself, it did feel better.

“Thanks,” you murmured, voice flat, almost absent.

Frankie nodded, his gaze flicking to your feet, now resting comfortably on the floor.

“You’re welcome.”

And then, silence. The kind that stretched and settled, filling the space between you like heavy fog. Through the glass windows, the muffled thrum of music hummed in the background, but all you could really hear was your own breathing, steady but uneven. Would it be rude if you told him you were ready to go home?

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, pulling you from the thought.

“Yeah,” you said, shifting slightly in your seat. “My feet don’t hurt anymore.”

Frankie leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head tipped down between his shoulders. He exhaled, like he was bracing himself.

“I meant before,” he said, glancing up at you. “I—”

“Ah. Yeah.” 

His fingers brushed idly over the seam of his pants, and when he spoke again, it was barely above a murmur.

“I’m sorry I was an asshole to you.” He hesitated, as if deciding whether to keep going. “You just... you... you get under my skin sometimes, but—anyway. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

You blinked at him.

“It’s okay.”

His lips twitched, like he wanted to say something else but changed his mind. Instead, he let out a short, breathy laugh and leaned back in his chair.

“This was a fucking terrible idea,” he admitted, shaking his head, his eyes glinting with something light, something almost fond. “What the hell were we thinking?”

A laugh bubbled up from your throat before you could stop it. “I have no idea.”

Frankie grinned, pushing to his feet, rubbing a hand over his face as if that might somehow wipe away the flush of warmth creeping up his neck. When he looked back at you, his expression was softer.

“Come on,” he said, holding out a hand. “Let’s stay a little longer, and then I’ll take you home. Deal?”

You eyed his hand, hesitating. There was something about the gesture—about the unspoken truce it implied—that made your chest tighten. But still, after a beat, you placed your palm against his.

Frankie pulled you to your feet, steadying you before letting go.

“You’re drunk,” you observed. “Are you seriously going to drive like that?”

“I’ll call a cab,” he said immediately, as if he’d already made up his mind. 

You nodded, about to say something else when the door creaked open.

A man stepped inside, his movements sluggish, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. Frankie shifted closer to you, his body angling slightly in your direction.

“Hey, it's our little pilot,” the man drawled, his words slurring together as his eyes flicked lazily between the two of you. A smirk played on his lips. “How’s it going?”

Frankie’s expression barely changed.

“Ian,” he said, his voice unreadable. “Didn’t see you earlier.”

“Nah, I was running late,” Ian replied with a slow shrug. “You know how it is—time moves like shit when you wanna leave work early.” He clicked his tongue, his gaze dragging over you with undisguised interest. “So, this your new girl?”

Frankie didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah,” he said smoothly. “We were actually just heading out—”

“You still having those problems?” Ian interrupted, tilting his head.

Frankie exhaled sharply. “Not really any of your business.” A beat. “You still avoiding your ex-wife?”

You raised your eyebrows, glancing between them. Ian laughed, shaking his head.

“Tell me,” he mused, voice laced with something cruel. “Does your dick even work with all those antidepressants? Must be a fucking nightmare trying to keep up with something as sweet as this one.” He gestured vaguely in your direction, his smirk widening.

Your stomach twisted in revulsion.

Frankie went still beside you, his jaw locking, his shoulders tight. His gaze was fixed on Ian, his expression eerily blank, but you could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. You thought of Helena’s words about her son and felt something sharp and bitter curdle in your chest.

Ian chuckled to himself, clearly entertained, clearly drunk beyond reason. Frankie was about to say something—you could see it in the way his mouth parted slightly, the way his fingers flexed at his sides—but before he could, before he even had the chance, the anger—and maybe the alcohol—made the decision for you.

“Oh, not that it’s any of your business, Ian,” you said, tilting your head slightly, voice light, almost sweet. “But since you’re so curious…”

You let out a soft chuckle, flicking your gaze to Frankie for the briefest moment before returning your attention to the man in front of you.

“I suppose I could tell you that... yeah, it works. Before we came here, this man had me seeing stars. Multiple times, actually.” You paused, just long enough to watch the words land, to see the flicker of surprise cross Ian’s face. “So really, I guess that answers your question, doesn’t it?”

You reached out then, the movement slow, deliberate, brushing your fingers along Frankie’s cheek, letting your thumb rest lightly against his lips. His breath caught, just for a second, and his eyes darted to yours, startled but composed, like he wasn’t entirely sure what you were doing but was curious enough to let it happen.

Ian scoffed, recovering quickly.

“Sure,” he said, dragging the word out, his expression shifting into something vaguely amused, vaguely condescending. “I doubt that, gorgeous.”

Your gaze flicked over him, head to toe, as if you were appraising something unimpressive on display. You didn’t bother hiding the disdain curling at the corners of your mouth.

Still, your hand remained on Frankie’s face, still at your side. Turning back to him, you found him already watching you, his lips twitching like he was barely resisting a smile. He didn’t care about Ian’s words, about his tone—he was far more interested in whatever it was you were doing.

And then, without really thinking, without hesitating, you pushed up onto your toes and cradled his face in both hands.

You kissed him.

Not a tentative, testing-the-waters kind of kiss. No, this was different. Your lips pressed against his like you’d been wanting to all night, like you didn’t particularly care if Ian was still standing there, gaping at you. Frankie made a sound in the back of his throat, one of surprise that melted quickly into something else. His hands found your waist, firm and steady, pulling you closer as he angled his head, deepening it.

Your tongue traced the seam of his lips, and he let you in, meeting you there, matching you effortlessly. When you finally broke apart, the sound between you was wet and sharp, but you barely had a second to take a breath before you kissed him again.

Your hands slid to the back of his neck, your fingers curling there as you smiled against his lips.

Frankie exhaled a quiet laugh, his thumb brushing your hip.

And then, just because you could, because it felt like the right thing to do, you nipped lightly at his bottom lip before pulling back completely. When you finally turned to Ian, his face was frozen in something close to shock, his eyebrows nearly at his hairline, his mouth slightly open like he wasn’t sure if he should speak or just accept his defeat.

You bit your lip, suppressing a laugh, and turned to Frankie again. He was staring at you now, serious, a little dazed, his hands still resting on your waist.

“Now take me home, baby,” you murmured, your voice just loud enough for Ian to hear.

Frankie blinked, as if snapping back into himself.

“I—” His lips parted, then curved into something lopsided, something close to a smirk. “Of course, baby.”

His hand found yours easily, fingers curling around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You turned, stepping past Ian with a saccharine smile.

“Bye, Ian,” you said, not bothering to hide the smirk in your voice.

Frankie pushed open the door, and the pulse of the music hit you instantly—deep bass reverberating through your chest, the sharp hum of laughter and voices filling the gaps between beats. You stepped inside, weaving through the press of bodies until you reached the edge of the dance floor. The lights were dim, warm, shifting in color. The air smelled like spilled beer, expensive perfume, and something sweet you couldn’t quite place.  

You turned to Frankie, amusement tugging at the corners of your mouth.  

“Who the fuck was that?” you asked, voice teasing as you lifted onto your toes, your hands finding their way to his shoulders.  

Frankie dipped his head slightly, his breath warm against your ear.  

“My cousin,” he murmured. “He’s an asshole.”  

You huffed out a laugh. “Oh, yeah? I hadn’t noticed.”  

His gaze locked onto yours, something flickering behind his eyes—amusement, maybe, or something else entirely. For two long seconds, neither of you spoke. Then, his focus shifted over your shoulder.  

“They’re watching,” he said, low enough that only you could hear. “Don’t turn around.”  

Your brows lifted slightly. “Who?”  

“Mai and Sofía,” he said. “They’re having fun with us.”  

The adrenaline still buzzed under your skin, your pulse quick from everything that had just unfolded. You laughed, looping your arms around his neck without thinking, and his hands found their place at your waist like it was second nature.  

Frankie exhaled, a sound that was almost a sigh but not quite. His fingers flexed slightly against your hips, like he wasn’t sure whether to hold you tighter or let go.

“I think you should kiss me again,” he said suddenly, like the thought had slipped out before he could catch it, voice rougher than before.

You tilted your head, studying him, letting him sit with what he’d just said.  

A slow, satisfied smirk tugged at your lips. “See? What did I tell you, Francisco? Begging for a little kiss. It was only a matter of time.”  

Frankie’s throat worked around a swallowed laugh. His grip on your waist tightened for just a second.  

“I’m not begging for anything,” he muttered.  

“Sure.”  

You lifted your chin slightly, and he didn’t waste a second—he ducked his head, his mouth finding yours with an easy sort of urgency.

This time, the kiss was different—less urgent, less about spectacle. His lips found yours with a quiet kind of certainty, warm and unhurried, like something unfolding naturally rather than something being taken. His palm slid up, fingertips brushing your jaw before settling against your cheek, his skin rough but his touch impossibly gentle. His thumb moved absently over your cheekbone, a slow, soothing motion, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.  

When his tongue met yours, it wasn’t demanding, just deliberate—like he was tasting the moment, like he was letting it settle between you before deciding what to do with it.  

And then, before it could tip into something deeper, he pulled back. His lips lingered for a second longer, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go, before he pressed one last, fleeting kiss against your mouth—light, almost absentminded. Then his hand slipped from your cheek, leaving behind the ghost of his touch.

A small smile played at your lips.

“I thought this was supposed to be a kiss-free party.”

“You started it.”

“And you were the one asking for another,” you countered, tilting your head.

He rolled his eyes. “Didn’t take much asking.”

You let out an exaggerated gasp, smacking his arm lightly.

“Oh, by the way—you’re welcome.”

His brows knitted together, head tilting slightly, a stray curl slipping over his forehead. “For what?”

“For what?” you echoed. “I don’t know, Francisco, maybe for showing up to your mom’s party? For saving you a second ago out there?”

“Right. Yes. Thank you. You know that.”

“Do I?” You raised an eyebrow. “How would I know?”

He leaned back a little, his hands slipping away from your waist.

“I thought witches just… knew things like that.”

Your mouth fell open in mock offense as you crossed your arms. Then, without another word, you turned toward the bar, fully aware of him following you, just a step behind.

“You’re not going to the wedding, then?” he asked, leaning his forearms on the bar, watching you carefully.

You shook your head, meeting his gaze. “Why would I?”

He pursed his lips, tilting his head like he was considering something.

“I thought you wanted to prove a point. Show him you were happy. And, I mean… do you even know what kind of food they’re serving?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You sound very invested in this wedding all of a sudden. If you want to go, Francisco, just go. You don’t need me.”

“Maybe I will,” he mused. “Might even steal a bottle or two of champagne while I’m at it.”

A laugh bubbled out of you, light and unguarded.

Your gaze drifted across the bar, unfocused, catching on the row of glass bottles lined up neatly on the shelves. Their labels were intricate, embossed with gold filigree and elegant cursive, the kind of lettering that—under normal circumstances—you might have found charming. Right now, though, your brain, pleasantly fogged from alcohol, couldn’t make sense of them. The letters blurred together, swirling into something abstract and unreadable.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulder as if shaking off the evening itself. The sound of a cork popping somewhere behind the bar made you flinch slightly, and you let your hand drift absently over your opposite arm.

“Ready to go home?”

Frankie’s voice was low, steady, just beside you.

You nodded but didn’t look at him, your eyes lingering instead on the dance floor. Helena was still out there, her laughter bright and careless, her arms thrown around one of her friends. Of Frankie’s sisters, only Luna remained, swaying easily to the music with Henry, her movements fluid, like she could keep going for hours.

Frankie pulled out his phone and stepped away to call an Uber. You tracked his movements for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, a light touch on your arm pulled your focus back.

Maia had appeared on the stool next to you, her cheeks flushed, her hair loose and a little wild. She was smiling, the kind of grin that promised trouble.

“My brother’s a pain in the ass,” she announced. “Dragged you off the dance floor, didn’t he?”

You smirked, amused but not denying it.

“He’s afraid we’ll scare you off,” she continued, lifting an eyebrow in mock seriousness. “But it’s too late for that now. You’ve already witnessed my mom shaking her ass—so, what do you say? One last drink?”

You hesitated for all of three seconds before shrugging and settling back onto the stool. One more wouldn’t kill you. Probably.

Maia was quick with her order—tequila, no hesitation. When the bartender set up the shot glasses in front of you, you eyed them warily, unsure if your stomach was on board with this decision. Was it irresponsible to drink this much at your boyfriend’s mother’s birthday party? Absolutely. But then again, Frankie wasn’t your boyfriend. So, really, what did it matter?

Ten minutes later, the tequila had done its job, blurring the edges of the evening, making everything feel a little looser, a little funnier. Maia had leaned in close, her voice low and conspiratorial, her hands gesturing dramatically as she spoke.

“I mean, she wasn’t explicitly awful,” she said, dragging out the word like she was still weighing it. “But she had… this energy. Something off. You know what I mean? Like, no matter how hard I tried, I could never figure her out. And she could never blend in with the family, like something was repelling her. I know—no, I know—she hated me.”

You shook your head, appalled, as if this was the greatest injustice you had ever heard.

“But you’re so cute,” you blurted, voice thick and slow, your eyes shining with conviction.

“Right?” Maia snorted. “That’s what I’ve been saying. But Frankie didn’t get it. She was nothing like him. Too cold, too shallow. And every time she treated him like an idiot, I swear I—”

“What are you two talking about?”

A new voice cut through the moment, clear and direct, and you turned just in time to see Frankie standing there with Helena at his side. His eyes flicked between you and Maia, suspicion creeping into his expression.

“Maia, shut your mouth,” he said, more exhausted than angry.

Maia made a dismissive sound. “Oh, please, we’re having girl talk.”

“Well, our cab’s here in five,” Frankie said. His voice was flat, final.

You felt a small pang of disappointment. The conversation had been just getting interesting.

Helena stepped forward, her smile soft and radiant, her cheeks flushed from dancing and champagne. She reached for your arm, her touch warm, familiar, like she’d known you for years instead of just a few hours.

“It was so lovely to meet you, sweetheart,” she said, her voice brimming with sincerity. “You have to come over for dinner one of these nights so we can actually sit down and talk properly. How about it?”

Frankie was watching you. Not just watching—staring, as if he was trying to telepathically send you some urgent message. But you weren’t looking at him. You were too busy giggling, too charmed by Helena’s smile, too caught up in the easy, affectionate way she spoke to you.

“I’d love to!” you said, too eagerly, too enthusiastically.

Helena clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! How about next week?”

Before you could answer, Frankie’s hand landed on your lower back, grounding, insistent. His voice was tight when he spoke.

“I think we should go.”

Maia let out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head.

“Don’t be rude, Frankie.” Then she turned back to you, her grin conspiratorial. “So? Next week?”

You blinked, suddenly feeling like a deer caught in headlights. But Maia and Helena were both looking at you with those eyes—hopeful, expectant, impossible to refuse.

“Yes,” you murmured, stepping off the stool, your smile a little uncertain.

The car door shut with a muted thud. Frankie exhaled, pressing himself into the seat beside you, saying something to the driver in a voice that was trying very hard to sound composed. It didn’t quite land.

You slumped against the seat, your arms folded over your chest, your head feeling heavy on your shoulders. He had practically dragged you out of there. You hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye to the rest of his family.

Outside, the city blurred past in streaks of streetlights and neon, and the radio hummed something soft and familiar—an ‘80s ballad, the kind that lived permanently in the background of cab rides at ungodly hours. The dashboard clock read 4:03 a.m.

After a few minutes, he turned his head toward you.

“You okay?”

“Mmhmm,” you murmured, eyes closed.

“Good.”

A silence settled between you, neither comfortable nor tense, just thick with something unspoken.

After a while, he exhaled sharply.

You cracked one eye open. “What’s your problem?”

“Nothing,” he said, staring ahead. “I’m just tired.”

“Me too.”

Another beat of silence. Then he said, “Why did you accepted? Now I have to come up with some excuse to get you out of dinner.”

You turned your head lazily toward him, your eyebrows knitting together.

“I felt cornered, okay? They were both looking at me with those eyes…” You trailed off, searching for the right words before finally landing on him, blinking slowly. “Those eyes. Exactly.”

His expression didn’t change. “They’re just my eyes.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem.”

His brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with my eyes?”

“I don’t know. They’re kind of… intense.”

“Is that an insult?”

You sighed dramatically, letting your head fall back against the seat.

“I don’t even know anymore. I’m too drunk for your dumb questions.”

Frankie let out a short, derisive snort, shifting his gaze toward the window, his thoughts scattering in odd, untraceable directions.

“You left your car at the hotel,” you murmured after a beat, your voice quiet beneath the steady hum of the radio. Maneater by Daryl Hall played, tinny through the car speakers.

He turned his head toward you with an excruciating slowness, like he already knew you’d be looking at him. And you were. Your head tilted back against the seat, arms curled tightly around yourself, fingers bunched into the fabric of your dress.

“I’ll get it tomorrow,” he muttered, as though your comment had somehow irritated him.

“Do what you want.”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “What’s with you and that attitude?”

You exhaled, your shoulders rising and falling as you turned toward the window, the passing streetlights slicing gold ribbons across the glass.

“What’s wrong with my attitude?”

“A lot of things.”

Your eyes flicked back to his, the darkness between you not quite enough to make out his expression, but enough to catch the sharp glint of his gaze. The passing lights reflected off them like tiny, fractured stars.

“You look just like your mom,” you said, the words slipping out, direct and unfiltered. “Same eyes. Same dimples.” Your hand moved before you could think better of it, the tip of your finger pressing into the crease of his mouth. “But she’s nice.”

Frankie huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, my mom’s nice.”

You nodded, shifting back against the seat. “Yeah. Not like you, Francisco.”

He didn’t say anything to that, but you caught the faint twitch of his lips as he turned away, like he was suppressing a smirk. He was pretending to be less drunk than he was. But so were you.

A few minutes later, the Uber rolled to a stop in front of your house. You sighed, pushing the door open, but before stepping out, you turned back, fixing Frankie with a long, unfocused look.

“See ya,” you mumbled, dragging your feet out of the car, your gaze still locked onto his. “I hope this never happens again—oh, fuck—”

The next second, the world tilted sharply. There was no time to react, no time to process the way gravity wrenched you down. Just the sudden, violent awareness of pavement rushing toward your face.

Somewhere behind you, the driver made a startled sound. But Frankie’s reaction was immediate. The car door slammed, quick footsteps on asphalt. Then his hands—warm, steady, bracing under your arms, lifting you before you had time to register the impact.

“Jesus—Are you okay? Fuck—fuck—are you bleeding?” His voice was strained, almost frantic, his palm finding your chin, tilting your face up.

There was a sharp, metallic tang on your tongue. Something wet trickled past your lips. You blinked down at your hands, lifted them into the glow of the streetlamp. Blood.

“Oh, shit.” Your breath caught. Your stomach lurched. “Oh my God, how bad is it? How bad is it?”

Frankie didn’t let go of your face. His fingers pressed lightly beneath your jaw, guiding your head back.

“You’re fine. It’s fine. Just a nosebleed—stop moving, Jesus—hold still.”

You let out a noise somewhere between a whimper and a cry, your hands still hovering uselessly in front of your face.

“It was the slippers,” you muttered, voice thick, your fingers pressing beneath your nose as Frankie tilted your head back. “They’re too big. I tripped.”

Frankie exhaled, a short, sharp breath.

“It wasn’t my fault, if that’s what you’re implying.” Then, when you tried to look at him, he clicked his tongue and pressed his palm against your forehead, forcing your head back again. “No, keep it back. Jesus.”

You made a weak sound of protest but obeyed.

“Where are your keys?”

You blinked at him for a second like you had to remember what keys were. Then, with exaggerated effort, you fumbled through your bag, fingers clumsy as they scraped against receipts and loose change. When you finally found them, you thrust them toward him, and Frankie took them without comment, his mouth pressed into a tight line.

The door wasn’t hard to unlock. He nudged it open, watching as you hesitated on the threshold, swaying slightly. He helped you inside, his hand warm around your wrist as he guided you up the stairs.

Halfway up, you mumbled, “They’re moving.”

Frankie frowned. “What?”

“The stairs.” You squinted. “They’re moving.”

Frankie huffed out a laugh. “No, you’re drunk.”

Then, without thinking, he tightened his grip on your arm, steadying you as you wobbled again.

As soon as the door of your apartment clicked shut, a small, sleepy meow filled the quiet. Mr. Darcy stirred from his spot on the couch, stretching lazily before trotting toward you, his tail curling high in greeting.

“My child,” you said dramatically, bending down as if to scoop him up, only to pause when you caught sight of your own hand, still slick with blood. “Oh—no. Later, my love. Later.”

Frankie crouched down with far less hesitation, rubbing the cat’s head in that familiar, absentminded way. Darcy pushed into his touch, purring loudly, winding between his legs like he belonged to him instead of you.

You narrowed your eyes. “I don’t know why he likes you so much.”

Frankie shrugged, still scratching behind the cat’s ears.

You snorted, wincing as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through your nose. Frankie caught it immediately. He stood, his expression shifting into something more serious, brows drawn together.

“Oh,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “You look awful.”

“Huh?”

“No, I mean—really bad.” His hand found your jaw, holding it lightly between his fingers as he turned your face toward the light. He made a thoughtful noise. “I don’t think you’re gonna recover. Honestly, I think it’s permanent.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

Frankie’s lips twitched, but before he could say anything else, you swatted his hand away and shoved past him, making a beeline for the bathroom. The second you flicked on the light and caught your reflection, your mouth fell open.

Your face, usually warm and flushed, was pale beneath the streaks of dried blood smeared across your cheeks, your mouth, your chin. Your nose was red and swollen. Your hair was a mess. You looked—

“Oh my God.”

Frankie leaned against the doorway, watching you with amused curiosity.

“I look like Carrie,” you whispered, horrified.

You turned on the faucet and bent over the sink, splashing cold water onto your face with frantic urgency. Beneath you, pink-tinted water ran down the white porcelain, swirling toward the drain.

“Hey,” Frankie said, stepping closer. His voice had softened slightly. “I was kidding.”

You didn’t answer, just scrubbed harder.

Frankie sighed, then reached out, gathering your hair in his hands and pulling it back, holding it away from your face. His grip was gentle, careful, his fingers brushing against the nape of your neck.

“It hurts,” you blurted, voice uneven, breaking on the last syllable.

Your upper lip throbbed—hot, swollen, like it was pulsing with its own heartbeat. Your nose ached with a sharp, stinging pain that settled deep in the bridge, radiating outward. The tears welled without permission, collecting on your lashes, blurring the edges of the bathroom light.

Frankie’s eyes flickered with something close to panic. He shifted on his feet, glancing around the room like the answer to fixing you was written somewhere on the walls.

“Okay, okay,” he said, voice slightly unsteady. “I—uh—come on, sit down. Sit on the toilet.”

He guided you gently, hands pressing into your shoulders until you sank onto the closed lid. Your body was sluggish, your movements heavy. You let your head tip back, exhaling sharply as a fresh wave of discomfort spread across your face.

Most of the blood was gone now, wiped away in streaks of pink-tinted water, revealing the damage beneath. The split in your upper lip was small but deep, the skin torn at the center, already swelling around it. Your lower lip, though unbroken, was puffy. And your nose—God, your nose.

Frankie crouched in front of you, his knees pressing into the tile. “Show me your teeth.”

You parted your lips obediently, and he leaned in, squinting like he was searching for something. After a second, he sat back, exhaling through his nose. “Okay. They’re fine.”

You blinked at him, still dazed, then let your gaze drop to his shirt. A dark red smear stretched across the fabric, half-dried, stark against the soft white cotton.

“You have blood on you,” you mumbled.

Frankie looked down, as if just now noticing.

“Yeah,” he muttered, then turned abruptly, yanking open the nearest drawer and shuffling through it.

You watched, brow furrowing, as he fumbled through an assortment of things that had nothing to do with first aid—spare toothbrushes, old makeup, boxes of tampons, a crumpled tube of moisturizer. His hands moved too fast, fingers twitching as he knocked things over, searching for something useful.

You let out a small huff. “Not there.”

“I know that now,” he grumbled, slamming it shut and pulling open another one.

Finally, he found a bottle of antiseptic and a pack of cotton pads, exhaling like he’d just won a small battle. He turned back to you, unscrewing the cap with his thumb.

“Hold still,” he said.

You did as you were told, though every so often a soft, involuntary whimper escaped you, the pain still sharp enough to make your breath catch. It wasn’t unbearable, but it was enough to make everything feel worse—amplified by exhaustion, by alcohol, by the surreal absurdity of it all.

Frankie moved carefully, dabbing the antiseptic along your lip, then your nose, pausing when fresh blood welled up from the split skin. He wiped it away, slow and methodical, before moving on to your knees, gently cleaning the scraped skin there too. You had forgotten about them, but the second the cotton touched the raw, stinging patches, you inhaled sharply.

“Oh, my God,” you muttered under your breath.

Frankie huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Scraped knees suck.”

A few minutes later, he tossed the stained cotton into the small trash can and started putting things back where he found them.

When you stood, Frankie’s gaze snapped to your nose, scanning for any new blood. You caught the movement and narrowed your eyes at him.

“What?”

“Just making sure you’re not gonna start gushing again.”

You turned to the mirror, taking in your reflection with a fresh wave of despair. Your skin was still damp, your nose and cheeks flushed from scrubbing and crying. Your lip looked even worse now, swollen and bruising at the edges. And your dress—your favorite dress—was ruined. White satin, now streaked with dark, rust-colored stains.

Your throat tightened. “I look awful.”

Frankie sighed. “You don’t—”

“My dress is ruined.” You turned to face him, your expression nothing short of tragic. “I love this dress, Francisco.”

“We’ll fix it,” he assured you, nodding quickly. “We’ll take it to the laundry—”

“It’s white.”

“I know.” He waved his hands, exasperated. “But they know how to get these stains out, don’t they?”

You frowned. “I think so. I’m not sure.”

“They do,” he said, nodding like it was law. Then, after a beat—“Do you have any anti-inflammatories?”

“In the kitchen.”

Frankie waited, then lifted his eyebrows. “Where?”

“In the kitchen,” you repeated.

He rolled his eyes. “I know in the kitchen, where in the kitchen?”

You thought for a second. “Oh. Over the fridge.”

Frankie shifted, his body tilting toward the door, ready to leave. But before he could get too far, your fingers curled around his wrist.

He stopped. Turned. His frown was immediate, brow creased like he was bracing for whatever was coming next.

“Can you—” you hesitated, suddenly too aware of the weight of your own request. “Can you help me with the zipper?”

You were already turning before he could answer, offering him your back like you were giving him no real choice in the matter. Your hand ghosted over the clasp, fingertips brushing the delicate fabric, then dropping to your side in silent surrender.

Behind you, Frankie let out a long, tired sigh. Then, a moment later, the unmistakable sound of the zipper being drawn down, slow and careful. The fabric parted beneath his touch, cool air rushing in where warmth had been. His knuckles skimmed the length of your spine, steady and impersonal, but still—

A few hours ago, you might have been embarrassed.

Now, not so much.

The man had seen your bloodied face. Your tampons. Your secret tattoo, the one no one was supposed to know about. What was left to be embarrassed about? Any lingering self-consciousness had evaporated somewhere between the pavement and the bathroom floor. Or maybe it was just the alcohol, stripping you of inhibition, loosening things that might have otherwise remained tightly wound. Maybe.

The zipper reached its end. Frankie’s hand fell away. He left the bathroom without another word, and you didn’t wait to see him go.

You hurried to your room, pushing the door shut behind you.

The dress slid from your shoulders, pooling at your feet. Your slippers followed, discarded without care. You unclasped your strapless bra with an exhausted groan and tossed it somewhere—where, exactly, didn’t matter.

The closet door creaked as you pulled it open, grabbing the first thing within reach: a worn-out T-shirt, oversized enough to swallow you whole. You pulled it over your head, wincing as soreness pulsed through your body, a dull and aching reminder of the fall.

Then, just as you were tucking the fabric against your thighs, a knock at the door.

A dull thud, careful but firm.

“Don’t come in!” you called instinctively.

Frankie’s voice filtered through the wood, low and steady.

“You okay? I brought you some aspirin.”

You exhaled, raking a hand through your tangled hair.

“Wait,” you warned, shifting on your feet, making sure the shirt was long enough, that everything was—decent. Or as decent as it could be at this point.

Once satisfied, you reached for the doorknob and cracked the door open.

Frankie stood there, quiet, holding a glass of water in one hand and a small white pill in the other. His gaze flickered briefly—to the dress on the floor, then back up—but he didn’t let his eyes stray from your face.

He held out the aspirin. You took it without a word, placing it on your tongue before chasing it down with a sip of water. He watched you carefully, noting how your swollen lip pressed against the rim of the glass, how you winced slightly, the tenderness in your face growing more pronounced with every passing minute.

Something twisted in his chest. A strange, unnameable thing.

He swallowed.

“You feeling okay?” His voice had softened.

You nodded, then immediately regretted it as your lip pulled in protest. Grimacing, you wordlessly handed him back the empty glass.

Frankie hesitated before taking it from you, his brow still creased with that same look—something tight and unreadable, like watching an injured animal struggle to stand. Like witnessing something fragile and knowing there was nothing he could do to fix it.

"I'm sleepy, I..."

Your voice trailed off as you turned toward your bed, your gaze settling on the smooth, undisturbed surface of the sheets. They looked impossibly soft, the kind of soft that could swallow you whole, erase the sting in your knees, the throbbing in your mouth, the hazy weight of the night pressing on your shoulders.

Frankie nodded, shifting his weight. "Yeah. You need rest. Get some sleep."

He took a small step back, like he was giving you space, but not too much. 

Without much thought, you turned and walked toward your bed, your limbs heavy with exhaustion. The second you reached it, you collapsed onto the mattress, sinking in, the cool fabric pressing against your skin. You didn’t even bother with the quilt.

"Good night," you mumbled, already curling into yourself, your back to him.

Frankie hesitated. He stood there for a moment, watching you, feeling strangely uncertain, though he wasn’t sure why.

"I'll call an Uber," he said after a beat, voice quiet, as if he wasn’t sure if you were still awake enough to hear him. "Head home."

"Okay." Your response was barely above a whisper, thick with sleep.

"Okay." A pause. "Good night."

He waited a second longer, then turned and made his way out of the room, walking slowly into the dimly lit living room. The air was cooler here, quieter. Mr. Darcy was waiting for him, perched on the coffee table like some kind of tiny, judgmental sentry. The cat’s tail flicked, his green eyes tracking Frankie’s every move.

Frankie exhaled, running a hand down his face before stepping toward him. He reached out, dragging his fingers gently over soft fur. Mr. Darcy purred instantly, pressing into the touch, rubbing his face against Frankie’s hand like he’d been waiting for this all night.

Frankie huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

He sat down on the couch, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the Uber app. His body was too heavy, too worn out, but he forced himself to go through the motions—searching for a ride, entering the address, preparing to leave.

But then—

A small weight landed on his lap.

Mr. Darcy, stretching out comfortably, his tiny paws kneading into Frankie’s thigh before settling completely, purring so loudly it was practically vibrating through him.

Frankie sighed, phone slipping from his hand onto the cushion beside him.

It was only for a second, just to close his eyes, just to let his body sink into something solid. Just until the exhaustion stopped weighing so heavily on his limbs.

The next thing he knew, he was lying flat on his back, his arm draped over his stomach, the cat now curled up on his chest. Frankie’s breathing slowed, deepened, and before he could fight it, his eyes shut completely.

His body gave in.

And then—sleep.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 (some tags aren't working apparently sorry!)

[overthinkit-underscore]

THE NARRATOR - You close your eyes, and for a moment, it feels like you're a part of the whole world, and the whole world is a part of you.

this might be the only time in all of Slay the Princess that the Long Quiet isn't likened to "Nothing at all." and it comes from the Narrator, during Apotheosis, when the Long Quiet has already picked up the Pristine Blade. it's simultaneously a pep talk and corrosive manipulation from a delusional man to a sapient entity he only views as the blade they're holding- it's conditional belief, conditional support, conditional love.

(Explore) "I chose to make Her a princess? Why couldn't I have made things easier on myself and picked something small or weak like an ant or a slice of bread?"

THE NARRATOR - Are you asking me to spend my last moments psychoanalyzing you? Sigh. Whatever you viewed her as needed to map on some level to what she was. You couldn't just pick something arbitrary and beneath you. I don't know why you settled on a princess, specifically, but clearly a princess is what you wanted. Maybe she needed to be beautiful. Important. Above you, but on a level you could still approach. A herald of things to come. I don't know. Gods are supposed to be beyond comprehension. I really shouldn't try and anthropomorphize you like this.

That final line is part of why the Narrator treats the Long Quiet so horribly and coldly throughout the game. He fundamentally only sees It and Shifty as the abstract concepts They are. He sees Quiet as a tool, a living weapon He forged for one sole purpose: to slay the Princess. He sees Himself (and all mortal, "real" living beings) as "more important" than It. That's partial narcissism and partial dehumanization on His part.

(Explore) "If you made us, then I want you to know this has been torture."

THE NARRATOR - The inevitability of death is torture. I would gladly put two infinite beings through what you've been through to spare infinite lives from oblivion.

He treats The Long Quiet "poorly" for the same reason you'd be upset at, say, a pesticide for inviting a biblical-scale locust storm to your house, or a car for deciding to take you to Mordor instead of the library down the street. ...It's just in this case, both the pesticide and the locust storm are fully sapient, if eldritch, beings capable of suffering.

and that's why moments like His Echoes have in Happily Ever After are so gut-wrenching,

- I'm happy, I promise! We're both so, so happy here, you don't have to be upset! THE NARRATOR - This is… awful. [...] THE NARRATOR - This is the end for me, but not for you. I hope this was worth it. Genuinely, I do.

because He feels empathy, here. He recognizes their sapience and what the cost of his dream truly is. He's regretting what He's done to put them both through this, but ultimately, no amount of primer for Mr. Amnesiac will ever let Him see this way ever again. one reality among trillions where we He was "delusional" --- one reality among trillions where He cared.

TLQ technically has daddy issues if you think about it

[theoreticallybread]

i genuinely believe that if not for bruce, dick and steph are the ONLY batkids that would have taken up crimefighting.

dick’s entire origin story is filled with rage and despair, he watched his parents fall to their deaths and learned that they had been brutally murdered because of something that wasn’t even their fault! his pure rage fueled his creation of robin. even if bruce hadn’t taken him in, i can tell you that he would have gone after his parents’ killer himself, and probably wouldn’t have stopped trying to rid gotham of crime even as he matured and grew a sense of empathy towards all victims. dick was already the angry robin, it only makes sense that he would have done something even without the cape.

no matter what anyone else says, jason was NOT violent. he loved being robin with all his heart because it gave him magic. it is clear to me that he hated the thought of harming innocent people especially through his time at ma gunn’s place because of his resistance to the thought of being turned into a hurting machine like the other boys. and yet as soon as bruce takes him in, he becomes just that: a child soldier. if bruce had not taken jason in, i think he would have been much happier. he knows that the deaths of his mother and father, while tragic, are not something he needs to avenge, and all he looks for afterwards is food and a roof over his head. he is not a character built on revenge, he is introduced to the concept by bruce when he is trained to defeat evil with his fist rather than his words. jason would have been an amazing teacher if he wasn’t red hood, and he would be able to help people in crime alley just the same, by providing support and a good foundation for them to accomplish things.

tim drake did not want to be robin. the only reason he ever became robin was because he needed to protect everyone who faced the wrath of an angry bruce. he is an observant person and he noticed how much harder bruce was hitting after jason’s death. he knew that bruce needed someone else out there with him to stabilize him and prevent him from doing something he’d regret. tim tried to get dick to fill that role, but when he refused tim took it upon himself instead. he’s responsible like that. tim drake most likely would’ve been a successful businessman if he wasn’t a cape because of his smarts and ability to read people.

steph is the only other robin i believe would have still worn a cape if not for bruce. she found out about her father’s wrongdoings and immediately her sense of justice told her that she needed to stop this from happening. she would be unable to stop herself from trying to protect innocent people with or without bruce, just because of her absolute need to do the right thing.

cassandra and damian are similar in the fact that they were raised as human weapons and weren’t allowed to be their own individual people. i firmly believe that they would have managed to break free of their oppressors even without bruce’s existence for talia to rely on in regards to damian. after so much time spent fighting and being used, i think they would have tried to find an identity outside of this. they probably would’ve have ended up as similar people to the ones they are with bruce in the picture, but i doubt that they would have continued to fight as much outside of absolute necessity because of the bad memories surrounding it. if they did fight, it would be in self defense and for themselves, not in accordance with what someone else wanted them to do.

duke is complicated, because while he does have a great sense of justice and is also a meta, i don’t think he would have continued to pursue the path of a vigilante for very long. i haven’t read a ton of stuff with duke, but i think i can safely say that he would have taken a step back from everything to support himself and take care of his parents after what the joker did to them. he probably would have taken up a career that involved aiding people in a more peaceful way, similar to jason.

anywho thanks for coming to my ted talk :)

[myerssimp21]

Iceberg's Jewel pt. 1

This is just another idea rattling around in my head! While this is still yandere Batfam, the premise is slightly different—here, they haven’t quite met you yet. The focus starts with Oswald Cobblepot and the Iceberg Lounge, but trust me, the Batfamily won’t be far behind. Timeline-wise, this would technically come first, even though in my other yandere Batfam fics, Tim and Jason have already had their moments with you. So yes, there will be a plot hole later where they’ve somehow already hooked up with you—just roll with it. Consider it canon-ish, but mostly just me playing around with ideas. tl;dr: This is a prequel of sorts to my other yandere Batfam fics, but I’m mostly here to have fun with the concept. Hope you enjoy! 💙 word count: 3201

Oswald Cobblepot prided himself on running a tight ship. The Iceberg Lounge was a beacon of opulence in Gotham, catering to a clientele that wanted their danger with a side of champagne. When he put out that little “Help Wanted” sign as a joke—an amusing way to signal to the people he was looking for that he was ready to onboard—he hadn’t expected someone like you to waltz in.

You were nervous but bright-eyed, clutching a copy of your résumé (how quaint) in one hand, wearing a Gotham University sweater that screamed student loans and part-time hustle. The smile you gave him when he walked into the lounge floor was disarming—too genuine for this city. You asked to speak to someone about the janitorial position, and Os had to bite back a laugh.

“A janitor? Here? Sweetheart, you might be too good for this place,” he muttered under his breath, too quietly for you to hear, before waving a hand dismissively at one of his goons. “Send her to my office.”

His office wasn’t where interviews were usually held—far too personal, far too… revealing. But for some reason, he wanted to gauge you himself. Maybe it was your naivete; maybe it was the way your gaze lingered on the crystal chandeliers and plush carpets like you’d never seen luxury this close before. You were looking at him as a normal boss, not a criminal mastermind, and he realized he might like that.

By the time you’d been seated in the chair across from his polished mahogany desk for only 15 minutes, he was already hooked. He asked simple questions at first—your availability, your experience—but quickly veered into territory that let him know more about you. Your classes at Gotham U were interesting, but you worked too much to fully appreciate them. You loved your psychology major but struggled with scheduling, hoping that the pay here was more than the measly pay you scrounged from your other two jobs. He listened with great interest as you spoke of your genuine excitement to be working in a "classy place like this."

He didn’t have the heart to tell you this place wasn’t really classy—just good at pretending.

Cobblepot tilted his head, the curiosity in his expression sharpening as he tapped a finger against the arm of his chair. “You’re not from here, are you?” he asked, a sly grin forming. “So, what do you think of our little city?”

“Oh, uh…” You laughed nervously, shifting in your seat. “It’s… something, that’s for sure. Gotham’s kinda like… I don’t know, a scrappy mutt? It bites, like, a lot, but you can’t help but wanna pet it anyway. It’s scrappy and loveable.”

Oswald chuckled, the sound low and genuine. “Lovable?” he repeated, shaking his head. “You’re a strange one. Most people run for the hills when it comes to Gotham.”

“Yeah, well…” You shrugged, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. “I’m already here, so I might as well figure it out, y’know? Plus, it’s not all bad. I mean, the people are tough, and the city’s got… personality. A weird, messed-up personality, but still.”

He found himself appreciating your honesty. It was a rare thing in his world—people who weren’t either trying to butter him up or wring him dry. And that smile… Hm. Something about it didn’t belong here.

Then, the door to his office slammed open. A goon stumbled in without so much as a knock, huffing like a dog chasing its own tail as he fumbled a thick stack of papers in his hands.

Oswald snapped to attention so fast it was animalistic. One second, he was relaxed, bemused by you—the next, his face contorted with fury, his lips curling back in a snarl that made the dim office feel suddenly suffocating.

“What?” Cobblepot snarled, his tone cutting like ice. The very air in the room seemed to turn electric, humming with the promise of violence.

The goon froze mid-step, eyes darting between you and his boss. He looked like he’d just walked into an execution chamber by mistake.

Oswald’s teeth clenched so tight a vein throbbed visibly in his temple. “You knock before coming into my office,” he seethed, voice dropping to something far more dangerous than the initial explosion. Cold. Calculating. A blade slipping between ribs. “You wait. You don’t—”

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw you.

Frozen.

Wide-eyed.

And just like that, the change was immediate.

His snarl vanished. The storm passed in an instant, like flicking off a switch. The barely-contained rabid rage that had been twisting his face smoothed into something almost… embarrassed. Guiltily casual.

Cobblepot glanced back at you, then at the goon, then back at you. For a brief, telling second, he looked—not regretful, but calculating. Then he sighed through his nose, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off an unpleasant thought.

"Handle it later," he ordered, voice abruptly warm. Silk-soft. As if he hadn’t just been inches from taking a man’s head off. His hand flicked lazily toward the door, a dismissive gesture. “Can’t you see I’m with someone?”

The goon scuttled out of the room like a kicked dog, the papers in his hands rustling violently as he clutched them to his chest.

The moment the door shut, Oswald let out a measured breath, as if centering himself. Then, in a whiplash-inducing shift, he turned back to you with an awkward, almost sheepish smile.

"Sorry about that,” he said, voice dripping with artificial sweetness, as if his outburst had never happened. He waved a hand, dismissing it entirely, his gaze keenly watching your expression for any lasting tension. “Some of my employees just don’t have any manners.”

You offered a polite, thin smile, still shaken, but brushed it off with a shrug. You had already figured this place wasn’t exactly warm and welcoming, but the speed at which his fury had vanished was... unsettling.

Oswald noticed.

He noticed everything.

And for the first time in a long, long while… he wasn’t sure if he liked the way your smile still had a hint of nerves clinging to it.

The Batcave was unusually quiet, save for the faint tapping of Tim’s keyboard and the low hum of the monitors. Bruce sat at the console, watching the live feed from Oswald Cobblepot’s office. You were seated across from the Penguin, a mixture of nerves and polite excitement etched on your face. The Iceberg Lounge’s chandelier lights reflected in your wide eyes as you gestured animatedly, your Gotham University sweater and résumé betraying your earnestness in a city that thrived on deception.

“Can’t decide if she’s brave or just clueless,” Tim remarked, leaning back slightly as he toggled between camera feeds. “She walked into Cobblepot’s lair with a résumé. A résumé, Bruce.”

“She’s a student trying to make ends meet. That’s not bravery—it’s necessity.”

Damian’s voice crackled through the comms. “She really responded to a ‘help wanted’ ad? Tt. Typical. Of course that bloated bird would choose a naive one. She’ll probably end up scrubbing vomit out of his VIP lounge carpets.”

Tim tutted thoughtfully at Damian’s comment. “I mean…..he’s probably aiming higher than janitorial work for her. Did you hear the way he sweetened his voice?”

Damian scoffed but didn't reply. 

A new voice broke in over the comms—Dick, speaking from his position on patrol. “You think she knows what she’s getting into? Working there isn’t exactly safe.”

“She doesn’t,” Bruce answered simply, “But that doesn’t make her unique. Plenty of people stumble into Gotham’s underworld without realizing it. We can’t save everyone.”

Tim muttered, “Still doesn’t mean we should ignore it. If Penguin’s targeting her for something, we’ll want to know why.”

Damian chimed in again, his tone slightly mocking. “We already know why, Drake. He likes his toys naïve, optimistic, and disposable. She won’t last a week before she gets a reality check—or worse.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked toward the feed as Cobblepot stood, offering you a hand and gesturing toward the door. “They’re moving,” Bruce said. “Tim, keep the office feed rolling, and find another camera angle.” 

“We won’t have audio and depending on where he’s taking her, I’m not sure we’ll have visuals either.”

There was a moment of silence, the kind that spoke volumes in the Batcave.

Dick broke it. “She’s smart enough to know what Cobblepot is, right? I mean, who walks into the Iceberg Lounge thinking it’s just a nightclub?”

“People who don’t know Gotham,” Tim replied, scrolling through files, soaking in what he can on you. “..She’s a psych major at Gotham U, full-time. She’s been juggling two jobs already, so she’s probably just desperate for the paycheck.”

Damian’s tone turned sharper. “Desperation or not, she’s still a fool. You don’t wear a sweater with your university’s name on it when you waltz into the lion’s den.”

Tim smirked. “Guess she didn’t take Gotham’s prerequisite: Street Smarts 101.”

The screen now displayed the empty office, Cobblepot’s desk abandoned. You were out of their sight, and for the moment, out of their reach. But the Batfamily wasn’t about to let you disappear into the darkness of Gotham without a trace. Tim was scrambling to find a feed that would give them info as to where Cobblepot’s taking you, but at the very least, they have relevant info on you.

Dick’s voice again. “Did you hear her in that interview? ‘Lovable but scrappy.’” He smiled faintly at the words. “She actually likes Gotham. We should keep it that way.”

Tim again, confirming some details. “Transferred to Gotham U from out of state. No criminal record, no red flags.”

Damian’s voice cut in, sharp and dry. “Other than walking into the Iceberg Lounge with a résumé. That’s a red flag for stupidity.”

Dick countered, his tone softer now. “She doesn’t know any better. Give her a break.”

Jason laughed, his voice snarky over the comms line from his own patrol. “Oh, sure, Grayson. Let’s all gather around and shield her from the big bad city. What’s next, care packages?”

Dick sighed audibly, “Don’t you have a crime boss to scare right now?”

Jason chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Already done. You should’ve seen the look on his face. Priceless.” Another faint noise came through, likely the reloading of a gun.

Bruce’s voice cut through before Dick could respond. “Enough. Focus, Jason.”

“Whatever you say, B,” Jason replied breezily, though the teasing lilt was still in his voice. “I’ll keep an eye out, too, just in case our scrappy little friend stirs up any trouble at the Iceberg.”

Damian snorted. “I’ll enjoy seeing Cobblepot’s face when she quits.”

Bruce didn’t respond right away. His eyes lingered on your face, captured mid-smile on the monitor. Quietly, he murmured, “She’ll need another job. A safe one. I’m sure Wayne Enterprises will have something available for her.”

“Keep me updated,” Batman ordered as he stood, his cape swishing as he headed toward the Batmobile. “If she gets in over her head, we’re pulling her out. No debates.”

Damian’s voice came back, quieter this time, reluctant. “She’s already in over her head.”

Little did they know, Oswald Cobblepot’s schemes for you were the furthest thing from exploitative labor. In his mind, the idea of you actually toiling away with a mop and bucket was quickly becoming unthinkable—borderline offensive, even.

The moment he saw the way your eyes sparkled with hope and determination, and saw the way you'd listed your good grades on your resume in a hopeful attempt at impressing him and proving your aptitudes, he’d decided he’d let you sleep on the job if you wanted to. Hell, he’d set up a whole suite in the back of the Lounge if it kept you close and content. You could waste time dusting the empty liquor shelves or filing nonexistent paperwork all day if it made you feel productive. What mattered to him wasn’t what you did—it was that you were here, where he could keep an eye on you.

But of course, Cobblepot wouldn't admit that to himself. Not yet, at least. No, this was just “good business,” he rationalized. You were a valuable asset—your charm and friendliness were enough to lighten up even the Iceberg’s darkest corners. You had a way of making the whole place feel... welcoming and warm, like you were untouched by Gotham’s grime and crime. Plus you wanted to be productive. He scoffed under his breath, amused. Of course one of the first fresh faces ready to work at the Lounge was also someone who he didn’t dream of involving in his actual operations. Just his luck.

So, if you decided you needed an afternoon nap in the dusty janitorial closet? He’d send a goon to bring you a pillow. If you scoured the cleaning supply catalog for hours without actually ordering anything? He’d find it endearing. As long as you were happy and oblivious to the underworld swirling just beneath the Lounge’s polished surface, you could do whatever you wanted.

Unbeknownst to them all, while they debated your safety, Oswald was sitting back in his office, already plotting ways to make your life easier. Sure, he’d keep up the charade of being your boss for now—keep you busy with harmless tasks so you didn’t get suspicious. But he wasn’t about to let you work too hard. Not his sweet, naive new hire.

You didn’t belong in Gotham’s shadows. And as far as Oswald Cobblepot was concerned, he’d make sure you never had to find out just how dark they could get. Or at least, he’d try. 

By the time Oswald walked you to the janitorial closet—a tiny, forgotten room in the back of the lounge—he was already plotting how to keep you close. The closet was practically empty, a detail that normally wouldn’t bother him, but the way your face fell at the sight made him want to slap whoever was supposed to manage the damn place.

"Um… is this where I’m supposed to… work?" you asked softly, your voice unsure as you peeked into the empty closet. Your eyes darted around, taking in the barren shelves and dusty floor, as though you’d missed some hidden stash of supplies. "It just… doesn’t look ready yet?"

"Ah… this won’t do," he said quickly, covering his irritation with a smooth smile. "Looks like someone’s dropped the ball here. Don’t you worry about this, darlin’. I’ll get one of my guys on it—someone reliable. You’ll have everything you need to get started." 

His tone was honeyed, and though he aimed for casual reassurance, his sharp eyes flickered to the shelves like he wanted to set the whole closet ablaze for offending you. For fuck’s sake.

“No, no, this won’t do at all,” Oswald said again, shaking his head and clucking his tongue like he was personally offended by the state of the janitorial closet. “You deserve better than this mess, darlin’. I’ll have it sorted by tomorrow, you have my word.”

You blinked at him, “If you want me on the job today, I can make something work,” you offered tentatively, gesturing toward the dusty shelves. “I’ve been in worse spots before.” You gave him a sheepish smile, trying to seem accommodating.

Cobblepot scoffed softly, waving a dismissive hand. “No, no, absolutely not. I won’t have my new employee starting off in such... subpar conditions. It’s a poor reflection on me, and I can’t have that, now can I?” He straightened his tie with an air of exaggerated importance before leaning on his cane. “Here’s what we’ll do instead. You take the night to get familiar with the Lounge—on the house, of course. Have some drinks, relax, mingle a bit. Consider it my way of welcoming you to the team.”

You blinked again, even more confused. “Oh, um, that’s really generous, but shouldn’t I, like… fill out some paperwork first? Or sign something?”

Oswald chuckled, a warm, low sound that almost made you feel silly for asking. “Paperwork? We’ll handle all that boring nonsense tomorrow. No need to rush into the dull parts of the job, eh?” He gestured toward the door, ushering you back into the main lounge. “For tonight, enjoy yourself. Swing by the bar, meet some of the staff, maybe say hello to the security team. It’s important to me that you feel comfortable at the Iceberg.”

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if this was some sort of test, but his expression was disarmingly sincere. “Well… if you’re sure…”

“Positive,” he interrupted, clapping a hand on your shoulder with surprising gentleness. “Now, off you go. The night’s young, and the Lounge is at your disposal.”

As you stepped out of the closet and back into the opulent main floor, you glanced over your shoulder to see him watching you with a smile that seemed too genuine for someone of his reputation. You didn’t know him, but you’d heard some things. 

Unbeknownst to you, Cobblepot wasn’t just offering you free alcohol or a night to relax—he was staking his claim. He wanted you to feel at home, to see the Lounge as a safe haven, a place you’d always want to return to. Sure, there’d be paperwork eventually, but for now, the only thing that mattered was keeping you here, comfortable and unaware of the darker dealings hidden beneath the glamour.

Tim leaned back in his chair, toggling between the camera feeds inside the Iceberg Lounge. He was alone in the Batcave now, the others out on patrol in the city. “Well, there she is,” he muttered, zeroing in on his view of you at the bar. You were perched on a sleek barstool, your Gotham University sweater a stark contrast to the high-end fashion of the Lounge’s usual clientele. “She’s… drinking. A lot.”

Jason, freshly back from patrol—or what little of it he actually bothered to finish—sauntered into the Batcave, pulling off his helmet and setting it down with a thud. “That’s her?” he asked, nodding toward the screen.

“Yeah,” Tim replied without looking away. “You decided to show up?” His eyes flickered to the time down at the bottom of his monitor. "Thirty minutes early? B's not gonna be thrilled."

Jason ignored the jab, stepping closer to get a better look. “Huh,” he muttered, crossing his arms as his sharp eyes drank you in. You were laughing at something the bartender said, your cheeks flushed. You gestured animatedly with your glass while saying something they couldn't hear. “She doesn’t look like much.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, glancing up at Jason. “That’s what you cut patrol short for? To see her in person?”

Jason shrugged, his gaze fixed on you. “I was curious. Heard you and Damian going back and forth about her. Figured I’d check it out for myself.” His lips quirked into a faint smirk. “Didn’t expect her to be… this.”

Tim tilted his head. “This what?”

Jason gestured vaguely at the screen. “This… normal. Sweater, messy hair, drinking like she’s celebrating her midterms being over. Doesn’t scream ‘Iceberg Lounge material,’ y’know?”

Tim chuckled, toggling to another camera feed for a better angle. “That’s kind of the point. She thought she was interviewing for a janitorial position, Jason. Janitorial.”

Jason blinked, then snorted. “You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was,” Tim said, leaning back in his chair. “She walked in there with a résumé—an actual paper résumé—and asked about cleaning floors or whatever. Cobblepot probably laughed his ass off before offering her a drink.”

“He’s footing the bill by the way,” Tim added, toggling to a feed that showed the Penguin subtly watching you from across the room as he conversed with some guests. “She hasn’t reached for her wallet once. He’s just… letting her.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed as he studied the Penguin’s expression. There was no malice there yet, no obvious scheme in motion. Instead, Cobblepot looked almost… satisfied, like he was pleased with what he was seeing. “The hell’s his angle?” Jason muttered, his top lip curling in disgust at the possibilities.

“No idea,” Tim replied. “But if I had to guess? He’s trying to butter her up. Make her think the Lounge is a safe place, keep her happy and oblivious while he decides what to do with her.”

Jason scoffed, leaning back against the console.”She won’t last a week.”

Tim smirked. “You’re awfully invested for someone who just met her. Maybe you should prep a care package.”

“I didn’t meet her,” Jason shot back, though his eyes flicked back to the screen almost involuntarily. “I’m just saying, someone needs to give her a reality check before she gets eaten alive.”

“Maybe,” Tim said, watching as you swayed slightly to the music, chatting with another patron who’d joined you at the bar. “But she doesn’t look like she’s in danger. Yet.”

Jason grunted, pushing off the console and grabbing his helmet. “Yeah, well, I’m keeping an eye on this one. If Penguin tries anything, I’m ending it.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so now you’re helping? Didn’t you just skip the last half of your patrol?”

Jason smirked as he turned toward the exit. “Hey, monitoring Gotham’s underworld is part of the job, isn’t it? I’m just doing my part.”

Tim shook his head with a laugh as Jason disappeared up the stairs. “Sure you are.”

Back on the screen, you were oblivious to the scrutiny, to the way the curiosities of Gotham's vigilantes were beginning to blossom into something more.

[chimerafeathers]

the concept of intentional boredom/tedium in video games is very much a "your mileage may vary" kind of thing and i go back and forth about it in different situations. where does it work? where does it feel earned/worth the mental toll? why am i gonna play a game that is trying to make me miserable?

i can understand this not being the case for everyone (ymmv, after all) but for ISaT i was so fucking fully on board with the repetitive tedium of it all. rubbing my grubby little hands together and going yesssss, yesssssss, make my immersive gameplay experience directly emulate the exact frustrations and anxieties and mind-numbing breakdowns of the player character. remind me, at every turn, the toll this would take on the person living it. make me live their inner monologue before it's ever verbalized on screen.

how strong you feel, compared to the party you're inevitably leaving behind, how weak they seem now. how annoying it is to cut down these same enemies again and again, always pointlessly getting in your way (oh, how convenient that Siffrin feels the same way so intensely that you can get an item that lets him scare them off by sheer force of will before they attack you!). since when was the King's battle--so terrifying, so impossible before--so easy? can't this go faster? you've heard this all before.

let me skip ahead, loop around, treat my character my body Siffrin as disposable, take the fast and easy way to reach the next goal when you're on the verge of an exciting breakthrough, this loop doesn't matter anyway. but ohh, this next loop might be The One, better do this one right and follow the script to perfection. make all the jokes and say all the right things to get the lovely bonding dialogue so you can carry the Best Version of Everyone through to the end. that'll give you the Good Ending, right? can't hurt to try, right? you don't really believe it but this time will fix everything, right?

how generous and wonderful to have so many shortcuts at hand! dissociating zoning out to skip repetitive dialogue, splitting your head open on a rock slipping on a banana peel in the town to loop right to the floor you need, suuuuurely all of this stuff is purely for the Player's Convenience and won't have any psychological impact on our dear protagonist such that it gets slammed back into the player's face as a stomach-dropping reminder that someone's moment-to-moment experience in this time loop still matters, still carries over, still gets riddled with scars even if they can't be seen!

i've played & watched enough games that trivialize/hand-wave game mechanics that it's pretty easy to detach myself from the minutiae of video game decision-making. "this input gets the Good Response" -> "i will continue doing this input." "this option will be more efficient" -> "might as well save some time then." but this game would not let me stop thinking about consequence.

picking Siffrin's favorite food makes them happy! :) it's also the option that makes Bonnie the happiest! yay! -> i keep picking their favorite food -> Siffrin gradually grows sick of something that once brought him joy -> oh. right. that...makes sense, huh.

okay i asked the King what i needed, mann there won't be any tears after the fight is over so i'll have to do the whole ending scene again and that takes a while and i reeeeally wanna talk to Loop, maybe i'll just lose on purpose this time -> OH. RIGHT. THIS IS MAYBE THE MOST PAINFUL WAY FOR SIFFRIN TO DIE BOTH PHYSICALLY AND EMOTIONALLY HUH. -> never gonna do that again actually!!!!! the ending isn't that long!!!!

banana peel time! we've got places to be and mysteries to solve! -> (you're a living comedy sketch.) (you wonder if you'll ever be able to smell bananas again without wanting to vomit.) -> i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry

it's always cute to see Isabeau's reactions! pick the options that make him blush :3 -> (disgusting. manipulative. it's no wonder he thinks he likes you, you made him feel that way.) -> i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry siffrin NO he liked you before any of this happened please don't think of yourself that way--

maybe it won't hit the same for every player (what game can expect to do that?) but holy fuck it hit for me. the way the mechanics let you fall into familiar gamey rhythms but constantly, constantly remind you that this is Siffrin's life you're playing with. the way you end up perfectly in step in the worst ways. muscle memory and habit built up so well that you both stumble when something changes. devastating and delicious

[glowettee]

the secret to taking notes that make you want to study ✧˖°

hey lovelies! mindy heree <3

for this post i'm superrr excited to share a guide on taking notes that make you want to study ✧˖° trust me, i know how overwhelming it can get when it feels like you're stuck in the middle of endless textbooks and dry lecture slides (honestly, we all have those days). so, let's transform your note taking into something delightful, empowering, and totally reflective of your unique self.

✧ finding your vibe first things first, bestie: the key here is to make your notes feel personal and inspiring. rather than sticking to a rigid system, i suggest mixing a little structure with a whole lot of creativity. here are some steps to help you set up your perfect note taking vibe:

choose your medium: even if it’s a cute pastel notebook, sticky notes, or a digital app with fun themes, pick something that sparks joy and invites you to open it up. i personally love notion + remnote + coda

establish sections: break your notes into clear sections. introduction, main points, and summary. this not only boosts organization but also gives you a gratifying sense of progress every time you finish a page.

add your signature touch: doodles, small illustrations, or even a decorative border can make a note feel less like a chore and more like a mini art project. i love using aesthetic symbols for my digital notes <3

✧ creating a study ritual i believe that great notes come from a relaxed and focused mind. try integrating these rituals into your study sessions to set a positive tone, this is really important if you want to make note-taking fun:

begin with a short breathing exercise or a moment of gratitude (think of it as your pre-study pep talk).

play some light instrumental music or your favorite lo-fi beats, or playlist. something to keep your mind in a creative zone without distractions. (i have a great playlist i made that i use for tackling assignments here: 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒸𝓀, 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒸𝓀, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒸𝓀! <3)

grab your favorite beverage (i’m a fan of herbal tea or a cute iced coffee) and make sure you're comfortable. a little self-care goes a long way!

✧ structuring your notes for clarity a well-organized layout makes reviewing notes less daunting and more interactive. and obviously so much more fun, consider using this format for a balanced + demureee approach:

start with a title and date: it grounds your notes and gives you a quick reference.

write a brief summary of the topic: in your own words, capture the essence of what you’re about to learn. just summarize it as best as possible

list key points: use bullet points, numbered lists, or even headers for different subtopics. tip: use cute symbols for bullet points

highlight examples: it can be a quote, a definition, or an application concept, mark these with a star or a cute icon.

close with a reflection: jot down any questions, what you found most interesting, or even a mini action item related to the topic. this is your space for self-talk and reflection.

✧ turning notes into interactive canvases (cause we need it) notes aren’t meant to be static pages floating in an endless binder. make them interactive to truly boost your study sessions:

include thought-provoking questions: ask yourself things like “what would elle woods do?” (lol, we love her <3) or “how does this connect with real life?” to spark critical thinking.

add mini quizzes: at the end of each section, write one or two questions that challenge you to recall key points.

leave room for updates: as you learn more, come back and add extra notes, doodles, or even inspirational stickers (yes, just like in a scrapbook!).

✧ personal tips from mindy because i want you to shine in every note you take, here are my totally secret, fun tips to elevate your note routine:

secret tip #1: color with purpose choose a color palette that not only looks cute but also maps out different themes in your subject. use one color for definitions, another for examples, and maybe a sparkly tone for key takeaways. over time, these colors will trigger your memory (i promise, it really works!).

secret tip #2: integrate affirmations studying can be stressful sometimes, so why not lace your notes with a few tender affirmations? write a quick pep talk (like “i got this, bestie” or “every detail counts”) in a corner. it might seem small, but these little lines can boost your confidence when you need it most. and it's just so freaking cute <3 affirmations from you to you, is like a love letter to yourself, so just try it

secret tip #3: try mind mapping if you’re more of a visual learner, create mind maps instead of linear notes. start with the main topic in the center and branch out with related ideas and details. this not only makes your notes dynamic but also helps you see connections between concepts (ever notice how some subjects just click with a visual flow?).

secret tip #4: use digital tools creatively if you’re leaning towards digital note taking, like me, experiment with apps that support drawing, voice notes, and even embedded links. add images that resonate with the topic or short videos for a quick concept refresher. making your digital notebook interactive can really keep boredom at bay.

secret tip #5: schedule weekly note reviews set aside a bit of time every week to revisit your notes. treat it as a mini self-study session where you update, add reflections, or even reorganize sections for clarity. this habit not only reinforces your learning but also lets you see your own progress over time, like looking back on how far you’ve come.

✧ action items for the week (it's homework timeee) to wrap things up, here are a few steps to try:

pick one class or topic this week and redo your notes using one or two of these tips (maybe add a mind map or a quick quiz).

experiment with color coding: choose colors that resonate with you and assign them to key points or sections.

schedule a 10-minute review session at the end of the week to refresh and reflect on your notes.

share your progress with a friend or even a study group to celebrate little victories. accountability can boost your motivation!

note: note taking is a creative process that should feel as refreshing and inspiring as a new day. keep experimenting until you find what truly works for you. i hope these tips help you get excited about every page you write on.

xoxo, mindy

I made this amazzinggg playlist (as mentioned earlier in the post) and its specifically made to help you complete homework + assignments. i curated it to make sure its soft music to help you focus <3 love from mindyyy 🩷

don't forget, if you need personal advice, submit it here and i'll answer it as a detailed tumblr blog post <3: https://bit.ly/glowetteehotline

[hrrtshape]

loa myths . . . are master manifestors real?

right, so. master manifestor. capital m, capital m. the thing you see in every shifting post, loa video, comment section. everyone either claims to be one, wants to be one, or is demanding to know how to become one. there’s a sort of hushed, cult-like reverence around the phrase, like it’s a secret society, a knighthood, a club with a bouncer at the door. but let’s talk about it. can anyone be a master manifestor???? is it real??? or is this just one of those things where people gatekeep something inherently universal, like the fact that everyone is technically breathing???

let’s start here. . . what even is a master manifestor? people throw the term around like it’s an olympic title, but there’s no actual definition. is it someone who manifests instantly?? someone who never doubts?? someone whose life is a pinterest board and they somehow still feel emotionally stable?? because let’s be real, some of the people calling themselves master manifestors still have to check their bank balance before a spontaneous shopping trip, so let’s not pretend this is some divine ranking system.

some say it’s a mindset thing. that to be a master manifestor, you have to believe you are. very chicken-or-egg. very mobius strip of self-perception. but that also implies that everyone is technically a master manifestor already, they just don’t realise it yet. which, to me, sounds a bit like a scam. like those emails that say you already have €10,000 waiting in your bank account, you just need to click this very suspicious link.

but then there’s the argument that some people are just inherently better at it. like, some people are naturally good at running, or singing, or making their eyeliner even on the first try. and yeah, maybe some people are predisposed to this whole manifestation thing. some brains might be wired to resist self-doubt better, some people might have been raised in an environment where confidence wasn’t just encouraged but inevitable. maybe their mindset has abs. maybe their belief system drinks green juice. who’s to say.

but here’s my take, and you can take it or leave it!!! the concept of a master manifestor, as some kind of exclusive title, is fundamentally ridiculous. everyone is manifesting, all the time, whether they realise it or not. it’s not about being chosen, it’s not about having some kind of secret skill. the only difference between someone who thinks they’re a master manifestor and someone who doesn’t is that one is moving through life with the assumption that things will work in their favour, and the other is stuck wondering if they’re allowed to think that way.

so yeah. master manifestors. they exist. but not in the way you think. they’re not these rare, god-tier beings operating on a higher frequency than the rest of us. they’re just people who stopped asking for permission. and the second you do that, congratulations. you’re one too. no initiation required.

[shadamyheadcanons]

@shadowsfascination showed me this post from the Writing-prompt-s blog:

“Some say that an invisible red string is tied around the fingers of soulmates meant to be together forever. As it turns out, you can see these red strings, and have therefore created a highly successful matchmaking business.”

It gave me two brief ideas. The first one is a little more angsty and strictly involves Amy, while the second is fluffy and Shadamy-centric. They both have happy endings, though.

Angsty version:

Amy learns very early on about her gift, as it’s rare but not unheard of. She’s precocious about it; when she’s five, she’s prone to doing things like seeing happy couples with unconnected strings and bluntly saying, “You’re bad for each other.” Naturally, Amy’s mother is mortified by this behavior and urges her to stop doing it.

At first, this seems like a normal reaction...until one night at dinner when Amy asks, “Mom, Dad, why aren’t your strings attached? Mom is attached to the mailman instead.”

That’s how the truth comes out that her mom is cheating on her dad, which leads to their divorce. Amy blames herself, and her parents don’t do a very good job of convincing her otherwise. The resentment’s there, and she can tell. From then on, she resolves never to share her gift–her curse–with anyone for fear of ruining something else.

This continues until she hears two good friends of hers talking. One is trying to defend her clearly abusive partner, saying he’s “not always like that,” he’s “usually very sweet,” etc. And Amy just can’t hold it in any longer. She blurts out that they’re not meant to be together. The one she belongs with is the best friend who brought her in, the man who’s holding her as she’s speaking. Everyone’s silent for a moment, and Amy immediately regrets it...until six months later, when the two are dating and thank her for stepping in.

Amy embraces her gift at last and uses it to help others, becoming a matchmaker and relationship therapist. However, she spends just as much time “matchbreaking,” carefully working to break up couples who are bad for each other. She learns that sometimes, the best way to spread love is by ending ties that pull in the wrong direction, like pruning a plant of old leaves to allow new ones to thrive. It’s hard sometimes, but there’s no one who’s better at it.

Her mother never makes amends, but her father apologizes profusely for how he treated her when she was younger and introduces her to her new stepmom, thanking her for giving him the opportunity to meet her.

--

Now, the happier option:

Amy can see the strings tying people to their soulmates. Aside from aromantics like Sonic, who have little knots/bows on their fingers to show they’re complete on their own, everyone has a string...except for Amy herself. Hurt but determined, she decides to start a matchmaking business to spread love around the world in her own way, even if she can’t be a part of it.

Then, she meets Shadow, the only other person she’s met without a string. He brushes off her concern, as he doesn’t put stock in the concept and has reluctantly resigned himself to being a “dead end,” but Amy insists on trying to match him up with his soulmate all the same, as she feels everyone who wants a soulmate must have one. She finds it’s not so easy without the cheat sheet she’s had all her life. While getting to know Shadow and considering all the wonderful things he could offer as a partner, she can’t help but fall for him herself. Likewise, Shadow sees all the care and effort she’s put into bringing him happiness and fulfillment, the passion and devotion no one else could ever match. He doesn’t stand a chance, either. Amy takes the plunge and gets together with him even without that divine confirmation.

The truth of the matter, one that Shadow suspects, is that someone with the gift simply can’t see their own string, but Amy doesn’t need that validation to know she belongs with him.

[factual-fantasy]

27 Asks! Thank you! :}} 💞

@peaspods

I might not be understanding, but I'm imagining this as people opening up commissions so people can give them money and they can turn around and donate that money to me..

I fear that this would create the opportunity to scam people.. "I'm taking commissions on behalf of Factual Fantasy! They're very sick so please commission me!" only for them to run away with the money they make..

I've been thinking a lot about setting up some kind of commission/donation thing because I'm starting to kind'a need the money.. but idk, I'm just kind'a run down and need some time to keep thinking about it. Thank you very much though <:)))

@zecromgen5

Thank you very much! :) And I've been hanging in there.. there hasn't been much improvement to my health or my mental state. The fact that in April it will officially been over a year since my health started to decline, and the fact that I'm going to spend my birthday at home collapsed on the couch has made me feel very sad <:( But I'm doing my best to work on it.. I'm hoping this new advice from my doctor helps me feel better <:)

And something good HAS happened actually, I got my tablet/FireAlpaca to work again! :))

XDD SJKFJSH AWW! THANK YOU SO MUCH!! :DDD

I've only seen a bit of it from Markiplier. So far I'm 50/50. Somethings I like and others I don't care for 😅

@neo-metalscottic

Thank you so much! :D 'm glad you've liked my recent artwork!! :}}}}

Also for Homes eyes, that was just meant to represent its oppressive presence and the fact that its watching them in that moment.. 👁️👁️

And I don't have any plans for any of the neighbors or Wally to figure out the house is alive. My AU is more like "a day in the life of" thing. Having someone discover Home is alive would move the plot forward. Which I don't feel like doing <XDD

Now communication... Home understands the concept, but he has no way of communicating other than creaking the floorboards and slamming doors..

I've heard about the well. That could work for Cliffjumper and Breakdown maybe.. and the twins perhaps.? But wouldn't they have to have Tailgates body in order to revive him? Hmmm.. idk actually,,

I've watched the bayverse movies, most of Prime and a few other things here and there. I didn't mind the bayverse movies that much, but I can see why a lot of people don't like them <XD

I just imaging trying to consume more than one Transformers media would be a lot to take on.. and I also don't like the animation styles of most other transformers shows 😅

(That's actually how I decided to watch Prime. I took a look at all the shows and went "this one looks ugly, this one looks ugly,, this one looks REALLY ugly.. Oh, this one doesn't look half bad. TFP it is then!")

@acreaturecalledkyfa

I've watched Markipliers first video on it. So far I'm not sure how I feel about those two 😅

The way I immediately opened YouTube and went looking for it XDD

@fandomcenteral (Link in ask)

Thank you so much! :DD This will come in handy!

@mason-gaylord

Aw! Thank you so much!! 🥰🥰

@im-nice-but-i-dont-like-you

Jangles would be a helicopter probably, Gerald would be a tank, Cici would be a Miata and Bibi would be a slightly raised up Miata XDD

Aw, I'm honored that you miss them <:}} Though I don't know if I'll draw them anytime soon.. I'm really not into inserted OCs anymore <:(

I'm waiting on Markiplier to release more videos on it <XD

@fadlingartisanfreakwinner

I like to imagine that Pokémon can learn dozens of moves. But 4 is the limit for official Pokémon battles. So any wild Pokémon in my comics can use/learn as many as they want :0

And yeah, they had that chat eventually. I just never got around to drawing it 😅

@wolfie-777

Nah nah its just iced tea XDDD

@whereismycupofcoffee

:DDD Thank you so much!! :}}}}

AAAA THANKYOU SO MCUHH!! :DDDD

@nuggybee

Yeahh,, Sky has its ups and downs. I'm currently in one of its downs. It seems like I'm let down by everything they're releasing 😓

@smithanonsworld

I feel like I've never seen a rabbit that color... its so cute 😭💞💞💞

@heaventhehedgi3

That sounds like me! Though I don't draw Octonauts anymore 😅

I'll keep it in mind! :0

🥹🥹🥹Aw... that's so sweet! Thank you so much!! 😭💞💞

@captain-skyler1987

You made an account just to follow me? :DD Aw that's so sweet! :) Thank you!

Also I'm sorry to hear you got the flu :(( I hope you're better by now!

I also have not played Dandy's world 😅

@stargirldrawsx3

The first thing that came to mind was very anxious all the time 😅

@network-warrior-01

Ah, that was an April fools post. <XD There is no drawing

[utilitycaster]

Hi! I just wanted to add to what you said about Laudna that her motivation from the beginning of the campaign did not change at all, in that she was ok and totally moved on from her trauma, and was just helping Imogen find out about her powers. I don't recall that Delilah was much of a problem outside of talking in her head sometimes, so getting Delilah out wasn't a character motivation.

There were times were it looked like her character was going somewhere when Marisha talked about Laudna being mentally stunted and Delilah's influence being akin to an addiction, and thought maybe they can address some of that in the campaign, but we had a lot of "woe is me Delilah is making me do things" which is BAD if you address the addiction allegory (still taking into account that Marisha may have misspoken during 4sD about it)

They didn't even deal with Delilah properly, she is still there and can talk with Laudna, and I don't think by the end of the campaign Laudna is in any way more capable of ignoring her as she did the first time they defeated Delilah and she was just a faint wisp, she wasn't in any way actively influencing Laudna back then until Laudna tried to bargain with her for power (i may be paraphrasing or misremembering though it's been a bit)

Saying that Laudna's character feels very fic-y is surprisingly accurate, she feels like someone who would have been sold to One Direction

Sorry for the long ask

OK first off YELLING at the being sold to One Direction but yeah, that's the thing, she feels like this passive self insert who people give things to and like without her like, doing anything other than putting her messy brown hair in a bun on the top of her head.

I think with a lot of my frustrations with various characters, there is frustration on both sides, with Matt and the cast, and Matt bears a LOT of responsibility to be clear because I think in his focus on the core plot above all it shut down player attempts to the point that even stronger players with stronger concepts kind of gave up in the end. But for Laudna, here is the throughline.

Early on she floated the idea of getting rid of Delilah when Imogen was trying to get into the Starpoint Conservatory. This was good! It was introduced as a potential longterm goal of Laudna's! It's just...that never happened. The research was always very moon focused, and when it became clear this wasn't really an academically-inclined group the research took the form of Grim Verity lore dumps, which naturally didn't allow for side research. The gnarlrock fight famously went nowhere because she and Imogen apologized right away, but then, notably, Laudna didn't do anything to get back at Delilah nor did Delilah keep doing anything. Imogen's attempts to work with Delilah failed (this feels like part of the 'No Consequences' rule; Imogen binding herself to Delilah as well or having Delilah take on more of Laudna, something Laura as Imogen actually made steps to pursue, could have been something! I mean I'm team Jiana would have been more interesting, but this could have worked!) and so then the whole probably was kind of put on ice by the Vox Machina-helmed resurrection, and Delilah faded to a nonentity that Laudna didn't have to care about. So she didn't! Until she came back, and then she sort of cared for a bit but Delilah didn't make her do anything and then she came back to Jrusar and instead of leaning into her anger she kissed Imogen and forgot all about it until they went to Whitestone 12 episodes later (still no real consequences of Delilah coming back), she reiterated a connection to Delilah back there and had some scenes with her due to the shard but again, she wasn't really inconvenienced or changed, and then there was one last flare up with the sword and then Essek fixed everything.

Like, this would have been very easy to make compelling by having Delilah actually be a threat. Part of why I don't feel much about Laudna living out her life is that like, Delilah is just sealed away again (and fwiw we gotta at some point talk about how there was a whole setpiece about how Leaving Things Sealed Just Perpetuates A Cycle and then there's at least two sealed evils and one fully unsealed if mortal evil guy hanging out, like, thematic coherence whomst?) and throughout the story Delilah mostly just serves as an intrusive thought who broke something once and hit a couple of dudes. Chetney getting caught by the red moon and attacking people felt more real and he took more responsibility for it. If Delilah had constantly been trying to take over? that would have been interesting. If she hadn't but Laudna was furious that the woman who killed her was using her body and at all times was fighting against it? that would have been interesting. But it was just this vague blurry meh. Delilah is her warlock patron and the reason she's alive, but she can be diminished to basically nothing without any drawbacks, and Laudna sometimes hates her and sometimes wishes to wield her, but that all fizzles out every time. Again: if you wished one of these things were true and mourn the character Laudna could have been - either someone using Delilah's power at the cost of her own will, or someone fighting desperately to reclaim her own body and mind - then I'm right there with you. But as she was in the story? I wish One Direction had taken her away and we'd gotten someone better.

[littlevices]

What is this man!? Or: Me Overthinking Reigen's Fighting Ability, lol

Reigen Arataka. 28 years old. Used to be a normal salaryman. Runs Spirits and Such Consultations and is the self-proclaimed "Greatest Psychic of the Twenty-First Century.

Where did he learn to dropkick a bitch?

No, seriously. Where did he learn half the shit he does. Sure, you can explain his punches as something he can learn with his green belt, but not the fact that not only did he dropkick someone, he rebounded and landed on his feet. That is almost some Dimple level acrobatics for someone without any supernatural abilities or enhancements.

Sure, we can chalk it up to anime logic all we want, but that's not as fun, so I'm going to ramble and overthink instead. (As I do.)

Disclaimer: Some spoilers for later events in the show.

Okay, so. Reigen has a surprisingly large repertoire of skills. Some of this I can chalk up to his family life.

His father is apparently a local politician/civil servant, his mother a housewife, and his sister a bank employee.

Clearly Reigen gets his speech skills from his father, and maybe some of his other tricks, like using rice as glue, may even be from his mother. Granted I'm probably stretching that a bit. He could have just as easily learned that from trying to save money, lol.

We also know he didn't fit in while in school, which, as we all know, can lead to instances of bullying. Whether that bullying is physical or not, who knows. All I've seen looking around is that he apparently got skipped over when it came to games and stuff, but there could have been more to it.

Where am I going with this? You'll see.

So, the green belt. We know from season one that Reigen specifically says he has a green belt in shorinji kenpo. Now, I will be the first to admit I don't know much of anything about martial arts on a deep level. I can, however, do some quick research *cough* google *cough* (Do you think Reigen would be proud of me, lol).

According to what I've found, a green belt in a number of martial arts can be anywhere from beginner to a beginner-intermediate or even intermediate level. It depends on the martial art of course, but I think also the school. The same seems to apply to what I could find on shorinji kenpo. Or Kempo, because that's what I keep finding, someone please correct me if need be. I think people have also called it Xiaolin Martial Arts, which I also took a brief look at, but the concept appears similar there as well. Now, let's give Reigen the benefit of the doubt considering what we've seen him actually do, and assume the man went to a pretty decent school. A green belt is clearly not a master level or even a high level belt. If anything, though, this means the man can handle a regular petty thug just fine, and we've seen that. The seance scene in season 1 by itself proves that easily.

However, it's the other stuff that makes me wonder.

Again, this man drop kicked a dude, an esper that was currently using his power by the way, then rebounded off him to land on his feet. Beyond the dropkick itself, which from what I understand is impractical in a fight, he also rebounded. Rebounding can be hard to do off a stationary object, let alone a person. Yet here Reigen is, doing it causally off an esper that controls gravity.

His punches are also pretty damn devastating. Again, he can knock people out. He did this during the seance, but then tried it on Muraki. While he didn't knock him out, he definitely did some damage.

Not only would he need to be strong to do this, he'd also need to be fast. He's also fast enough that someone like Suzuki had to make a clone of himself to dodge Reigen's fist, rather than block or just dodge it normally. Either Suzuki was feeling extra that day (much to Sho's chagrin) or Reigen caught him off guard enough he actually had to use his powers.

This brings me to the next point.

Reigen knows how to hold a gun.

No, no. Wait, hear me out. Yes, I know it's a toy gun, but it is still a toy gun supped up on psychic energy. Not only does Reigen hold it nice and steady, he's got some damn good aim. That shot went for Suzuki's face or at least his throat.

Now, granted, I hear airsoft is a popular past time in Japan, so maybe that's where some of it comes from, which is still pretty neat.

He also didn't hesitate to shoot. One look at Mob and he pulled the trigger. Suzuki got one warning before that, and he didn't even get the chance to defy it before Reigen shot. Now, Reigen is a smart man, he probably figured the gun wouldn't work, but damn if he didn't try. Honestly, he was probably panicking and kicking himself on the inside, but he certainly didn't show it.

There's also the fact that, when you look, Reigen almost always instinctively knows to protect his head and neck when he gets thrown around. It's probably the most obvious in the Mogami fight when he gets picked up and slammed, but you can see it in the final episode as well when getting flung around by ???'s tornado.

This man has either gotten enough sparring that he knows to do this on instinct, or he's been in enough scraps that he's had no choice but to learn or get concussed. Also, in the Mogami arc, Reigen tries to stop Mogami (in Minor's body) by kicking him in the head. Mogami was moving very fast, but Reigen's kick did land.

Too bad it was Mogami and not any one else because it might have worked.

He also knows a couple knee strikes, which again was used on a moving target.

Now, let's step back and bring up Reigen's family again. There's always the possibility that Reigen got his green belt young due to his father's occupation. Now, that might only apply if his father was a rather important one, but still something to consider. It could have also been in self-defense if the bullying he faced in school got physical. I personally think Reigen got his green belt at an older age, earliest highschool, but obviously there's nothing to back that up. It also makes me wonder just how many of his clients have gotten violent, because while he did flinch at the knife during the seance, he also didn't hesitate to deck the dude.

This doesn't even bring up the fact that Reigen knows all kinds of massage techniques (I heard that his family wanted him to be a massage therapist, but I don't know if it was said where that information came from), psychology, his ability to cold read people, and everything else this man does.

Granted, a lot of his effectiveness comes from him being smart and charismatic. This man is a manipulator and thank god he's got morals because holy hell the damage he could do being able to manipulate Mob.

Or the damage Mob could do if anything serious happened to Reigen. >.>;

All in all, I think Reigen has gotten into way more scraps than is suggested. I feel as if he might have had a rougher life at school than what little hints we've gotten. That whole thing with the Separation Arc felt kind of like him projecting onto Mob, but I could be wrong. Personally, I headcanon Reigen as being something of a truant and/or delinquent (or at least a gremlin) when he was younger, but that's just me, lol. I do think he's had a rougher go of it than he likes to tell, though.

I know I didn't cover absolutely everything here, like Shimazaki, and that there's probably more context or something in the manga, but this post was already long enough and I haven't read the manga in full yet so apologies if there is missing context.. If you made it to the end of this post, I want to both thank you, but also apologize for my long winded rambling, lol. I just - Have no idea what to make of Reigen and all that he does. It doesn't help that a lot of his backstory is fairly non-existent. We only know tidbits about this conman, but I guess that's part of what makes him interesting.

Well, hopefully you had fun reading this post as much as I had making it. I know most of this can probably be just anime logic, but I had looking into it at least! If this wasn't a world of espers, Reigen would probably fairly formidable in a fight, on a physical level anyway. He's already like that on several others already, lol. This sweaty rat just always seems to grab my attention. . .