#the book is bullshit you have to pick the bad bits out of like a dumpster sandwich but the fandom is x100 worse

[hussyknee]

What would it be like to be hyperfixate on a piece of media whose fandom isn't horribly triggering I wonder.

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 3,881 Pairing: Negan x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: Alexandria, after the war, Negan is imprisoned Warnings: language (duh), allusions to past violence and flashbacks Summary: Y/N decides Negan has earned just a little bit more freedom. A/N: This is part 2 of a miniseries... lol or maybe not so mini? I'm not sure yet! Slow burn takes time to do well... anyway, first part is linked below! HAPPY WICKED WEDNESDAY! Bad Medicine - Part 1

You came in late that evening. Negan looked up from his book. Something he thought was maybe relief washed over him to see you again, though he wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe he just didn’t want another tense exchange with Daryl… Maybe he was just glad not to be alone.

You slid his tray through the slot and watched curiously as he carefully tucked a torn scrap of paper into the pages of his book to mark his place. “What’re you reading?” you asked.

“Some book Gabriel left me,” he said. “I think I’ve read it five times.”

“What is it?” you asked again.

“Some nautical whaling adventure bullshit,” Negan said, bending to pick up his tray.

“Is it any good?” you asked.

“It was the first time. Maybe a bit the second. But not anymore,” he said with a dry laugh, sinking back down on his cot to settle into his dinner.

“I can bring you some other things to read. What do you like?” you offered.

His hazel eyes shot up to you, his expression unreadable for a moment. “Now, why would do that, doll?”

You ignored his use of the pet name and simply shrugged. “Because I’d hate to have to read the same thing over and over and over with no choice.”

“Isn’t that what me bein’ in here is all about? No choice?”

You paused reflectively. “Maybe at first, as a punishment for everything you did. But now—I don’t think so.”

“Well, I’m not gonna fuckin’ turn down some new reading material if you’re offerin’.” A mischievous glint grew in his eyes. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any naughty stuff layin’ around, do you?” he laughed.

You rolled your eyes. “Negan…”

“Honestly, homemade pictures would be even better if you have the means—”

“I’m leaving,” you growled, turning to go.

He laughed heartily and you were surprised that your steps faltered at the sound. “Come on! I’m only kidding! Ish…”

You turned back around and shot him a look.

“Here’s a question: what’s the deal with you and Daryl?” he asked, taking an exploratory bite out of his sandwich.

Your eyebrows lifted. “Seriously? That’s what you want to talk about?”

He shrugged. “Well, this whole Gabe-Siddiq-Rosita love triangle has me on the edge of my seat. Can you blame me for hoping to scrounge up another such juicy morsel? You know I love a bit of drama. It’s a real-life telenovela.”

You rolled your eyes but paced back toward his cell and took a seat in the wooden chair outside it. “Daryl is… I consider him my brother,” you said. “And I’d die for him. He’s family.”

“You sure he knows about this bein’ ‘brotherly’ love?” Negan laughed. “He gave me quite a talking to about you earlier…”

“Considering your past, can you blame him?”

“No,” Negan admitted. “No, I can’t… So, no hanky-panky there, huh?” Negan asked, leaning forward to study your face as if trying to confirm what you’d just told him, still smiling. “Too bad for him… Guy could probably use some, right? Help chill him the fuck out,” he laughed.

You shot him a disapproving stare and he tried to look apologetic with only some success. “Are you through?” you asked, your tone bored.

“Yeah, I guess so. Thanks for the meal,” he said. You climbed to your feet, nodding.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? We’ll do the same thing. There’s more to do over there.”

“You got it, boss,” Negan acknowledged. “Hey—Y/N—I know I can be an asshole, but I really meant what I said earlier. Thank you.”

You only nodded and gave him a tight smile.

And that was how you and Negan continued, for quite some time. It took you over a week to get the area completely cleared and the rescued medicinal plants transplanted. After that, you ended up having Negan build the new raised beds and help you install them. He could be surprisingly handy when he wasn’t busy cracking jokes and he seemed genuinely grateful for something to do to pass the time. It was surprising how easily the two of you got into an almost comfortable routine. You often were reminding yourself that all you were doing was building rapport so you could help Negan make progress, whatever that meant… It still seemed to be some vague, shapeless idea in your mind, but the thought of Carl and Rick and your loyalty and sense of duty to help Michonne kept you going.

Finally, with that project done, you decided it was time to start venturing outside the walls. Considering how well things had been going, Daryl couldn’t disagree with you anymore, though he did continually feel the need to remind you not to let your guard down. He also requested that you stay close to Alexandria when you ventured out, something you agreed to as sensible, at least to start.

Afterall, if Negan really was to someday assimilate back into this weird version of “society,” this step-by-step, gradual building of trust and rapport seemed like the way to do it.

_ _ _ _ _ _

You lightly tossed a canvas pack at him after swinging the cell door open and he caught it against his chest, giving you a curious look.

“Think you can handle going outside the walls today?” you asked him.

Negan looked surprised. “With careful supervision, I’m assuming?”

“Obviously,” you said.

He nodded, still looking a little stunned. “You trust me enough to take me outside the walls?”

“Enough,” you agreed, cocking one eyebrow.

Negan let out a low laugh. “Alright… What’s the plan then for today, warden?”

You rolled your eyes. He’d taken to calling you that since you’d given him a few stern looks in response to his usual pet names. “Foraging,” you said simply. “We running low on a few things.”

Negan stepped out of his cell with the bag slung over his shoulder, his canteen now stored inside alongside the smaller bags you’d tossed in for keeping gathered ingredients separated. “And I’m serving mostly as the pack mule?” he asked, watching you brush past him closely to swing his cell shut behind him. Was he imagining it or had your hand brushed his arm? Probably imagining it…

“Pack mule?” you repeated. You held up your own pack to show him. “No. I’m gonna collect mine into my bag, and you’re gonna store whatever you find in your own. I’ve been teaching you plants for a couple weeks now. I thought we’d see what you’ve learned,” you explained. “Unless, you’d rather stay here and—”

“No,” Negan interrupted you, almost a little too eagerly. He laughed a little nervously and the sound was deep and had a slightly gruff edge to it. “No,” he repeated, less eager. He ran a hand back through his hair and shrugged. “I’d rather not sit in my cell doing fuck-all, thanks.”

You smiled at him a little and he tried to ignore the way his heart jumped in his chest. Uh oh. What was that? Surely that was just because you were the only woman who’d smiled at him in maybe… six years?

“That’s what I thought,” you said. “Come on.”

Negan followed you through town toward the gate and you both tried your hardest to ignore the not-so-subtle stares. You should have been used to it by now, but whenever you stepped out with Negan beside you, you felt as if you were on display. The man may as well have been wearing a sign advertising his past crimes. There would never be any complete escape from his reputation and past. All you could hope for was a tiny seed of redemption… and some days even that seemed hard.

As you approached the gate, Negan cleared his throat and glanced over at you.

“Hmm?” you hummed, absently waving to Rosita who was on the guard platform.

“So, Daryl was okay with this?” Negan asked and you shot him a weird look.

“What does Daryl have to do with anything? What is your obsession with him?” you asked.

“Uhh—he fuckin’ hates me and threatened to kill me if I tried to hurt you or—do anything he perceives as being out of line,” Negan admitted. “You can see why that’s of slight concern to me,” he finished.

“Makes sense,” you said, not at all surprised. “But Daryl trusts my judgement, so when I told him I thought you were ready for slightly more freedom he was fine with it and so was Michonne. And if we aren’t back by dark, they’ll come looking. They know exactly where we’ll be,” you explained, stepping out past the gate with Negan just behind you. The metallic rattle continued until you heard the familiar slam and clunk of the latch, indicating you were firmly outside the walls. You looked over at Negan and he had a queer expression on his face, his eyes flitting over the scenery ahead. “It’s been a minute, hmm, since you’ve seen outside,” you commented.

He nodded, his hazel eyes finally landing back on you. “Yeah,” he said. He pulled in a deep breath, filling his lungs to the brim and then let it out slowly.

You thought he almost seemed emotional and you again marked the vulnerability you were seeing in him. This Negan seemed far different from the one who had brandished the baseball bat… “Come on,” you said, nodding your head toward the tree line.

Negan hesitated. “Hey, uhh… What if—” he stopped, breaking off abruptly and you gave him a curious look. “Just—I can’t exactly defend myself if shit goes sideways out here, can I? You’re certainly not gonna hand me a knife,” he laughed dryly.

You smiled vaguely. “I’ll protect you, Negan,” you said. For some reason, this made him laugh and your eyes shot over to him. “What? You don’t think I can?”

“No, it’s not that. Not at all. It’s just—bit of a role reversal from my Savior days, isn’t it?”

Your face grew sad, the smile fading, and the look in your eyes grew more distant. “You weren’t a savior, Negan. The only person you were really saving was yourself,” you said decisively.

“I kept a lot of people alive in the Sanctuary before your group showed up,” he retorted.

“Alive?” you repeated, rounding on him. “Alive in the same way we’ve been keeping you alive in that cell. Maybe alive, but not living. How often did you even think about what the lowest of the workers were going through? Scraping for points, wondering if they’d have enough to feed their kids, let alone themselves. I bet you didn’t think of them even once a day. You were too busy indulging in whatever the fuck you wanted.”

Negan’s brow dropped low over his hazel eyes and he looked reflective, as if truly considering the weight of your words. When you started walking again, he followed behind you in silence and you could feel a tension between the two of you for several long minutes. But by the time you started pointing out plants to him, it had diminished.

Negan was a fast learner and it wasn’t long before you both had a few of the small foraging bags full of herbs and mushrooms. You’d only had to correct him a couple times on his identification. (“Not those unless you want to go back to being in your cell all the time, Negan,” you’d said. You scraped your nail down the stem and it suddenly bruised bright yellow before your eyes. He’d flinched and dropped the poisonous mushroom, an easy to make mistake for a new learner. “Fuck me! No, I sure as shit do not,” he’d said, casting an apologetic look at you. You’d given him an encouraging smile and told him it was alright.)

He found himself laughing and shaking his head suddenly, tucking another small bag into the canvas pack.

“What?” you prompted him.

“Just—look at me? I’m out here following you around in the woods picking mushrooms and leaves like a fucking Disney princess. Life is wild,” he said. His hazel eyes were crinkled in a smile and you took in the sparking nature of the light in them and the genuine ease of him just existing in that moment. The salt and pepper in his beard was more noticeable now that he’d been keeping it neat and trimmed again and it wasn’t lost on you that the somewhat slumped posture of his shoulders seemed to have lessened lately.

You sighed and nodded your agreement. “It sure it,” you agreed. “If you’d told me a year ago that I’d be out here with you, I’d have taken it as a threat.” You turned back to the plant in front of you and plucked a few more leaves before glancing over at him again. You were surprised to see that his eyes were still on you. “Do you miss it?” you asked him suddenly. You were still down on one knee on the leaf litter and he was standing above you, his tall, lean frame stretching upwards. An involuntary flash of the line-up suddenly burst in your mind, hot and red, and you nearly fell over, all your breath leaving in a rush. You put a hand down to steady yourself and Negan watched your head drop and your eyes squeeze closed. Your other hand drifted to the handle of your gun, as if you were reassuring yourself it was still there.

“Hey—” Negan said, concern thick in his voice. “You okay, doll?”

You gathered yourself, gulping at the sudden tightness in your throat, and then stood up quickly, nodding. “Yeah. I’m fine. And don’t call me that… I think—I think we’re about done for today,” you said hurriedly, tucking the supplies back into your own pack.

He nodded, his brow still heavily furrowed. “Okay,” he said, his voice unsure. But he fell into step beside you again. The tension in the air had returned. Negan let it stretch for a minute before he broke the silence, genuinely feeling his concern like a tightness across his chest. “You aren’t gonna tell me what that was about back there?”

You didn’t turn to look at him, but you could feel his eyes on you. You focused straight ahead instead, and navigated stepping over some fallen wood while you answered. “No,” you said simply.

“Okay.” Negan forced himself to pull his eyes away from you, nodding, and fell silent again. Neither of you spoke on the short walk back to the gate nor all the way back to the cell. You finally looked up and met his eyes again as he handed you the pack he’d had slung over his shoulder, now full of foraged tidbits that would make life just a little bit better or a little bit more enjoyable for many residents.

Negan studied your expression, and he thought you looked sad. There was really no other word for it. His hands slipped into his pockets and he stepped back into his cell just far enough to allow you to close the door, not taking his eyes off you. The bolt locking him in echoed in the space.

“Thanks for your help today,” you said, meeting his eyes one more time.

His brow furrowed even more heavily over his eyes. “Sure,” he said, nodding. “Not sure you should be thankin’ me, though. Probably should go the other way around.”

You didn’t really acknowledge his response, just added his canvas bag to your shoulder and licked your lips nervously. “I’ll make sure you get lunch soon,” you said.

Negan watched you turn and leave, puzzled and frankly a little worried. His fingers curled around the cold iron bars of his cell as the outside door slammed behind you.

Once you were back in the sunshine, you made your way toward the pantry with the bags, with a detour to find Daryl at Aaron’s house. He was just where you expected he’d be, working in the garage.

He turned at the sound of your footsteps and straightened up hurriedly when he realized it was you and perhaps because he sensed something or read it on your face. “Hey,” he drawled, wiping his hands absently on the bandana from his back pocket. “How’d it go out there?” he asked eagerly.

You nodded thoughtfully, chewing on your bottom lip for a moment. “Good,” you said. “Pretty good…”

His eyes narrowed. “Ya sure?” he prodded you. “Somethin’ happen?” He was already bristling, ready to go punch Negan across the jaw if he needed to.

“Not exactly,” you said hesitantly, fiddling with the strap of your bag.

Daryl frowned. “What’s that mean?”

“I mean—he didn’t do anything. I just—I had a flashback,” you said, your eyes growing a bit distant. “To back then. At the line-up,” you murmured, ducking your head and blinking fast to clear away the tears in your eyes. “I was kneeling down, picking tea leaves off this plant and I looked up and he was sort of standing over me and it just—it triggered something,” you admitted.

Daryl looked deeply concerned, the line between his eyebrows deepening. “Was it somethin’ in yer gut? Did ya feel… unsafe?”

“No,” you said, almost urgently, looking up at him and catching his blue eyes again. There was a touch of faint disbelief in your own voice. “That’s the thing. I don’t feel unsafe around him now. It was just something about the angle. I looked up and he was standing there and—” You broke off and sighed again. “I don’t know…”

Daryl leaned forward on his hands on the workbench between you. “Well, it ain’t like all that past shit just goes away,” he said. “I couldn’t do what yer doin’,” Daryl admitted. You gave him a curious look and he nodded. “If I walked him out into the woods, he wouldn’t be comin’ back.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Yeah… Anyway, I just—I hate to ask you…” you hesitated again.

“Ask me,” he said. “It’s alrigh’.”

“Would you mind just getting lunch together and taking it to him? I think I just need a break for a little bit. Or I can ask Michonne,” you added.

“S’alrigh’. I’ve got it. Michonne is busy with the kids. Soon as I finish up in here, I’ll pull somethin’ together.”

You look relieved. “Thank you,” you sighed.

“S’nothin’,” he said. He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment and you could tell he was on the edge of saying something. “Ya dun have to do this, ya know. If it’s too much—he can rot in that cell for everythin’ he did. Fuck him,” Daryl said pointedly, throwing in a small smirk as he said the last two words.

You had to laugh a little at that. “Yeah, I know. It’s okay. I don’t give up that easily. I’ll be good by the time he needs his evening meal. Thanks, Daryl.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

Negan looked up, hesitant, as he heard the outside door open. He was expecting to see Daryl coming in again. He couldn’t stop turning what had happened outside the walls in the morning over and over in his head. He scrutinized his own behavior and yours. He thought through all the conversations… but he’d come up empty as far as any reason as to why you’d abruptly ended the field trip or why Daryl had brought him lunch instead of you. He was annoyed by the tight pit in his stomach. His lunch sat untouched still, right where Daryl had pushed it through the slot into his cell.

But it wasn’t Daryl coming in with his dinner. It was you.

Negan had nearly jumped to his feet before he could stop himself. “Hey,” he said, the same novel dangling at his side. You stopped at the bars of his cell.

“Hi,” you greeted him. You looked down at the still full tray just inside the slot and then back up to meet his hazel eyes. “Not hungry today?” you asked, cocking one eyebrow at him.

He shrugged and took a few steps toward you. “Honestly? I was a little worried I wasn’t gonna see you again,” Negan admitted. His tone wasn’t jesting or sarcastic. “After this morning, you know… outside the walls.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, nodding. “I see.”

He laughed a little and shook his head. “There’s that therapist response again.”

“Well, do you want this? Or should I save it for tomorrow,” you asked him, looking down at his still full tray on the floor.

“You can save it. I’ll eat my lunch. Less work for you tomorrow,” he said.

You nodded and set the tray aside on the chair outside his cell for a moment. “I have something else for you,” you said, digging into the bag hanging from your shoulder. Negan watched curiously as you withdrew several books. “I raided the library. I tried to pick some things I thought you’d like but—I realized I have no idea what you’d actually like… So. I guessed,” you said.

You gave him an expectant look and he came to the cell door. You passed each book through the bars to him one by one. Negan was highly aware of your fingers being only inches from his. He could have brushed your hand with his if he’d wanted to.

“Thanks,” he said, new books in hand. “You didn’t have to do that.”

You nodded. “I know.” Your response drew another gruff laugh from him.

“I’ll go put this aside,” you said, collecting the tray again. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Negan.”

He hesitated just a moment, gulping at the lump in his throat. “You don’t need to tell me what happened out there… Of course you don’t. You don’t owe me anything. But right before, you were asking me if I missed it,” Negan said. You’d turned back to look at him again, curious. “Do I miss being the fucking King of the Castle?” He paused and his tongue swept out over his bottom lip. “Yeah. I do,” he admitted. “I miss the freedom. I miss people paying attention to me, listening when I fucking talk, getting me whatever the hell I want… But I don’t miss all the bullshit that came with it and what I had to do to maintain that power.”

There was a strange expression on your face and then you sighed. “I guess that’s something,” you said softly. “See you tomorrow, Negan.”

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

More Logan and writer reader pls? I need to see a grown ass man grovel

Wade haphazardly tossed a bag of mints on your kitchen table and you looked up from your laptop, "For the nausea, you know. Since you won't tell me who your baby daddy is so I can make him-"

"That implies that I know," you tell him, making Logan pause where he'd been putting away groceries and dog food- trying to keep you from lifting anything heavier than a book.

Wade folded his arms and coked out his hip, "Bullshit you don't know."

"You don't have the market cornered on bad life choices Wade," you sigh.

He leaned on the table and stared you down. "I will find out," he threatened. "And when I do-"

"No one forced me to fuck-"

"Never said they did," he said, "But they're gonna pay fucking child support."

"Yeah. Sure." You restrain an eyeroll and swallow hard, having to get up so you could puke, Trigger following after you like a shadow.

Logan listened to the heaving and fought the urge to go hold your hair back- his ability to be close to you right now was... tenuous at best. You were tired. You were depressed. And Logan was the only person you didn't have to front quite as hard for. You could be upset about things. And worried. And scared.

It was something. Even if it wasn't what he wanted. He didn't know what he wanted- he didn't even know if he wanted to BE a dad. But he knew you couldn't do this alone. Even if you were still heartbroken and pissed off at him.

"She fuckin' knows," Wade said, picking up your phone. "She fuckin' knows and I'm gonna beat him until-"

"You're so fucking stupid it's not funny anymore," Logan growled flexing his hands to keep his claws sheathed.

"She told you, didn't she?"

"Yeah." One lie is as good as another. And it'll keep Wae from going through your shit. You have all your appointments in your calendar and he's willing to bet you don't want spectators- he's not even invited and it's his kid.

"You motherfucker," Wade gasped. "And you didn't tell me?"

Logan shrugged, "She asked me not to. He's not a nice guy."

"Fuck!"

"Stop yelling this isn't the crack house you live in," you yell from the bathroom.

"It's not a crack house, it's a crack home!" Wade rounded back on Logan when you started dry heaving again and slammed his fist on the table, "Who is it?" he demanded.

"No one you need to worry about," Logan hedged.

Wade scowled, "Logan I swear-"

"Look, do you want us to get along or not?" It was the last card he had to play. Wade wanted his family to get along. And he was COMPLETELY oblivious to the fact that you were avoiding his roommate. He'd been bitching about the lack of movie nights and dinners.

"Fine," he bit out, "But it's your adamantium ass if anything happens."

[buzzcutlip]

Cracks and Gaps - The Cat Shrine (part III) Carmen Berzatto x Fem!Reader Explicit 8539 words

A/N: This chapter is a bit longer than I expected but it's also packed with stuff that needs to be said and done. Plus! I believe this part offers all we've been waiting for iykwim

THE CAT SHRINE "Carmen!" You snap your fingers next to his ear.

"Yeah," he replies, blue eyes melting into yours like ice daggers.

"You're not concentrating," you accuse, huffing.

"I am!"

"You're so not."

Shaking your head, you put your phone down, tired of trying to show the chef the progress The Bear has made in its social media presence. You don’t think it’s important for him to know all the details, but he should be fully informed.

"You haven’t even downloaded Instagram, have you?" you ask, already knowing the answer.

"Uhm…" Carmen shifts uncomfortably, guilt written all over his face.

"I knew it!" you exclaim. Although you want to be strict, wanting him to know you take your work seriously and wanting him to acknowledge it, you start laughing when you see the long face he’s pulling. He looks like a dog caught peeing on the rug.

"What’re you laughing at?" Carmen asks sullenly.

You shake your head. "Nothin'," but you still snicker. You like teasing him a little.

When you calm down, you take a sip of your soda from the funky Superdawg cup and take a deep breath. The parking lot offers no shade, and there’s sweat gathering at your hairline. You watch the two mascots—Laurie and Flaurie, sausages perched on the roof of the drive-in. Thousands of people must have done the exact same thing since this spot opened in the '50s.

"Do you think Nat really wants me at Pete’s birthday?" you ask, your face serious. From Carmen's expression, you can tell he appreciates the change.

"I think so," he affirms. "She wouldn’t have asked otherwise."

"She’s too nice. She knows I would find out about it eventually," you muse aloud. "Like, that would be awkward… I hope it’s not only 'cause of the interview and stuff."

Carmen lights a cigarette, shaking his head. "Bullshit." He always waits to smoke until no one around is eating.

You shrug, faking nonchalance, but the idea of Natalie inviting you out of obligation makes you feel sick to your stomach. You don’t need favors or fawning over.

Carmen blows the blue smoke in the opposite direction from you. "She likes you."

The car hood is hot under your butt, and your cutoff denim shorts aren’t doing much to protect your skin. You shimmy uncomfortably, hissing.

Next to you, Carmen looks down at you, eyebrows raised questioningly.

"It’s hot," you whine, trying to tug the shorts lower.

"You okay?" Carmen checks.

"I’m fine," you sigh. "I’m glad to be baking my ass on metal, actually," you say, picking the last bits of caramelized onion from the paper tray. "I watched The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo yesterday. Listened to way too much of Ethel Cain…"

Carmen keeps looking at you, clearly not following.

"'s dark stuff," you sigh again, being pretty dramatic just for effect. You definitely don’t feel too affected by Nordic crime books or songs about escaping a cult and cannibalism. It takes you somewhere else, mentally. Not a bad place, necessarily.

"Uhm—hopefully the hot dog’s cheered you up?" Carmen asks, popping a fry into his mouth, then wiping his hand with the back of his tattooed fingers. They’re long and graceful, the nail beds clean with minimal hangnails. You want to lick them clean.

You give him a smile. A genuine one. "Yep."

Not just the hot dog.

Carmen’s brows furrow a bit as he glances at you, a small smile playing on his lips despite himself. "You’re hard to read sometimes. Like—hm—I don’t know if you’re joking or not."

"You say that like it’s a bad thing," you tease, giving him a playful nudge. His hand steadies itself on the hood as the sun glints off it, the Chicago heat thick in the air around you.

"It’s not," Carmen says, his tone softer now. "It feels more genuine. Authentic. It’s kinda... nice."

You raise an eyebrow, amused by his awkward sincerity. "Kinda?"

Carmen chuckles, shaking his head as if embarrassed by the admission. "Fine. It’s nice."

You smirk, pleased with yourself for drawing him out of his usual seriousness.

"Nat wouldn’t have invited you if she didn’t want you there, you know," Carmen says, circling back to your earlier worry.

"I guess," you reply, still a bit skeptical. "Just don’t wanna be somewhere I don’t really belong."

Carmen’s gaze hardens a little, a quiet determination settling in his voice. "You do belong."

You meet his eyes, surprised at the firmness in his words. For all his hesitation and self-doubt, Carmen has a way of saying the simplest things with absolute certainty when he means it.

"Okay," you reply quietly.

—

In the late afternoon, you arrive at Pete and Natalie’s house. The sunlight’s casting a warm glow over the tree-lined streets, and you’re grateful that the heat’s eased off and you aren’t sweaty and gross before you get in. The house is beautifully maintained, with a fresh coat of paint, a well-kept yard, and soft music spilling out through the open windows. Pete’s job clearly allows them a bit of comfort. For the first time since you were here, all those months ago, you notice these little details.

As you make your way up the walkway, you notice a stroller parked just inside the entryway, along with a soft baby blanket draped over the arm of a chair near the door—the quiet reminders of Natalie and Pete’s new life as parents. You hear soft baby coos over the sound of conversation, which makes you smile. Yet, it’s a reminder that maybe you yourself should start thinking of this kind of life. A life with a serious partner you might start a family with. Someone you will spend the rest of your life with. Probably. Hopefully.

Inside, the party is subdued yet lively. Guests drift through the kitchen and living room, chatting and laughing. You greet a few familiar faces, but you’re not really that close with most of them. The place is clean and pretty, the opposite of the mess you experienced in May. You quickly spit out your gum into a tissue you find in your pocket.

Richie finds you first, thrusting a glass of mimosa in your hand. You didn’t plan on drinking, but this could help with your nerves. You’re not great in new settings, around people you don’t know very well. Luckily, you’re pretty good with kids and you really like Natalie, so when she spots you, you spend about 30 minutes chatting while a few people gather around you. She gives you the baby to hold, and the little boy dozes off in your arms. When Nat takes him back to put him down in the crib, you excuse yourself from Jimmy’s wife and another older lady to go find water and maybe something small to eat.

The kitchen is quiet compared to the rest of the house, and you’re not surprised to find Carmen there, cutting carrots into precise sticks, his knife moving with calm precision. He doesn’t notice you at first, so you have a moment to take in his wide, muscled back under a thin sweater. It’s a very, very nice back that you would really, really like to see without any clothes.

You shake your head, pulling yourself together.

You clear your throat. “Hi.”

The sound startles him, and he jumps, the knife slipping from his fingers onto the cutting board with a loud clatter. “Fuck!” he mutters, spinning around to see you.

“Sorry!” you hurry to apologize, walking all the way to him. “Did you cut yourself?”

“No, it’s fine,” Carmen reassures you, taking a deep breath. “Hey,” he greets you back, a bit calmer now. He seems a bit surprised to see you.

“So, I find you in the kitchen, of all places,” you say with a smile, leaning on the wall. Under your arm is a thick paper envelope with the fresh magazine issue inside.

“I thought maybe you wouldn’t come.” His expression shifts to something warm, less guarded than what you’re used to. You almost blush at his words, unsure of what to take away from them.

Your fingers tighten around the envelope for a moment before you gather the courage to hand it over to him. “I wanted to show you this today.”

Carmen’s gaze drops to the big envelope, and he takes it from you. When he opens it, he sees himself on the cover, and there’s a pause. The main title reads, "Chef Carmen: The Story That Matters."

You feel a slight flutter of nerves. “I wanted to give you a chance to see it before anyone else. We just received a couple of copies yesterday. It’s not on newsstands for another week.”

Carmen nods but stays quiet, just flipping through the pages. You made sure Nat went over the final images with him, confirming he’s okay with the selection, and with the cover that features him wearing a pair of smart black pants and a white t-shirt revealing his tattoos. You see him skimming the article, glancing at the photos of himself in the kitchen and on the set. There are a couple with the whole team at The Bear.

“It’s… weird,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “Seeing myself like this.”

You tilt your head curiously. “You’ve been in magazines. Even on the cover.”

“Yeah—just—” he glances back at the pages. “Not with a project that’s as personal as The Bear.”

You nod, understanding. It is revealing. While transcribing the interview and writing the whole feature, you finally had a chance to see through the cracks and gaps and get a glimpse of the real Carmen. The one hiding behind his unapproachable facade.

Carmen shakes his head, chuckling softly. “It’s… a lot. But it’s good,” he admits, his voice soft. He looks back at you, and you can feel the gratitude there, unspoken but genuine. “Thank you. You put a lot of work into this.”

You give a small shrug, trying to keep your own emotions in check.

“I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like I doubted you.” The reference to the bumpy start stings, and you almost grimace. “It’s… it’s everything you’ve done to get us here. I don’t think anyone’s ever believed in me like that.”

You want to say something silly, like, “Oh, I knew you’d be the top chef in Copenhagen already,” but you can’t get the words out. You don’t frequent The Bear as often as you used to. After the incident with Carmen, and even after all the apologies, you agreed they would find a proper social media manager, and you would help occasionally. But now you’ve started meeting Carmen outside the kitchen much more, venturing further into the restaurant world with a top chef as your guide. He’s changed, you think. Maybe both of you have.

Finally, Carmen breaks the silence, letting out a small, almost bashful laugh. “Guess I should, uh, keep this somewhere safe?”

You smile, relieved to feel the tension ease, and nod. “Yeah, please. Maybe show it to them when you’re back at work tomorrow? I’m sure Sydney and the others would get a kick out of seeing it.”

You watch Carmen tuck the magazine back into the envelope, and you feel the moment slipping past you. You clear your throat, gathering yourself before you speak.

“Actually, there’s… this event next week,” you start, fidgeting slightly. “It’s a charity cocktail—kind of formal, for a nonprofit that supports community kitchens. I wanted to ask if you’d come with me.”

Carmen raises an eyebrow, caught between curiosity and amusement. “Me?”

“Yeah,” you say with a shrug that you hope comes off casual. “I mean, you’re on the cover of Taste now, and people will hear about it soon. Thought it’d be nice to… y’know, show you off a little.”

He looks down, an almost shy grin tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t think I was the ‘show-off’ type.”

“Oh, you totally are,” you reply, grinning. “Besides, Nat mentioned you might need to make an appearance or two—good publicity for The Bear and all that.”

Carmen nods, as if he’s already half-resigned. “She has been dropping hints,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was going to ask if you’d come with me to it, too. Got the invite a few weeks back.”

“Oh,” you say, raising your eyebrows. “I thought we’re friends now. You should've asked sooner,” and you hope the word “friends” sounds as casual as you intended.

“Okay—then yes,” Carmen says, and there’s a challenge in his voice, his face serious. It’s clear he doesn’t want to seem like someone afraid of public events and social gatherings in general. You do know the truth, which makes you chuckle.

“How fancy is the event, you think?” he checks, sounding slightly discouraged now.

“Not that fancy, don’t worry.” You grin, leaning a bit closer. “Nothing that calls for a tux, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Oh, I can wear a tux,” he juts out his chin, and it’s such a sudden change to his normal demeanor that you feel a bit weak in the knees for a second. Confidence suits him, as you know. And not only while he’s being the Chef.

“No doubt,” you agree with a smile, taking a tray with homemade hummus and carrot sticks from him.

“Oh—I’ve been meaning to ask you,” you remember as you’re both exiting the kitchen with more prepared food in your hands. “How did you survive the photo shoot and interview without any smoke breaks?”

He looks up at you and stays quiet for a moment.

“Nicotine patches. I had to put on three at the same time.”

And you laugh.

—

Carmen picks you up on Thursday at six-thirty. You chew through half a packet of gum while getting ready. A mix of feelings is swirling around in your stomach—excitement, nervousness, and an utter disbelief that you’re so worked up about a professional evening with Carmen.

When he buzzes the intercom, you jump, giving yourself an unnecessary scare, then roll your eyes at yourself. Grabbing a small black purse, you lock up behind yourself and make your way down the four flights of stairs. The air outside is slightly cool from the late afternoon rain, the fresh smell hitting your nose and making you nostalgic.

“Oh my god,” your heart drops to your stomach the second you look at Carmen, who is blankly staring with the most perplexed expression you’ve ever seen. “Have I messed up? Is this inappropriate?” Trying to read more from Carmen’s face, you lift your trembling hands to your mouth. What have you done? Why do you always have to have your way?

You look down at your draped top, barely covering your shoulders, and wide, pleated pants you opted for instead of a more traditional skirt or dress. You’re also wearing high-heeled Mary Janes that bring you to the same height level as Carmen. You hoped he’d get the fashion statement.

“I’m—I can change,” you stammer, turning halfway back to the door, already thinking about what you could swap this for.

As Carmen starts saying, “No, no,” you say, “It said semi-formal.” Carmen reaches for your hand and gently pulls it from your mouth. You’re still confused and freaking out, not understanding anything.

“I just meant—I just wanted to say,” Carmen swallows, “that you look lovely.”

“Oh god,” you sigh heavily with relief, and you both laugh—Carmen a bit awkwardly, and you breathlessly. “Screw you.” You’re pretty sure you feel two stones lighter suddenly.

It’s only later, when you’re both sitting in the back of a taxi taking you to The Field Museum, that you realize what Carmen said. He said you looked pretty. Oh.

—

“This is going to be so awkward,” Carmen says, his eyes never leaving the big, open door with a stream of nicely dressed people heading in through it. The large, Neoclassical building is imposing with its massive Corinthian columns, giving off an air of true greatness.

“Oh, c’mon,” you whine. “I’m actually really excited to see it from the inside without the usual visitors. It’s gonna be fine. You can even get drunk, if you want to.”

“Uh—I don’t really drink,” Carmen says as he finishes off his cigarette, stubbing the end and flicking the butt into the ashtray.

“Maybe tonight you will.” You smile sweetly. Of course, you would never even think of pressuring Carmen—or anyone— into drinking alcohol, but the faded image of the two of you in his houseboat in Copenhagen pops into your head.

“We can just check out Ancient Egypt and go,” you suggest as you watch Carmen fidget nervously from the corner of your eye.

He gives you a tight smile, one that doesn't reach his eyes, then offers you his arm, and together you go in.

The East Atrium is lit up and arranged with round tables and smaller, tall bar tables. It’s a modern addition to the museum designed to blend with the historic architecture. Through the large windows facing the lake, you can see the sun starting to set. There are fresh flowers—hydrangeas, peonies, and tuberose—in the vases decorating the space, and you can’t help but touch the soft petals as you stand by one of the arrangements.

Carmen’s gaze shifts around the room. His arm tenses slightly under your hand, and you can tell he's trying to look relaxed, even as his fingers keep flexing in his pocket. “See? It’s nice in here, right?” you whisper, trying to catch his eye, hoping for a little reassurance that he’s not hating every second. So far, you’ve only met two people you know—clients who regularly advertise in Taste and who did recognize Carmen, pulling him into an intense conversation about cooking stoves. When he spoke to the clients, you noticed his voice was polite but guarded, the rhythm clipped, almost rehearsed. Different from when he talks to you.

Carmen gives a reluctant nod. “Yeah, it’s…not bad.” He scans the room again, and you feel for him, guessing he’s probably trying to uncover any other potential danger. Then he notices the flowers you’ve gravitated toward, and his mouth quirks up—just a bit. “You really like flowers, huh?” he says quietly, watching you brush your fingers over the soft petals.

You grin and shrug. The scent of tuberose mingles with the warmth of the evening, and you get the best idea. “Want to skip the mingling and find the mummies?” you offer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “I mean, what’s a night at the Field Museum without a little ancient history?”

Carmen lets out a soft chuckle, a rare sound that feels like a victory. “Yeah,” he says, sounding almost relieved. “Let’s do that.” As you make your way across the Atrium, Carmen keeps close by your side, your arms brushing. When he opens the door for you, his hand hovers just above the small of your back, the warmth radiating from his palm seeping into your spine through your clothes. The murmured “thanks” is the most you can do without embarrassing yourself.

—

“My dad is obsessed with mummies. He used to take me here at least twice a year when I was a kid,” you say as you aim your phone camera to capture the sleeping artifact. “I’ve never been here after the closing hours though.”

You send a quick, funny message to the chat group you have with your parents, and put the phone back into your purse. Although the narrow corridors and the displays are the same as they were years ago, it never gets old to you.

“I don’t think my parents took me places,” Carmen says next to you, studying the plaque next to the mummy and its decorated sarcophagus. “To cultural institutes and shit. We spent a lot of time at home, or running around our block.”

You feel a pang in your chest for little-boy Carmy. On the other hand, you know that you can’t judge other people’s experiences and the quality of their childhoods and lives based on yours.

“You’re here now. And you can ask anything. I can pretend to be a qualified guide,” you half-joke.

Carmen chuckles softly, though his gaze stays fixed on the ancient figure in its case. His eyes trace over the faded bandages, the meticulous, centuries-old work of preservation.

“It’s just an illusion. Most of the exhibits we see in museums have been stolen from the original countries as part of colonialism or wars,” you sigh, studying the gold jewelry in a display behind the thick glass. “It shouldn’t be like that.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of messed up.��

Next, you check the Book of the Dead and the reconstruction of the ancient marketplace. Here and there, you bump into other people drifting in from the atrium, taking the opportunity to experience the free exhibition too.

“I think I need a drink after the cat shrine,” Carmen points out once you make it back to the lively space of the Atrium. The glass ceiling reveals that the evening’s turned into night. “It was kinda creepy,” he says with a certain hint of unease. You chuckle, patting him lightly on the back. “I think that’s the point. Cats are guardians of the afterlife, gazing into your soul. Maybe they picked you out for judgment, Carmen.” He shudders slightly, pulling a face. “I’d rather stick to cooking for the living.”

More people approach you as you wait at the bar—old colleagues of Carmen from Ever, hospitality people you’ve interviewed, and Regina, the head of sales from Taste.

Carmen holds the two drinks as you find a table off to the side, both of you grateful for the secluded spot. He slides your drink over to you. The tired look on his face proves he’s not too thrilled about the impromptu reunion with old colleagues.

“Looks like you’ve got a fan club,” you point out. The way Regina was looking at Carmen sticks with you—the way she talked to him. Like she wanted to eat him alive. Or fuck him.

Carmen rolls his eyes. “Didn’t realize it’d be a whole industry meetup. Thought I was off-duty tonight.”

“You couldn't have possibly thought that.”

You mirror Carmen and take a sip of the drink to find out what he’s ordered for you.

“That’s—that’s licorice vodka,” you stammer out.

Carmen nods. “Yeah, can you believe they have it here?” A small, secretive smile plays around his eyes. “Did I hit the target, Copenhagen?” Your eyes widen slightly, caught off guard by the unexpected nostalgia that hits you as you recognize the drink. It’s simple, unassuming, yet oddly perfect—a reminder of countless late nights and blurry memories from Denmark. You can’t believe he’s remembered. “Yeah,” you say, recovering. “You hit the target.”

Instead of pondering more about the reasons, or the lack of them, behind Carmen’s gesture, you look down at your feet, hissing. “Do your feet hurt?”

“Fuck yes. Like hell!” You can’t help but grimace as you shift your weight, feeling the pinch of your shoes.

Carmen watches you shuffle uncomfortably, and he hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “You, uh…you sure you’re okay?” he asks.

“It’s fine. I was expecting this.”

You take a sip of your drink again, thinking of what you want to say next.

“Do you do all this because of what happened?” you ask, looking at the floor behind his shoulder.

“What do you mean?”

“The—what happened in the restaurant office,” you add in a small voice, hating to talk about the incident.

Carmen reaches out to lightly touch your hand on the table. “I should've never behaved that way. I was a real dick.”

“That mean yes or no?” you inquire, your heart picking up speed. You don’t know why you’re getting nervous again. “You’ve been super nice to me. And a—a good, uhm, friend.” You say the word ‘friend’ so tentatively it’s almost inaudible in the room. Maybe you hope Carmen’s gonna overhear. It’s such a fragile label of what’s between you.

Carmen actually huffs out a small laugh before he says: “Be nice to nice,” and you lift your head up to glance at him, finding him smiling, so you smile back. You just smile back and don’t say anything else. This is all you need.

—

The next morning, the sun feels harsher than it should. It streams through the blinds, making everything feel just a little too bright, a little too real after last night. You had expected to wake up tired, but what you didn’t expect was the quiet echo of Carmen’s smile and his casual, soft touches lingering in your chest and beneath your skin. Fuck, you think self-deprecatingly. You try to shake it off as you rush to work, but it’s impossible.

During the morning briefing, you keep checking your phone for new messages, but there are none from Carmen. It’s hard not to hope for a follow-up after last night. As innocent and friendly as the whole evening had been, ignoring your growing affection for the chef is impossible now.

When your phone buzzes during your lunch break, a quick glance at the screen tells you it’s Natalie, texting in her usual efficient bursts: Nat: New special menu to be launched tomorrow. Can you stop by The Bear tonight? Nat: Just to check how we wanna communicate it on SoMe. Nothing major! You barely finish reading before the familiar flutter sets in. Nothing major for Natalie usually means chaos in the making. But it’s not her message that has you rushing home after work—it’s the possibility of seeing Carmen again. By the time you’ve touched up your makeup and slipped into a new outfit, your nerves are buzzing. Carmen’s commented on your dresses a couple of times, so you feel like that’s definitely the right choice. You put together a dark blue button-through summer dress with tiny white dots, and a pair of cowboy boots, giving you a look that’s casually cool.

As you get ready, you wonder how Carmen feels about seeing you again so soon after last night. You wonder if he thought about the drink he picked for you, or the way he laughed—so much that his dimples, which you had almost forgotten about, kept appearing by his mouth.

The service is in full swing when you arrive, so you automatically use the back door, heading to the office as quickly as possible through the intensity of the kitchen. You don’t even try to catch a glimpse of blond hair or that familiar white chef’s jacket, even though you terribly want to.

“Looks like it’s already a madhouse,” you say, sliding into the chair next to Natalie in the office. “When isn’t it?” Nat quips, finally looking up with a wry smile. She nods toward the kitchen. “Carmy’s back there somewhere. I told him you’d swing by.” Your stomach does a little flip at the mention of his name, but you nod casually, as if it doesn’t affect you at all. “Okay, let’s see this menu then.”

Natalie starts explaining the dishes, her words efficient but animated, as she describes the seasonal ingredients and the thought behind the pairings. It’s funny how similar the siblings are. Maybe not at first glance, but as you’ve gotten to know them better, you notice the resemblance more often than not.

As if summoned by your thoughts, the door swings open, and Carmen steps out. His brows are furrowed in that intense, focused way that somehow makes him look even more attractive. Your breath catches, and you quickly look down at the paper in front of you, pretending to study the menu notes.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and quiet, as he approaches the table. He nods at Natalie, then turns his attention to you. His gaze flickers briefly to your dress. “Hi,” you reply, trying not to sound too breathless. “Thanks for coming,” Carmen says, his eyes lingering on you for just a moment longer than necessary before shifting back to Natalie. “So, what’s the plan?”

As Natalie launches into the logistics, you can’t help but steal glances at Carmen. He’s close enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne, and when his fingers brush yours as he passes a page of notes, it feels electric, sending a spark up your arm. If you’d struggled to concentrate earlier, it’s almost impossible now. And you’re the one who’s supposed to share ideas and opinions.

The whole thing stretches into a menu tasting in the only calmer spot in the kitchen—you taking photos just in case, brainstorming about the introduction wording. Then Carmen and Natalie get into a fight—unsurprisingly—before making up. It’s like being on a swing with them, and the whole environment of the kitchen—hot, fast, frantic—makes it even more intense.

—

Absolutely on purpose, you finish fiddling with Instagram just before 11:30 p.m. in the empty kitchen, getting up when you hear what must be Carmen taking out his civvies from his locker. You take your bomber jacket and a handbag, walking over there.

“Hi,” you say, and Carmen’s head pops up through the hole of his crewneck sweater.

“Hey,” he says back. “You’re still here?”

You nod. “Thank you again for yesterday. For taking me with you.”

Carmen looks up at you from where he’s changing his Birkenstocks for white sneakers. “Didn’t you take me with you?” he jokes.

“It was nice either way,” you say, putting on your jacket and hoping Carmen doesn’t hear the hope in your voice. It’s hard to keep the softness you feel for him out of your words.

Carmen hoists his backpack onto his shoulder. “You leaving too?”

“Yep.”

He holds the back door for you, touching your lower back lightly the way he had yesterday. You bite your lip at the slightest contact, resisting the urge to reach back and touch his hand.

You lean against the wall by the door as Carmen locks up and then lights up a cigarette. You haven’t talked much for the rest of the dinner service, but he seems more relaxed, smiles more often. It has you smiling too.

“What?” he checks when he looks over at you.

You shake your head but the smile persists. “Nothin’... I’m glad it all has worked out,” you sigh with relief and content.

Carm blows the smoke above his head, watching it disappear. “Thanks to you,” he says seriously. 

“No. No, we talked about this yesterday. I don’t need any credit in this,” you’re shaking your head in resolution, a frown forming on your face. “I don’t want it.”

He steps closer, crowding you against the wall, intention flashing in his eyes, and you can't breathe. Can't imagine that the timid chef would want - that he would want you in a way you've been wanting him. 

Carmen gets into your space, and your hands land on his waist, finding purchase on the waistband of his jeans. “Carmy,” you breath out quietly, head tilted down. You don't know what's going to happen but the close proximity to the chef makes you breathless. His hands cradle your face. You only feel the gentle touch, scared to face Carmen fully. But you can smell him again - his deodorant and hair product. Cigarettes. 

He surprises you though. “Why do you always smell like cinnamon?” he mumbles, his breath tickling the baby hair around your ear, his mouth an inch from it. 

“It's the - the gum,” you answer, trying to stay calm despite your heart beating like crazy. Only now you do realize you called him Carmy. It felt right. 

You're not sure for how much longer you can stay still, but Carmen seems to have no trouble dragging the situation out. You are restless, though, you just have to do something. 

So you tilt your face up and you lean up on your tiptoes to kiss him. Just to press your lips against Carmy’s, nothing else. It’s actually more of an act to break the tension than an actual kiss. You feel absolutely stupid a mere second after you are back on your feet fully, Carmen right in front of you, unmoving.

“Am I reading this all wrong?” you ask when the chef remains silent, avoiding eye contact with you.

He shakes his curly head, putting space between you two—unwittingly or not, you don’t want to think about it now—and runs a palm over his face, scratching the back of his neck. His body leaning away, the stupid crewneck pulling tight across his shoulders with the stretch of Carmen’s muscles.

“You’re not,” he says, and you almost feel giddy. You bite your lip to stop smiling. Carmen looks pained and worried, and you don’t want to be smiling.

“Then what’s going on?” you ask, reaching for his wrist and stroking the protruding bones there lightly.

“Just—I just feel like I’m going to fuck everything up.”

Slowly, you sway back closer to him, putting all your own nervousness behind. You lay one of your palms against his chest, hoping it could comfort him, the other one back on his waist.

“You know you are hot—” you say quietly, not quite looking him in the eye, “—attractive.” You correct yourself quickly.

“What?” Carmen says, and you can feel him relax a tiny bit, twisting his hand so it’s holding the one that had been on his wrist.

“You work out. You must know that you look good.” You slide your palm a little lower to the abs hiding under his cotton shirt.

It sounds awfully a lot like flirting, but you don’t even know how to flirt. You are honestly so bad at it. And this is only the truth, anyway.

Carmy’s definitely wearing a blush that’s matching yours. It’s spreading down his neck and lower, where you want to put your mouth.

“I just run. Sometimes. After work,” Carmen stammers a little incoherently, probably feeling like you are expecting an answer, or an explanation. And you know he runs every day, and does push-ups and God knows what. It’s a known fact in the kitchen. That’s how he puts space between “work” and “life.” A divider. Even just so small. You understand it. The need to know where your job ends and you start. You can also imagine that it’s something very difficult to distinguish for Carmen.

“I hate running,” you note, your honest mind is too quick to think twice. “But still—I would really like to kiss you. Properly.”

A car wheezes around you, way past the speed limit, and Carmen stares after it. He takes a visible, deep breath, looking into the street on the right, where the street lamps turn into small yellow, glowing balls. It bares the side of his neck to you, thick and vulnerable, and you can’t not look. A shiver runs through you from the evening chill, or maybe something else, too.

“Can we—would you maybe like to come over to my place?” you ask, probably the bravest you’ve ever been.

Carmen clearly thinks about the situation for a couple of seconds before he says: “Ok. Let’s go.”

You blink once, say nothing, and head toward the L with him by your side.

—

On the staircase, Carmen takes your hand into his, long fingers sliding along the top of your hand. While you're unlocking the door, you wonder if Mikaela left potato peels and apricot stones and orange rinds on the kitchen counter in her so-called open compost. 

“Come in,” you say over your shoulder. The old, brass hanger is by the main door and you hang your jacket there, then take Carmen's to put away there too. “Would you like something to drink?” you ask politely, stalling on purpose. “We have - “ in all honesty, you are almost scared to open the fridge but Carmen is still standing where you left him, by the door. “We have tonic - “ without his friend gin that disappeared on Saturday - “ - or tap water.” 

Carmen's wearing his gray crewneck and in combination with his mussed hair, he looks incredibly soft. “'m fine,” he says, looking at you with his big eyes, looking nervous but somewhat calm. Like he doesn't want to run away, which instantly comes to you as a huge relief. 

You go to switch on the two small lamps placed around the room that you call the living room, which is obviously part kitchen and dining room too. The light makes everything even softer, a gentle sort of atmosphere. Suddenly it's easy to find each other in the middle of the room, right where the sofa with patchwork cushions are. WIthout a moment of hesitation, you kinda meet in the middle, and finally, you get to taste Carmen Berzatto. 

It takes a few slow, lingering kisses to get bolder, and to your surprise, it's Carmen who gently slips his tongue into your mouth first, and you briefly wonder if he can taste the cinnamon from your gum now. Slowly reaching up to put your hand on the nape of Carmy's neck, you feel the delicate golden chain lying against his vertebra. How long will it take to see him wearing only that?

You push him softly in the general direction of the sofa. It's old and too soft, but you love the faded gray upholstery and how homey the simple piece of furniture is. Soon Carmen´s sitting on it with you on his lap. You’re wearing the dark blue cotton dress and your boots that are digging in the sofa by Carmen's thighs. 

Carmen´s not shy, kissing you fully, tilting your head to his liking, stroking your bare arms up and down. You’re breathless on top of him, fingers running through the dark blond curls, giving back as much as receiving. The two of you kiss for long minutes, and you love it. You love how he tastes and how he's touching you, but it's clear that he's holding back. Or maybe it’s just you who is completely overwhelmed with want and need. 

“Are you - are you a virgin?” you dare to ask into his ear, kissing his neck, hiding your face in the crook of his shoulder. 

“What? No,” Carmen says, letting out a breathless laugh. 

“It's fine if you are.”

“No,” he repeats.

“Ok.”

You lean back and take his hand to intertwine your fingers together. You can feel how warm your face is, the rushing of your heart. 

“I just - just haven’t done anything. In a while,” Carmen says while looking at you, and he´s blushing, the apples of his cheeks darker than seconds ago. 

“Me neither,” you reply in the same hushed voice caused by the dark room around you.

“You can touch me,” you invite him, bringing your joint hands to the apex of your thighs where the hem of your dress has rucked up. There´s nothing to be seen, the dress still covering your underwear, and you remember incidentally, that you are wearing a very plain pair of white knickers. Before he has a chance to react to your bold move, you duck down to kiss him, and everything drowns out the buzz of paralyzing excitement. 

First you feel the soft touch of the back of his knuckles to press against your throbbing groin, too light to do anything than tease you. Carmen doesn't stop kissing you but it's slower, less measured, while he concentrates on the movement of his hand between your legs. He presses a bit harder, starts rubbing you in circles.

You shudder out a breath, tensing, fingers digging into his shoulders. “‘s nice,” you mutter into his mouth, face hot, too worried that if you don't encourage him, he might stop.

Carmen shortly hums in response and doesn’t stop. He presses open mouthed kisses against the side of your neck and down to the low neckline of your dress. You bite down on your lower lip, overwhelmed. It’s still hard to believe that you have Carmen here on your sofa, between your legs, his unruly curls between your fingers. Only now do you start to realize that you feel so much for him. That this is not just messing around. That you could actually fall in love with him. That you have been falling for him.

With a touch to his sharp jaw, you bring his face back to yours to kiss him deeply again, taking his free hand in yours to guide him, this time up to your breast. You squeeze the heavy weight of it and moan against the side of Carmy’s neck.

“I like it when it hurts a bit,” you whisper bashfully, too aware of how your hair sticks to your sweaty nape, the baby hairs by your ears probably curling with the humidity coming off your own burning skin. 

Carmen nods and squeezes, a bit harder than you showed him, and you let out a surprised gasp that turns into a moan, head tilting back in pleasure. His thumb finds your nipple through two layers of clothing and he rubs against it, then pinches. Your eyes fly to his, wide and searching. Surprised by his obvious willingness to please you, you watch Carm’s actions almost breathlessly - how his eyebrows knot in concentration upon every measured touch, the way the tendons in his hand strain when he sneaks his fingers behind the elastic of your underwear. But you need to see more.

“Take this off,” you rasp out, grasping the material of Carmen’s jumper and tugging. “Off,” you mutter again, trying to help Carm out while he gets the garment over his head and off, chuckling breathlessly. You catch his smile and have to grin back, shyly but surely, and you kiss again, Carmen going back where he had stopped. 

When you can open your eyes again, you enjoy the sight of Carmen’s muscles straining as he fingers you, looking down at where his fingers are disappearing into you, the elastic waistband digging into his wrist. He’s as concentrated and serious as he gets in the kitchen, plus turned on, if you can judge by the way he worries his bottom lip and the flush that’s spreading down his face to his long neck. Maybe he does get turned on when he’s in the kitchen, you muse, you just never noticed.

The never-ending string of your thoughts, even in this situation, unfortunately, is interrupted by Carm’s palm moving from your bare thigh up to your ass, his fingertips digging into the meat. His other hand speeds up, causing you to mutter, “Fuck,” into his ear.

“Can you come like this?” Carmen asks, and you can feel his wide eyes on you, even though you’re not looking.

“Give me a sec,” you answer in a breathy, raw voice, already mostly there. Your hand travels down into your underwear to touch your aching, swollen clit, while Carmy resumes, rubbing your walls inside. When he curls his fingers, the tips drag over your g-spot. That stirs all sorts of feelings in you, and you moan, then start grinding against his hand, his fingers. Those fingers that you watched chop and stir so many times in secret with quiet rapture, are now in you, bringing you to an orgasm.

Afraid that he could read too much from your face, you drag him into another kiss, dirtier and more desperate than the previous ones. As you near the peak, getting more and more desperate, unable to kiss Carm properly, he mouths at your collarbones, your chest, the top of your breasts. When he uses his teeth, you know he’s testing how far he can go, and you let out an encouraging sound.

Squeezing your eyes shut, your head tips back again, baring your throat to Carmen, as you come. You can feel your thighs tremble and your fingers squeeze Carmy’s shoulders momentarily. Once it washes over you, you slide off sideways from Carmen’s lap, breathing heavily and still biting your lip. You think you didn’t let out a single sound. You didn’t want to.

Carmen gives you a side glance, eyes glassy. He seems to be a bit breathless himself. You notice his eyes going to your breasts, where you can still feel wetness from his mouth, wondering if there are any actual marks left. Judging by the look on Carmen’s face, there might be.

Without thinking, you reach out and tug on the waistband of his Dickies.

“Yeah?” he says, looking at you.

“Yeah,” you nod.

With clumsy fingers, you open the button on Carmy’s pants together. You can’t help yourself — you push up the material of his t-shirt, revealing extra skin.

Your eyes widen as you scan his toned torso. “Running, huh?” you mutter teasingly, stroking your hand down his warm abdomen.

“Huh?” Carmen’s caught off guard, eyes following your hand. “Oh I — I do push-ups — erm — press-ups — sometimes. When I can't sleep.”

God, why is he sheepish? “And how much do you actually sleep?”

“Couple of hours,” he says, but the second word ends up cut off by a gasp as you touch Carmen’s dick, tugging it out from his underwear. He hisses, hips lifting up with the sensation, and you can see his tummy muscles contracting. You start stroking him slowly, as much as the angle allows you, trying out a firmer grip and then loosening up.

Not wanting to make Carmen uncomfortable with shameless staring, you press your face into the outer side of his arm, watching him from under his shoulder wordlessly. Based purely on his facial expressions, you adjust your fingers on his dick, and the rhythm. As expected, Carmy is utterly quiet, his strong jaw clenching. Only here and there, he lets out a harsh breath that you count as a victory. The t-shirt you have your nose buried in smells of generic laundry detergent, cigarettes, and caramelized onion. It also smells like Carmen — like a guy and antiperspirant.

It’s not long before Carmy squirms — “I’m not gonna last long,” he says, fists balling, and it’s so obvious he’s been holding himself back from fucking up into your hand that you feel almost sorry for him. On the other hand, this small thing between you is so fragile, and you are so anxious that you are going to fuck up, so you just bite your tongue and don’t comment on it.

“It’s fine,” you say low, lips moving against the t-shirt again, pretending you have not been watching his every expression, reading deep into every blink of his eyes, every time he wets his lips, jerks his pelvis up a bare inch with pleasure. The tip of his dick is as cherry pink as his lips are, you notice desperately, and you know this image is going to haunt you forever.

“It’s fine,” you repeat sweetly, speeding up your movements, and then Carmen is coming, thick ropes of it landing on your fingers and your wrist and his t-shirt that’s fallen back down over his stomach. He shakes with the force of his orgasm, and you watch his body in awe as it goes through it, still touching him, feeling the hot, slippery skin of his dick in your hand.

The rush of emotions is so strong that you almost panic. Then you look left and up at Carmen—he’s trying to catch his breath, his big eyes are glassy, and his lips are shiny with his own spit, and in that very moment, you believe that he can see right into the core of your own being.

You want to cradle his jaw and kiss him. Instead, you look away faster than he can. Miraculously, a box of Kleenex sits on the coffee table by the sofa, and you reach over to hand it to Carmen.

Next to you, you hear, more than see, Carmen wipe down the mess, pulling his t-shirt back down.

There are two options—either you get up quickly and this is all over for now, or you acknowledge what just happened and try to be all mature about it. To your own surprise, you go with the latter, turning to Carmen, reaching out to touch his forearm lightly.

He looks over at you and smiles, small and gentle.Then he leans in and kisses you on the lips before standing up.

“Can I smoke in here?” he asks, already searching his pockets.

“Yeah. From the kitchen window,” you point in the general direction of the window. There’s a chopped tomato can serving as an ashtray on the outside windowsill. Without a second look, you disappear into the bathroom to fix your damp underwear.

The night stretches, and Carmy never leaves. After his smoke break, you expect things to be awkward. But they aren’t. You split the two-day-old dinner leftovers—vegan spaghetti bolognese from Mikaela—and you eat it on the same sofa where you had been touching and kissing twenty minutes ago, while watching Modern Family, just to have something to fill in the silence that could become uncomfortable.

Carmen changes into your old baggy t-shirt. No denying that you would prefer him without it, but he asks for it himself. When he comes out of the bathroom and lies next to you, he smells of mint, and you hope he didn’t use your toothbrush without asking—because, “bleh”—and he reads your mind, because he says, “I brushed with toothpaste on my finger,” and brings the blanket all the way up to his chin.

You don’t know how, but you both fall asleep.

The stirring in the bed next to you is what wakes you up. Used to sleeping in your double bed by yourself, it takes your hazy brain a moment to remember that it’s not the case tonight. The light from the streetlamp filtering through the window blinds falls on the man next to you. You watch him wriggle under the sheet, sleepy and unguarded. He looks like an innocent boy—with his puffy eyes and messy hair falling over his forehead. 

Meanwhile, Carmen’s eyes open and find yours. You’re unsure of what he sees on your face, but he outstretches his arm to touch your bare shoulder, and shuffles closer. Your stomach twists at the nearness.

“You okay?” you whisper groggily. “Aren’t you cold?”

He only shakes his head.

“Okay,” you nod into the pillow, daring to run the pads of your fingers along his forearm, stroking. Carmen’s skin here is baby soft, with no hairs on the inner side. You enjoy his quiet hum as you use your nails lightly. He closes his eyes momentarily, and you would say he shivers, but you can’t be sure.

You’re surrounded by the quiet of the night; even the neighbors above must be asleep because you can’t hear their annoying heavy steps. Tomorrow, you won’t be sure if you dreamt this moment.

“Sleep,” you whisper again, something primal overtaking you as you reach further into Carmy’s hair, smoothing down the tangled curls and continuing over the shell of his ear. Carmen watches you for a little longer until he relaxes completely, his blinks getting longer. You’re so caught up in the rare moment of stillness that you don’t realize at first that he’s falling asleep, until his heavy breathing indicates that he’s gone.

[lottiette]

Hi honey, I've been following you for a while, I love your fics, spending hours reading them. I wanted to ask you, if it's okay with you and you have time, if you would like to write another fanfiction about hort, it's so underrated, I love you, have a good day<3

Hort X Ever! Reader

Authors note: Hi Libraia thank you so much for your request! I love Hort so much I’d die for him. I hope this writing is to your liking. I know that I’m super irregular with my writing it’s because I’m lazy and never have any ideas. But hope you enjoy. I love you to have a wonderful day/night. ❤️

Warning: Book Hort/Movie Hort, swearing. Not proofread. I think that’s it.

- He first saw you at that bullshit Ever/Never meeting thing. Where the Ever boys performed and stuff.

- He saw you and a spark lit his Never heart.

- He didn’t think an Ever would ever capture his eye, but you…you were so sweet and pure. You had a genuine smile on your face.

- Of course that was only a fantasy to Hort. You would never even notice him. He was a weasel Never boy, and you were an Ever, a princess/prince who would find a perfect prince/princess.

- That was until one day at lunch. He was getting picked on for being a weasel boy who couldn’t do more than sprout two hairs of a wolf.

“What a loser.” “Sad excuse for a Never. You couldn’t scare a fly-“ The hog boy who was spouting bullshit of insults in the weasel boy’s face got hit with something. He turns around to see you standing there. “Did you throw something at me?” He growls in hatred. You throw another rock at him. “Why you-“ and another. “HEY STO-“ oh. That one got him right in his third eye. He is bleeding. “THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR BEING NOTHING BUT A BIG BULLY!” You scream. The hog boy doesn’t like that. He starts charging at you. You scream naturally, and start running. Right as the hog boy is about to grab you Hort punches him right in his big borish face. Now you’re both running. Eventually you find yourselves hiding under a bridge like hide. You stick out your hand with a smile, “I’m (Name)”

- Hort sees the nicest Ever, ever.

- He couldn’t believe that you had did that for him. You could’ve gotten yourself killed, but you stood up for him.

- From that point on Hort is even more hopelessly devoted to you. He is going to protect you from everything he can.

- He’s the big bad wolf to your riding hood (Ever After High Red)

- You eat lunch with him from that point forward.

- Of course the hog boy did come back for a round two. You guys run each time to the same spot. Until it just gets old and you punch hog boy so hard he sees star. He leaves y’all alone after that.

- Hort does the little things for you. Opens your drinks/snacks. Get you anything you want. Helps you study, does your homework. All that stuff.

- He has an ANYTHING for you mindset. And “ANYTHING” means ANYTHING! From cookie to murder. He’ll do it.

- Being in a relationship with him is very loving.

- He looks at you like you put the moon in the sky.

- He’ll support anything you do. Any hobbies, traits, or anything whatever you do.

- He likes to give you feather kisses. Like little pepper flakes.

- And LOVES cuddles. Doesn’t matter where or when he wants to be touching you. He’ll pull you into him whenever.

- Not until later into the relationship will he touch your ass. He’s not going to smack it. He has the ultimate high respect for you. He will NOT be touching without your permission.

- And even if he does get your permission he’ll be reluctant to touch you that way. He’ll be a blushing boy

- If anyone else touches you they won’t have hands to touch you with anymore.

- He will not play around when it comes to your safety.

- All the Ever boys/girls trying to flirt with you, he hates it.

- He already thinks you’re too good for him but he knows that anyone else isn’t good enough for you.

- He might get a bit insecure sometimes because he will get in his head and start thinking that maybe you should be with an Ever. That maybe they can treat you better. (They can’t)

- He’s possessive. He wants you to himself because he doesn’t trust anyone else and he isn’t losing you.

- He’s not leaving you. No matter how sad or mad you are.

- He’s not going to be the best at comforting you when sad because he’s never really experienced that but he’ll try. He wants to punch and kill your problems and he will if he can but if not he’ll cuddle you and sniff your hair.

- I think that he likes to bring you trinkets like “oh a pretty rock” or “oh a butterfly wing” just little things he finds he wants to give to you.

- I think he likes to have his hair played with.

- You two have to sneak out to meet each other.

- Most nights under the moon in the forest are more magical than the one before it. You two lay in the grass just holding onto each other and telling the other about all the things they’ve missed and whatever else

- Just let him sniff your hair, hold you, steal your items occasionally, and he’ll be just fine.

- He promises you that one day he’ll get you out of the bullshit school and give you everything you’ve ever wanted and more.

[munson-blurbs]

Hi Bug <3

Here’s my Tropes-or-Treat request😁

M&Ms, Butterfinger and our dear Eddie of course 🩵 smut would be amazing 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

Friends-to-Lovers/Shy!Reader/Eddie Munson (also requested by @mopeymopeymouse & @lunamoons-things)

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), oral (f! receiving), Reader wears a skimpy outfit, insecure Reader, Billy Hargrove is a douche, mentions of drinking, mentions of selling weed

WC: 1.2k

Divider credit to @saradika

“Hey.”

You almost don’t hear him over the sound of music pulsing through the stereo speakers and your own hyperfocus on the drink in your hand. Whatever’s in this jungle juice is strong, but not enough to loosen you up, it seems.

When you look up and see him, concern furrowing his brows, you only offer a weak smile and a soft, “hi.”

“What are you doing out here by yourself?” Eddie asks, leaning next to you, forearms pressed to the patio banister. “Hargrove’s inside.”

You wince at the mention of your boyfriend. “He’s mad at me,” you admit quietly, taking another swig from your Solo cup. Billy’s chastising words echo in your mind: no fucking fun, why can’t you be like the other girls? He was the reason you were wearing this ridiculous outfit–which was basically glorified lingerie poorly disguised as a witch costume. You feel uncomfortable and out of sorts, but Billy had insisted that you wear it, saying that he didn’t want to be the only guy at the party with a prude girlfriend.

He hadn’t noticed you before you’d started tutoring his stepsister, Max, but when he did start paying attention to you, he was a bloodhound. And after a month of secretly dating, he was finally ready to show you off.

Except…

Except the you he wanted people to see was just a facade. He didn’t want the introverted girl who preferred the company of her books and a small group of friends; he wanted someone he could dress up and parade around like a trophy. You were something he’d conquered, not someone he loved.

Eddie doesn’t ask for details; he just shrugs off his denim jacket and rests it over your bare shoulders. “I’m done selling for the night,” he reports, drumming his fingers on the tin box he uses to transport his stash. “You wanna head back to the trailer? Watch a movie and shoot the shit?”

You can’t agree fast enough, scrambling to your feet and climbing in his van. Things have been a bit strained between you two since you got with Billy, but the beauty of being Eddie’s friend is that you fall back into your usual routine without having to try. 

The ride to Forest Hills is fast, especially with Eddie driving like a madman. You both plop onto the couch, Eddie reaching for an open bag of pretzels on the side table and offering you some before taking a handful. 

“I’m so glad you’re done with that asshole,” he says with a mouthful of the snack. “No fuckin’ clue what you saw in him.” When you don’t respond, refusing to meet his gaze, he sighs. “Nope, no way. Do not tell me—”

“What other choice do I have?” you rebut. 

Eddie rolls his eyes, throwing his hands up in defeat. “You could be with someone who doesn’t treat you like crap!”

“Oh, yes,” you scoff, “let me just call one of my many suitors.” Making a big show of standing and traipsing over to where their phone hangs on the wall, you pick up the receiver with feigned exuberance. “That’s right—no one else wants me!” You slam the phone down and cross your arms over your chest. 

“Bullshit!” Eddie bellows, tossing the pretzel bag onto the couch and stomping towards you. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

“Then who—”

You don’t finish your sentence before his lips collide with yours; his hands on your hips pressing you up against the wall. You can taste the lingering cigarette smoke on his tongue; he drinks in whatever vodka-based concoction is on yours. 

He breaks away abruptly, mouth agape in disbelief. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have done that.”

“‘S okay,” you mumble. “Wasn’t half bad for a pity kiss.”

“A pity—no, that wasn’t pity. That was an, ‘I’ve been wanting to do this forever’ kiss.” His fingertips brush against yours. “Let me take care of you,” he murmurs, and when you nod, he leads you to his bedroom. He waits for you to lay on the bed before climbing on top of you, knee nudged between your legs and head nestled into the crook of your neck. His fingers dip below your lace panties, and you freeze up at his touch. “We, um, we don’t have to do this,” he says hurriedly. “Just say the word.”

But you do want this; no, you need this. You need him to show you what true passion looks like, not whatever feigned version Billy had offered. As soon as you give Eddie a breathless, enthusiastic yes, he’s tugging your tiny skirt and lace panties down your legs. The cool air barely hits your pussy before his lips are on it, tongue licking up the center before finding your clit. 

A whine catches in your throat, releasing as a pathetic whimper. You’re so sensitive, so starved for touch. You’ve become acclimated to the way Billy grabs at you, pawing at your ass or breasts as a means to take what he wants, leaving you feeling used and unsatisfied. 

Eddie’s touch is vastly different. Yes, it’s fueled by sexual desire, but it’s too attentive to just be lust. You prop yourself on your elbows and watch him, doe eyes looking up at you to gauge your reaction. “Keep going,” you sigh, flopping back down on the bed, and you can feel his soft laugh on your core. 

He works meticulously, holding a steady pace as you writhe against his face. Your hands grasp the bedsheets in your fists, nearly yanking them off of the mattress as he slides a finger inside you while continuing to lightly suck on your bud. 

A second finger joins the first, pulsing in and out of you eagerly but not frantically. The combination of him filling you up and the way he so desperately craves pleasing you has you hurtling you towards orgasm. Instinctively, you press your lips together to muffle your moans, but Eddie’s having none of that.

“Wanna hear your pretty noises. Pretty noises from my pretty girl,” he says quickly, wasting no time eagerly returning to the task at hand.

“Eddie, Eddie, I’m coming!” you cry out, arching your back as you finish. Eddie brings you down from your euphoric state with a few more kitten licks to your pussy, wiping your slick from his mouth and chin as he climbs up your body and kisses you deeply.

You run your fingers through his hair before it occurs to you: “I can return the favor.” Heat rises to your cheeks; how could you be so selfish and forget about him?

But a shake of his head and a bashful chuckle immediately quell your nerves. “‘S, uh, already taken care of.” And though his denim jeans are black, you can still spot the wet stain pooled at the seam. 

Needless to say, the thought of returning to Billy Hargrove doesn’t even cross your mind.

--

[kali-chaotic-neutral]

What you need to hear right now

Pick an outfit aesthetic and get called out by my Tarot decks

Light Academia Preppy Fairycore Coquette

Disclaimer: This tarot reading is not meant for you to make drastic choices or actions. Take this with a pinch of salt, this is just me giving advice with my sassy decks. Take the advice you want, anything that doesn't resonate, leave it.

My decks are taking turns calling you out on your bullshit, because sometimes delulu is NOT the solulu.

Light Academia:

What is your relationship with money? No, seriously. You're saving and saving money and not using it. And that's good. But there's a thin line between being frugal/not wasting your money and willingly hoarding. The former is being more smart and saving up to benefit you in the future, but the latter comes more from anxiety and fear. You don't want to buy things or spend some money in fear of loosing everything. Hoarding and having this paranoia over money will end up in you loosing it all as the universe will see you unhappy over the money you have that it will take it back and not give it. Not because you don't deserve it, but because the universe thinks that this wealth and money that you're hoarding is putting you in a bad place and it doesn't want that.

Why are you so nervous and hesitant to reveal your projects? It could be a book you're writing, poems, art, anything. Your fear of failure and eventually not letting others see your work will lead to what you fear. Failing. I was there in that place, darling. I feared people would judge me because of what I wrote, how I wrote. Then I showed a couple of my friends and teachers and they LOVED IT! People might not like it, but that doesn't they'll hate it. You'll never you know until you try.

How long are you going to hold onto the fear of failure or maybe years ago when you did fail in something that caused that fear? How long are you going to let the past drag you down? Hold you back from being the writer, the poet, the artist that you are!? The fear will always be there, but would you rather be in a a perpetual state of fear and anxiety or be someone that doesn't have regrets. Because there will be if you hold yourself back like this. Oh, why did I not just enter that poetry contest? Why did I not just show my art to others? Why did I not... Why didn't I... Regrets. Do you want a future full of regrets? No? Change.

You have a habit of being a big talker. Oh, I'll publish my book when I 'm 25. Oh, I'll go to the best art college. Oh this and that and that. But do you work hard to achieve those? I'm a big talker too, I had troubles working up as well. My 11th grade AS Level exams were a wake up call for me. I've passed and am on my way to a good college in a few months. Work hard and smart, don't keep flapping your gums dreaming big. It won't come true unless you work hard enough for it. You're also focusing too hard in perfecting your work to your detriment. Trying to perfect things almost always lead to it being even worse than before. Leave your projects as they are and let someone else, someone you trust look at it. Let them give you input and comments on your work, take those comments as ways to make your work better. Not as flaws they notices.

Once you fix all this shit up, work on yourself and your fears, fast change and movement will come. Maybe you'll finally get into that art college or college. Maybe you'll get that scholarship. But good change is coming. Don't read this and go: oh, good change is coming, I'll just relax a bit—NO!! If you do this the change will be for the worse. The universe will be sending you lessons after lessons if you slack off. Not until you're well off and in that dream house and job.

Slack off and my cards can see bad luck coming, you might lose people in your life due to conflict. Nothing good. There will be family issues that will need your attention, maybe someone is sick or just not feeling well mentally. If you actually work hard, I can see you becoming emotionally mature, and a good and loving figure to yourself and others.

Preppy:

Why are you putting more on your plate than you can eat? Why are you willingly allowing your workload to get heavier and heavier? You're overworked, on the brink of a burn out and yet you're here panicking and loosing sleep over the burden of projects and work you've put upon yourself. Put the other projects aside, do the most important one. And now, I know there is one project that is more important than the others. Evaluate the significance of the work you're doing and do the most important ones. One by one. Don't multitask darling. And stop overburdening yourself. You're letting obstacles get in the way and thus loosing discipline over yourself and loosing sight of your real goal. Take back the reins and steady yourself, focus on the path you want to take and go there.

Due to doing the exact amount of work you're supposed to be, you're able to solely focus on your projects. Cultivating it and making it better and successful. And I can see this as a time of celebration. BUT. Don't let it get to your head. Because if you do and you get cocky, fortune will not favor you. When things go downhill for you, learn from your mistakes and ensure it doesn't happen again.

You're not letting change take place. You're refusing to let this chapter of your life end, because you're afraid what the next chapter holds. LET GO!! Stop trying to extend the pages of this chapter. IT"S OVER. The more you resist, the more the situation will drag and drag. Universe has your back no matter how stubborn you are.

You're doubting yourself. This is impeding you being able to fulfil your highest potential and be your best self. Take a small break from whatever you're doing. Reflect, self evaluate. I've recently begun doing shadow work every night before bed, 3 questions max (you can find on Pinterest) and I do a gratitude journal every morning when I wake up (bullet list of what I'm grateful for). Limit and stop your inner critic, because you become what you think. If someone grows up being called an idiot they'll always think they're an idiot. It won't matter if a few teachers of peers say they're surprisingly smart. Change your mindset, be kinder to yourself. It isn't easy. But you'll get there.

If you continuously drag the past and your insecurities with you, it will lead to more stressful situations, more sadness, failure, a place where you'll be forced to choose. if you don't let these drag you down, you will become the highest version of yourself and someone who is successful and confident and powerful.

Fairycore:

You're not listening to your intuition, or your inner voice. Your intuition is important and should be heard. Maybe you're ignoring red flags in a person, or a situation. You're not listening to yourself and that is not good. You're not facing your inner world or your inner truth. Not wanting to accept or listen, not sure. But it isn't going to do you any good. Withdrawing from your inner world will lead to disbalance. Turn towards your inner self, take care of it. Focus on which part of your life is being unattended, care for it.

You're trying too hard to fit in with the crowd. Going along with the trends, doing what everyone else does, and nothing is wrong with that. There's nothing wrong with going with the flow and doing what is familiar to you, just don't put too much effort into it. Like you know the long line for Stanley Cups? (I think that's what they're called) Like don't be that desperate and plain like the others.

There will be burdens on your mind/mental health due to neglecting your inner voice and thoughts. You will end up bursting and exploding one day and it will lead to guilt and embarrassment. This will lead to you withdrawing within yourself, not wanting to go out. You'll feel tempted to give up and withdraw into yourself. Don't. Plan strategically, be aware of people around you that may not have your best interests at heart. Don't trust blindly, listen to your intuition and gut feeling. Listen and plan.

Once you begin strategically and logically planning, you will be successful (financially) and there will be better relationships in your life (platonic, romantic, etc.) You life will be more harmonious and calm and pleasant and once you've dealt with the people who don't have your best interest at heart, new better friendships will come. SO DON"T GIVE UP B*TCH!!!

Coquette:

You're frustrated because an idea for a project that you have, is not really having the breakthrough that you hoped it would. You're exasperated, tired and annoyed. I would be too. But it won't get better the more annoyed you get. Go back to the planning books/board and read over what you had planned. Proofread it, cut out a few things, add a few things, change a few things. Don't let frustration get to you here. It happens to all of us. The project simply needs a tweak. You're ambition has lead you to rush with this project, that's why it's not going the way you want it to. You've rushed the planning, so the project will be that way. Unsatisfactory. Don't rush headlong into these things, take time to prepare and plan the foundations of the project. It's almost like you're trying to grow up fast. And that's not good. Don't rush the process. Enjoy your life as it is now, before adulthood comes with its imposing responsibilities and expectations. Otherwise you'll live a life looking back into your childhood with regrets.

Because of this regret or stress from jumping into things rashly, it could lead to unhealthy addictions. You falling into darker thoughts. This could lead to times of confusion, where you're lying to yourself. Being delulu and trying to convince yourself it's not that bad. Change. Don't let your delusions get ahold of you, take a break from what you're doing and re-evaluate your work. Once re-evaluated and proper change brought, I can see you getting everything you've ever tried manifesting.

there could be a male figure (either a partner/brother or friend) will be a great help to you in financial matters. Maybe even a beginning of a romance if it is a friend and if it is a partner, maybe your love life will take a next step. ONLY if you work on the issues I've stated

[nourangul]

Bad Habits

Truthfully, I know nothing about Caught Stealing, I have the book on order, but it has to get here before I can get a sense of what his character will be. That didn't stop me from being utterly taken by the Matt Smith Punk Era. So without further ado, a shot in the dark but with nighttime vibes I really like: Red from the upcoming Caught Stealing with Austin Butler.

Divider by Firefly Graphics

It was late, the darkness pressing hard on those still up and about like an oppressive blanket beckoning to sleep. She had yet to go to bed or even attempt to and the need for sleep clawed at her eyes as surely as her tears had.  The lighter clicked alive and left her eyes dazzled as she sparked another cheap fucking cigarette to life. Her ashtray was near full to overflowing, ash dusting the kitchen table that was every bit as cheap as her cigarettes with its new scuffs. Another stupid fight with another stupid boyfriend. Another breakup to add to the fucking list.  Gods, how fucking many times before she fucking learned? And how many fucking times before she stopped calling him? At least Red hadn’t picked up this time, but she still left a message. He was still a bad habit, same as the cheap fucking cigarettes and she had no real want to quitting either.  “Maybe he won’t come or call, maybe he’s finally fucking done with our bullshit.” She murmured to the thick darkness that coated her rundown apartment in silence. It was cheap like everything else, cheap like her, but it was home. Though even she couldn’t find comfort in the silence anymore and went to the record player and her favorite moping album. Venus In Furs by The Velvet Underground crackled over the barely holding on speaker and she let out a sigh of relief. It was her favorite song for late night. She'd gone through so many singles that she’d just bought the entire record… a few times. No matter how dark her thoughts were, this song always got her moving.  And it always seemed to herald a knock at the door.  Like a demon called to some archaic chant, Red always seemed to show up to this song. When she needed him the most—and wished equally hard she didn’t.  And he never denied her the company.  His hair was down and pushed to one side and damp… was it raining? She didn’t know. It didn’t matter as she pulled him inside and slipped into his arms like it was as easy as breathing. He smelled like stale cigarettes, cheap beer, and sweat, the leather jacket needed a good cleaning, but she didn’t care. He was big, warm, strong and… Her complete weakness. Always and ever in his arms. Always and never under him making her barely big enough bed squeak and bang against the wall.  When she kissed him, he tasted like home with an edge of salt from her own tears.  “Stay, Red? Even if it’s just until morning.” She wasn’t begging, nor exactly… but she was close. Dignity didn’t factor when she was pressed against him. Something soft and chilled against a heated brick wall.  “We gotta stop meeting like this��makes me wanna fucking kill whatever idiot made you cry like this.” He was gruff and his voice was low and he’d make good on the threat. Somehow, it was funny. Just a little bit.  “Even if the idiot is you, sometimes?” He shook his head and held her face in his hands. A slice of warm heaven.  “You ever gonna let me be your fucking idiot, babe? Or am I just a bad habit?” Her eyes were dark as the song ended and she laid her chilly hands atop his.  “Maybe you can be born. Ask me in the morning, Red. Right now, I’ll make you promises I can’t keep and you deserve better than that from me.” They both knew that was a lie. She’d make good on every single promise he pulled out of her. She always had. 

Bonus punk Matty:

[annie-creates]

Stupid test mark

Pairing: Lady Lesso x reader (platonic)

Genre: fluff

Words: 800

Note: This request probably took me longer than it shoud have but I hope you'll still like it. Thank you so much for trusting me with it.

The school year was nearing it’s end, which meant the professors put twice as much pressure on you. You could hardly count all the assignments and tests in the last few weeks. You wanted to do good, even better since you studied at the school of evil and it’s students were notoriously known for bad grades and behavior. You wanted to get all the best marks and shove it down the good students’ throats. Your striving was deemed half useless by the grade you got in deadly potions class however. You did your best to study and prepare for the exam, but apparently your best still wasn’t good enough to get at least a C+.

It was all you could think about when you read your books long into the night or absentmindedly rummaged through the food on your plate. Even your skin got paler than usual thanks to the lack of sleep and nutrition. Something the Evers picked on you for. As you went from one class to another, you could hardly pay attention being too concerned with what other grades and classes you could screw up in. You didn’t want your overall mark to drop even more, yet every time you tried to focus on your studies the C- was right in front of your eyes, mocking you and reminding you that you failed and will never be good enough again.

“Y/l/n!” Lady Lesso slammed her cane into your table startling you. “Would you mind paying attention in my class!?”

“I… I’m sorry miss.” You were too intimidated to even look her in the eyes, opting to point your sight into the table instead.

“Eyes on the blackboard.” She warned you, not in the mood to have to reprimand you again.

You did what she said, keeping your eyes on the lecture even through the stinging feeling in them. The last thing you wanted was to disappoint your dean. You already felt like a failure, you didn’t need anyone else to think so about you too. You wanted people to be proud of you, to say “this Never made it in life”. You wanted to be adored and admired, not made fun of and picked on. This all swirled in your mind so loudly you didn’t even notice the ring bell announcing the end of class.

“Y/n?” Lady Lesso called out to you with a noticeably lighter tone. “You seem to be quite unpresent today. Mind enlightening me on why that is?”

“I’m sorry, I just have a lot on my mind. I didn’t want to get distracted in your class.” You tried to avoid any confrontation.

“Nonsense. You are one of my best students and you always pay attention, what got you so unfocused?” Lesso pressed you a bit.

“Well… I got a really bad grade from my potions exam. I studied really hard, but turns out my best isn’t good enough. I’m a failure.” You admitted avoiding her sight.

“Oh my. Do you think I’m bad at my job?” The dean challenged you with a pointed look.

“Uh, what? No, of course not!” How could she think that based on what you said?

“Then where do you get the audacity to say that the best of my Nevers is a failure?” she folded her hands over her chest.

“Um… I… I don’t…” you were at a complete loss of words.

“Don’t you ever think about saying such bullshit again.” Lesso put a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” You apologize for like a third time in the last five minutes.

“You are one of the most talented Nevers I’ve seen in a long time. You could be the reason Evil strikes a win once again. I know that’s a lot of pressure for a young mind like yours, but I wouldn’t be saying it if I wasn’t convinced you can handle it.” Lady Lesso declared with a deep look straight into your eyes.

“I… thank you Lady Lesso.” You didn’t really know what to say to all the expectations she had from you, but you hoped to live up to them.

“There’s no need to thank me. You have great things ahead of you, things some stupid test mark can’t take away.” She winked at you, building your confidence up. “Now, I want you to forget about some foolish potions class and focus on the things you have coming up. I have no doubt you’ll be graduating this year on the top of your class with the progress you’ve made.”

“I will. Thank you.” You nod with a sincere smile and leave her class much more enthusiastic.

If Lady Lesso thought you are the one to do great things in life, who were you to say otherwise? She surely must know what she’s talking about.

[sgiandubh]

Saw your comment: "We're not all thirsty mommies, nor 12, nor bitter bitches. I'd love to see and hear more about what is beneath that mask, not beneath that shirt." Sam has done that before. He wrote an entire book about his journey but the book is called bullshit and he a liar. He's written well-thought out articles and forewords to books. He speaks intelligently and passionately and knowledgably about his liquors and the process of getting to market, and is called a shill. His work with Prickly Thistle is expensive and taking peoples' money, even when it helped this woman-owned mill immensely. It goes on and on. Today he's been accused of hypocrisy for a plastic cup, thirst trapping to change a conversation and using his social media as a PR tool to fool gullible women. Some may want to see beneath the mask but when he's shown what he is willing to you get the above.

Dear Hypocrisy Anon,

Thank you for your thoughts. I have read your long comment very carefully and let's say I agree with about 85% of it. The itching point is, of course, the book: Waypoints is a good ghostwritten memoir I have commented at length, with a more benevolent view than most of those who found it took some substantial liberty with what they (and I, for that matter) think it's the current state of play in SC Land. Note I am not saying the truth: that's only for Them to know, not for us. So dismissing it and calling everything a lie is a bit of a stretch. It's just a memoir, to be followed by other projects, other books. And who knows, another memoir, later on, where he could correct the course again at his convenience. He's only 43. Give the man some credit.

Trouble is, the world is a vast and diverse place. It's not just this fractured fandom. If he wants to remain relevant beyond OL, he needs, in my humble opinion, two things: a) to score a big role in a big budget production, which would improve his notoriety and help him reach a different public and b) curate his personal image a bit more and get out of this midlife crisis fake character he's peddling around. The only people who find it interesting are the thirsty mommies in *urv's crowd and that's, uhm... a bit irrelevant, in the big scheme of things.

So, no more political blunders, please and thank you. Shut the hell up and play Switzerland on complicated and divisive society issues which can get one in boiled water for a comma. Carefully picked and curated CSR projects, he'd ideally be more actively involved in. And yes, maybe a bit more transparency on the so many great things he does, like that partnership with the Edinburgh's Youth Theatre he didn't even mention himself or include in his stories (no doubt, out of a very British and endearing sense of modesty). And always remember: when faced with something beautiful and fragile, like that story, people will try their best to smear it and break it. I am not bitter, just realistic.

Same goes for your conclusion: I am sure many would like to see more of what is beneath that mask. It's too bad that a bunch of bitter, nasty, clueless, but also very noisy women occupy a bigger part of the stage than they should.

But have faith, Anon. For the moment, all of this is nothing what a good PR, not the clowns he obviously hired, can't fix with relative ease. Trust me. I've seen way worse. And remember, always remember what dear Wilde (God, I love that soul!) said: 'every saint has a past and every sinner has a future'.

You just gave me an idea for a future post and for this, I thank you, Anon. But for now, I have to catch up on a thing or two, rather than determine the morality of a plastic glass. I hope this long answer helps somewhat. Thank you for dropping by: it was a pleasure reading your musings.

[harcove]

Stargazer - B.H.

a/n not a request, because... idk man, i have so many things im in the middle of writing for billy rn, and i had this one in my noggin for a while because i swear i remember somewhere dacre said smthing about it would be cool to see another side of billy- like with a girl just... in a field- cuties. or maybe... i made that up in my head besties idk, but here u go

length: 2.6k

pairing: billy x reader

warnings: no; mention maybe of billy's father and to trauma/abuse. maybe badly written billy im not too confident with this one lmao

summary: billy and you sneak into the hawkins high school football field and look at the stars

The air outside was considerably cooler than it had been during the day, and even then it had already been rather nippy out. The autumn air crisp as the months crawled slowly towards December, towards winter. Maybe a bit chilly for you to be laying in an open field in the middle of the night, but Billy Hargrove didn't seem to care; especially not when he was the one who snuck the two of you into Hawkins High schools football field.

You weren't even sure you had a football team. It was used for soccer and running track. It would be better to refer to it as a soccer field.

"Goddamn it's fucking cold," Billy grumbles, as he jumps down the fence, watching as you take the easier route (for you at least); the small hole that the school had yet to repair in the fencing in a bottom corner; too small for Billy to fit through, but just big enough you could wriggle your way through, "mind reminding me why I agreed to this bullshit?"

"I dunno," the smile is evident in your voice as you finally end up on the right side of the fence, picking yourself up off the dirt ground as Billy looks down at you, hands in his pockets. You use his bent arm to pull yourself up and you can feel the way he stiffens his body to compensate for the weight of your pulling, so neither of you fall, "But it's really not that bad."

"Not that bad?" his brows raise almost comically, and he blinks; his bright blue eyes looking at you like you're insane, "Not that fuckin' bad, huh?"

He breathes out, a bit harsher on purpose, and a plume of air appears in front of the two of you. It's just cold enough that your breath can be seen in front of you, like tiny little clouds of mist; a constant and subtle reminder that the seasons were close to changing once more, Autumn would soon blend into Winter.

Also, a constant reminder for Billy that he was no longer in California.

The sudden thought put a damper on his mood and it was visible in his body language and facial expressions. Billy Hargrove was so much more of an open-book than he realized sometimes. When it came to emotions like anger, or hatred, they showed themselves like black ink on a white page; strikingly. They were two emotions that coincided with one another; and they were the emotions he felt most often and most deeply. Being sad was weak (his father really beat that into him, physically and metaphorically) and being happy? He wasn't sure he could feel happy anymore. Too much anger. Too much hatred.

But then, when he looks at you, everything felt less harsh- his chest doesn't feel as heavy, his body isn't as on fire from a rage deep within; and there is something there. Something that maybe could be happiness. If he let it build, if he worked on it. If he just let it happen.

Easier said than done.

You can feel the way Billy slips away from the moment, noticing the way the dirty blonde sunk deeper into his own head, his face losing any of it's previous sarcasm and maybe even slight amusement, you clear your throat. Better than touching him, because you can't really be sure where his thoughts are in these moments exactly, and you'd seen more than enough to know what his father is like.

"Yeah, not that bad," you repeat, a sly smirk graces your lips as you walk backwards from him, taking big steps to reach the wide open field, your eyes adjusted to the darkness at this point, "you're just being a baby."

Mission successful. Even at the distance you've created between the two of you, you can see the way his face morphs. It's not anger, not like some might think it would be at being called a name; it's light-hearted when you say it, and only you can say it. He'll get back at you. He always does. Sometimes sooner rather than later; and now it's sooner.

The sound that comes from his lips isn't exactly a laugh, it's more of a scoff; a laugh of disbelief as he watches you get further away. His tongue juts out, wetting his lips, a slight shake of his head; eyes zoning in on you perfectly.

"Baby?" he sounds defiant, mock-angry. You just shrug your shoulders, shouting back at him, 'yeah' before waving your arms in the air, "You're fuckin' asking for it."

Billy is fast. He would be, considering how he likes to work out and stay fit; his place on the basketball team for Hawkin's high school shines through in moments like this where he starts running towards you; in turn you turn to face forward, starting to run yourself towards the centre of the field. It's a futile effort to run from Billy Hargrove. He's always going to catch you. He's fast. And he doesn't let up.

You squeal when he suddenly grabs you, slamming his body into your own with his arms around your middle, picking you up with easy and throwing himself onto the ground with you to boot. The laughter bubbles up in your throat as you try to catch your breath, winded and filled with adrenaline. You can hear it before you see it; the laugh from him, the smile in his laugh. It's not a laugh like yours, one that is full-bodied and hard to catch your breath too- it's more like a burst of laughter that he brings back down to control. But it's still a laugh.

You've heard it before. But never like this. He's laughed when he's been angry, he's laughed but it's been fake and calculated. But now he laughs and it isn't thought out beforehand. It isn't in disbelief or anger.

His strength and heavy-handedness is only amplified when he tosses you off him from where he took the brunt of his purposeful fall to the ground, quickly flipping you over without much time for you to think about what's happening. It's only when he's hovering over you with a hand digging into your hip- not enough to hurt you, but enough to know damn well it's there.

"Now," he breathes out, his warm breath a stark contrast from the crisp autumn night, "What was it you called me...?"

Mischief swims in your eyes as you stare directly into the prettiest blue you think you've ever seen. Everything about Billy is pretty. He is so beautiful, in every way, but he hates when you say that. He prefers words like hot, or sexy. But he can't hide his red tipped ears when you say he's beautiful or pretty.

He deserves to know he's not just some object for women to oggle at. He's a beautiful human being. He's Billy.

"Ba...by," you huff out, still trying to catch your breathe. The rise and fall of you chest makes contact with Billy's, showing just how close he is to you right now.

His lips crash onto yours. Hungry. Heavy. Angry? No... Needy. But also, vengeful. If you weren't already winded, you are definitely winded now as all thoughts escape you; the need to breathe becoming a secondary thought. Why breathe when you have him? He makes you feel alive. He makes all the bad things in Hawkins just... Stop. Like the stars in the sky, he may disappear, he might go away for some time but he's still always there. He's...

He bits into your lip.

It elicits a muffled cry from you as you push against his chest, his mouth leaving yours.

And he has the audacity to look at you, mock-confusion on his face, breathing much more normal paced compared to your own. It makes you wanna pinch him. But you don't, instead you settle on glaring at him in the dark.

"Someone's being a baby," he throws it back at you with ease, rolling off you when you push him off. To be fair, you didn't have the strength to push him off, he's just giving you one by rolling off of you anyways. A thump when he hits the grass beside you.

Pouting is useless since he can't even see it now that he's looking at the sky, but you do it anyway. It's the principle of the thing you suppose.

It's quiet. The only sound being a cricket here or there, and the sound of your breathing mixed with his own. Your finally able to regulate your breathing and bring it back to normal. You wish you had a drink, but that's not a big deal for now. The cool air entering your lungs feels good, a balm to the burn from your previous silliness.

"At least your warm now, right?" You offer up the words after a few more beats of silence.

He snorts.

"There's better ways to get warm and stay warm."

You know what he's implying and you hit his shoulder softly with your fingers.

"No. Not in public."

He doesn't respond to that. He really would do anything with you right there, but contrary to what others seemed to believe, he was rather respectful of your boundaries when it came to these things. That didn't mean he wasn't going to tease you.

"Can't believe I'm with a goddamn prude. Its the middle of the damn night."

Like that.

"It's not being a prude!" You focus your attention on the sky, "now just... Look."

He lets out a heavy breath.

The reason you wanted to come out here in the first place. The night sky, filled with stars.

Hawkins wasn't a big city or more populated place like California, it was a small town. Light pollution wasn't really a thing here as it would be in big cities. You took it for granted till you visited your aunt and uncle one year in New York, where the light pollution was rampant. Seeing a star there was nigh impossible.

But Hawkins? The sky was littered with so many little stars, stars you could see perfectly. You could make out some and the vast dark that went on forever. It made you feel oddly melancholic. Sometimes you wished you could reach up, touch them, and join them up there. So small in the grand scheme of things. A reminder of just how large the universe was. Just how... Insignificant you were in the grand scheme of things.

And that was okay. Sometime, you need to be reminded that you're just one person in a world of billions, you're small, and not everything needs to be on your shoulders.

You wanted Billy to feel that. Feel the weight of the world drift away as the stars reminded you, you're only human. Just a small, little human.

"That's the big dipper," you reach your arm up to point at the cluster of stars forming the measuring cup like shape in the sky, "I only know it because it was the only one I could find when I was a kid."

"Still the only one you can find?"

"Uh, no," you matter-of-factly say, moving to point towards another cluster, "there's the little dipper."

"Damn," he mocks, "the little one too?"

You giggle, wiggling closer to Billy's side, seeking his warmth and just his presence in general.

"Still don't get why we couldn't do this when it's warmer. I'm not giving you my damn jacket, you still haven't given me back the other fucking one."

That's true. But he doesn't complain too much. You always bring it back to him, and it somehow always ends up back with you anyways.

"Because, you can see the stars better when it's colder."

"Bullshit," you see his breath when he speaks, "That's the biggest crock of shit I've ever heard."

"No its not!" You don't actually know that. You just said it, because you've always found you see the stars the best when it's colder. Maybe it's because you usually look up at the sky most during this time of year, when the sky darkens so much quicker than in the summer.

Once more, the conversation lulls to a stop, it's a easy silence that settles between you, one that feels comfortable and safe. Something about being with Billy feels safe, it always does. You can only hope that it's the same for him; that being with you is a safe place for him. Or someday, it will be.

He deserves at least one person, one place, in his life that's safe.

You wriggle close enough to the man that you can rest your head on his shoulder and you do so with ease, but you can feel his shoulder stiffen for a moment before it relaxes. It's just you. He's fine with you.

Much to your pleasure he moves the arm of the shoulder you placed your head on out from beneath you, snaking it around your shoulder to force you closer to him with a single tug. It brings you close enough to Billy that your practically on top of him. When you settle yourself comfortably, one leg hiked up across his torso, with your body pressed against his side and your head close to his heart- his hand leaves your shoulder and travels to your waist. He squeezes the flesh on your hip, causing you to jump slightly.

You know he enjoys how you react.

And you like how it feels.

Laying there, beside him, felt right. It felt like this was where you were meant to be. The cold air didn't matter, the hard grass beneath you didn't change anything. It felt so cliché, to lay under the stars beside a handsome boy- the quote en quote bad boy, as if there was nothing else in the world but the two of you.

You really felt you could stay there forever. Be with him forever.

"You fallin' asleep?" When he speaks you feel the vibrations from his chest, "you fall asleep, your on your damn own."

He doesn't mean that. You know that, he knows that. You breathe in his cologne, savouring it before releasing a long breathe.

"I'm not... I'm just," you pause, voice quiet, strikingly different to how it had been before when you were running from him as a joke. If it wasn't so quiet already, your voice may have been carried away with the wind, "Happy."

You aren't surprised when at first, Billy has nothing to say to that.

Billy is turning this over in his head. Happy. You were... Happy. Happy to be there with him, happy to lay on a dirt and grass in the middle of the night with him. Happy. You were happy.

He didn't think he could make anyone happy. That anyone could be happy with him. It was scary. It scared him; how long could he keep that going? How long till something happened, till he did something and ruined everything. Before he ruined your happiness; ruined you. Was it selfish for him to keep you with him, even knowing that he could ruin everything? Was it unfair to want to have you despite his own fears and issues... Maybe, but Billy Hargrove did not care.

He'd be as selfish as he damn pleased.

"A prude, and a goddamn crackpot. At least you're easy to please."

You swear you can hear a soft edge in his voice as he speaks, even if it's hard to catch, like it's barely there. But you can hear it. You pull yourself closer to him, if it's even possible to do at this point.

Yeah, you think, you could stay there forever with him. And he thinks, maybe he could too.

[steddieasitgoes]

@steddiemas Day 30: Smut Themed Sentence Starters

I ended up using two sentences: "Who needs a sleigh ride when I can ride you instead" and "Is that a candy cane in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

Tags: Established Relationship, Implied Smut, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Eddie Munson Is A Menace, Steve Harrington Is A Romantic

wc: 1345 | Rating: M

Read on ao3 | ao3 collection

Steve is a hopeless romantic.

Always has been and probably always will be.

Eddie pretends to hate it, but Steve knows the truth. That under all that leather and loud music is a giant teddy bear who swoons every time Steve shows up with a fresh bouquet of flowers or a pack of his favorite cigarettes from Melvalds.

Everyone else may be fooled, but not Steve.

Which is why Steve has to pull out all the stops for their first winter together as a couple.

He set the bar high last year when they were just friends and now he has to top it. Not because Eddie’s expecting it or anything, but because he wants to. Eddie deserves it. And honestly, so does Steve.

After watching hours of romantic holiday movies and driving around the local towns to see what winter activities they have to offer, Steve draws up the plan. He rents a small cabin two towns over where the snow is already two feet deep with more on the way and buys tickets to all the fun events the town has to offer. Well, almost all of the events. Ice skating is out of the question after last year’s incident left them both battered, bruised, and so sore they could barely get out of their own beds for the Hopper-Byers New Year’s Eve party.

So far, the vacation is everything Steve hoped it would be. They’ve played in the snow, eaten the best apple pie he’s ever gotten his hands on, and strolled around town whispering judgments about the over-the-top Christmas decorations people have outside their houses. They’ve also made themselves comfortable in the cabin — breaking in the bed and the couch and maybe even the indoor hot tub once or twice.

But today is the real showstopper. The grand finale to their little winter weekend getaway and the entire reason Steve booked this place in the first place.

They’re going on a reindeer-pulled sleigh ride through the picturesque snowy terrain of the town.

Or at least they’re supposed to be going on a reindeer-pulled sleigh ride.

“What do you mean you double booked?”

“It seems we accidentally scheduled you and another party for the two o’clock sleigh ride,” the woman behind the counter says. She’s older, graying hair pulled back in a neat bun and thin glasses falling down the bridge of her nose. Steve glares as her lips turn up in what is supposed to be an apologetic smile as she continues. “Since the other party included children, we assumed you wouldn’t mind giving up your spot for a refund.”

“Well, you assumed wrong,” Steve snaps, hands slamming down on the desk a bit more forceful than he had hoped. “You didn’t even give me a courtesy call to let me know of the cancelation.”

“We were just about to do that.”

“Bullshit! My reservation was scheduled for ten minutes ago. If you were going to call you would have done it the moment you realized your mistake.”

“I am sorry for the inconvenience Mr. Harrington but we only realized the error when the other family checked in early.”

“So if I was allowed to check in early like I tried to do, you would have let us keep our reservation?” Steve asks, growing more and more irritated by the second.

He and Eddie have been freezing their balls off for almost an hour now outside of the rustic shop. Even bundled up in their winter coats, beanies, and hand-knitted scarf and mitten set from Claudia hasn't been enough to keep them warm. It’s why he sent Eddie off in the direction of the hot chocolate stand while he tried to work his charm and get them into an earlier slot.

“Well, no, that’s not what I’m saying, but—“

“This is ridiculous,” Steve huffs, tugging at the hem of his scarf. “I booked this trip specifically for this sleigh ride and now you’re telling me I can’t go on it.”

“I understand your disappointment Mr. Harr—“

“Stop calling me that!” If there’s one thing Steve hates more than being unjustly inconvenienced it’s being referred to be his surname. He doesn’t need to be reminded of the man he shares his name with. Not now, not ever.

“Um, sorry…” the woman trails off and glances down at her schedule. “Steve. I can offer you a voucher for the trouble. Unfortunately, we are booked up for the rest of the week.”

“Keep the voucher and shove it,” Steve hisses before shoving himself away from the counter.

It takes him a minute to reign in his anger as he stomps his way toward Eddie. He’s sitting on a bench holding two cups of hot chocolate. Judging by the way his body shivers, they’re not doing much to keep him warm.

“Uh oh,” Eddie says, setting the cups aside when Steve gets closer. “I don’t like that frown.”

“Yeah, well, get used to it. Gladys over there fucked with our reservation,” Steve sneers, plopping down on the bench. “Said they doubled booked us and voided our reservation to give to some couple with kids because she “figured I wouldn’t mind.” Of course, I fucking mind!”

“Oh sweetheart,” Eddie sighs, tugging Steve until he’s tucked securely under his left arm. “M’sorry. She sounds like a bitch.”

“Those kids aren’t even going to remember the sleigh ride when they’re older! But we would have!”

Eddie nods in agreement, nuzzling his cheek into the soft cotton of Steve’s beanie. The contact is almost enough to extinguish Steve’s anger. Almost.

“Now the vacation is ruined.”

“And you say I’m a drama queen,” Eddie teases, pulling away and twisting on the bench to face Steve. He tucks one leg under him and lets the other dangle off the bench before joining their hands together as best he can given they’re still wearing mittens. “Our vacation is not ruined. It’s been fun. Maybe our best one yet.”

“Yeah, well it could have been even better.”

“Oh come on,” Eddie tsks, squeezing his hand. “Who needs a sleigh ride when I can ride you instead.”

“Eddie!” Steve gapes. He can feel what little heat is in his body crawling its way to his cheeks, turning them a bright shade of red if he had to guess.

“Or you could ride me,” Eddie says, before leaning forward. He gets his lips on the shell of Steve’s ear before continuing, “You know I’m not picky.”

Suddenly the blood rushing to his face takes a detour traveling down, down, down until it settles in his dick. Steve can feel it twitch at Eddie’s word and the feeling of his warm breath against his ear.

“You’re a menace.”

Eddie hums, glancing around to make sure no one is watching them before letting his hand drift to Steve’s lap. He moves slowly at first, teasing him until his hand finally settles on the apparent bulge in his pants.

“M’ you like it though, don’t ya big boy,” Eddie says, giving an experimental squeeze before pulling his hand away completely. When Steve looks up, he’s staring at him with those big round mischievous eyes of his. “Is that a candy cane in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

Steve groans both in pleasure and in exasperation. He buries his head in the crook of Eddie’s neck for a moment before pulling away. “You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

“Hey, it put a smile on your face didn’t it.”

It did. Though, if he’s honest with himself, Eddie always puts a smile on his face. Even when he’s being an annoying, teasing, little shithead. Leaning forward to close the distance, Steve gives him a quick kiss on the lips before pulling away.

“Christ, your lips are freezing.”

“Better take me inside and warm me up.”

Steve gets himself on his feet before turning around to offer a hand to Eddie. “Come on then, I think I know just how to get you nice and warm, baby.”

[shygirl4991]

SMG3 Sussy Notebook

ima tag smg3 sussy notebook spoilers and have the pics of the notebook under read more so you can pick if ya wanna see the notebook! These are highlights and not every page!

now that we have the pw for club penguin we can all log in and get all the cool skins, honestly i feel if mario just guess the password it wouldnt take him long to get it xD be faster then stealing the notebook and all

ah yes the start of the worlds longest slowburn its a super funny thought that right out the usb he gets his notebook and goes this bitch here ima make him my life rival

oh shit shout out to these two that showed up in SMG3 Gauntlet of gloom

suuuure buddy keep telling yourself that, seems even tho SMG3 marked him as his rival and hated him over what happen in college he still wanted to hang out with 4 and be friends but its not like he cares or anything...baka!

lmao the censor on what happen in the igloo ah yes nothing but hugging happen there nothing to M rated xD im guessing the real book in universe might have it a bit more detail given the big deal it was for wotfi 2023

we really dont talk about that hug

did...did i call it in my fic that this man legit is crazy about beans and hot sauce im dying i guess when your the bad guy with low budget for food you get use to the good classic beans and hot sauce

oh honey thats not how that works xD this man is smart but also oh so dumb i think he gets that from his avatar that and he is a few years fresh from the usb Update: @alianarepasa let me know its from a mad max episode i manage to miss it was a fun watch and now i understand what this means xD these peeps really went wild without internet poor toad

pifft im guessing he has masters degree specialized in psychology? other wise idk how he is a psychologist and he seems to be a good one from what we have seen but who knows he could be bullshitting his way through how evil xD

both our boys are ready to ride forklifts into the sunset someone draw this please xD

im laughing i guess SMG3 isnt much a fan of boopkins but seems he really enjoys being with the crew he wont say it but im sure he is a happy bean to finally be with the cool kids after years of being jealous.

he says but give this man eggdog or eggdog memes and he becomes Tari in a second

hey lads we found the page from SMG4 We Dont Talk About What Happened in the Elevator

he wants a castle but ended up with a sick lair in a coffee shop i think thats better!

okay putting my shipping heart away this is so interesting to me like he starts off thinking 4 is a loser and makes him his rival then gets jealous he has these friends and he isnt apart of them. We know SMG3 is lonely and lost as he doesn't know his purpose before becoming lord of the graveyard now being apart of the crew and now knowing who is he, SMG3 is much happier and closer to the crew. But the way he writes this feels like he likes the close contact with 4 and while he doesnt want to admit it could it be he legit does have romantic feelings? idk i feel these past episodes and this part really gets me thinking they have something here to really make smg34 canon naturally and not have the way they act with each other be to different might go more into this later.

this sparks joy thank you for including this and thats it for my ted talk thanks for reading again this is just my highlights i dont want to post the whole notebook here just stuff that gets my mind going!

[bonefall]

How are we feeling at the book finale? Because outside of the Sunbeam girlboss moment telling Berryheart just how bad of a family she was AND maybe possibly foreshadowing her rejecting Nightheart, I think we miiiight get some more Dark Forest cats than planned before :D (also I may be wrong but- didn't Podlight have children? Would he even be eligible as Medicine Cat in BB?)

Podlight's totally eligible in BB! He has no canon children and I didn't give him any. In BB there's also an interesting quirk in that Podlight is notoriously Mistystar's... not EXACTLY a good-for-nothing grandson, but a bit of a "fratboy" working through daddy issues. Is is extra funny for this cat to be a villain lmao.

Also: Better Bones RiverClan Family Tree

Anyway... my thoughts on the spoiler thread's ending. Mostly negative, unfortunately. I am really hoping that a lot of this is misrepresentation.

I've enjoyed every book of ASC that's come out so far, but if this thread is accurate, this is going to be the first one that I actively dislike. It sounds like there was a serious nosedive in quality.

ON THE ENDING; Park Cats, and The Berryheart Gathering.

Park Cats.

It is profoundly frustrating to me that we had TWO traveling books in this arc. Do they not know by now that traveling books are widely detested for a reason??

Frostpaw and Nightheart were AWAY FROM THE CONFLICT for most of this book, what the fuck?

The plot barely advanced at all. There's been one major conflict in this entire arc, the invasion of RiverClan, and we are 4/6ths of the way through without any other major battles. This is boring.

Riverstar is a major character through this bullshit, now with a magical perfect connection to Frostpaw through plot convenience so he can give her tutorial tips, because GOD FORBID we have a more grounded story for once. I'm so sick of DOTC fanservice. Was a super edition not enough?!

And speaking of Riverstar's Home, they pretty clearly ripped a lot of inspiration out of it. Frostpaw and Nightheart go on a journey with random human-related shenanigans before finding a cardboard cutout of a culture

I'm not gonna lie guys. I do not like the Park Cats. I HAVE TO SAY; It's a step in the right direction

They are not demonized. They are treated as good and legitimate. They are seen as having wisdom and living peacefully.

This is Good. This is Fine.

(im still kind of mad they needed riverstar to come save them back in riverstar's home, like every non-clan culture does apparently, but HOKAY fine ok it's fine)

.....butt.

They're boring. guys, they have one thing that is unique to them, and it's meditation. They live in perfect peace and harmony. there's nothing there.

It's easy to be a perfect, peaceful society if you have no conflict ever.

IF THE SPOILER THREAD IS ACCURATE, we don't see them address strife, how they DO handle disputes, what DOES happen when a cat engages in "criminality," or even really see what their spiritual beliefs are besides "meditating"

And that's why the idea of Frostpaw taking away a good lesson from living with them strikes me as so hollow. WHAT is she taking from them? JUST vague, quiet meditation?? Why couldn't Riverstar just magically teach her that?

It also bothers me that this culture is exactly the same as it was in Riverstar's Home. It's in stasis. Nothing has changed, nothing has grown, they haven't picked up new customs. They don't even seem to have their own history besides remembering that Riverstar showed up generations ago.

It's not a culture, it's a plot device.

I swear, I'm really trying to like them, but RH left this really sour taste in my mouth and them showing up again in this book has only made me more frustrated.

I AM happy that we're going to maybe start trying to address the violence of Clan Culture, but it is coming in the middle of a book where nothing fucking happens, and they're starting to fumble the bag on the xenophobic radicalization that I'd been praising in the past few books

And by that, I'm referring to...

Berryheart's Gathering

through the books so far, I've been praising the slow rise of tension coming from the radicalized members of ShadowClan.

I think the way that Berryheart and her little Concern Club had been slowly escalating in their bigotry and violence was (and remains) unironically fantastic.

We had started off with it just being a group to "discuss the issues," which evolved into active bullying and harassment, progressed into attempted murder, and we left off on the idea that Berryheart's Hate Group was planning something with RiverClan's murder party.

And we are reaching a turning point in that arc, the payoff of a long and well-laid escalation, with...

normal democracy.

berryheart and her supporters approach puddleshine reasonably with their concerns and intent to call for a vote to depose tigerheartstar. doing the thing the fucking code addition was made for

This comes AFTER Sunbeam has a Girlboss Moment telling off Berryheart for being a bad mom in front of the whole gathering and everyone claps, mind you, so this is clearly supposed to be the narrative's big "oooo consequences for Berryheart" moment

So anyway Berryheart brings up that they want tigerHeartstar deposed, and then Puddleshine's like "haHA THIS WAS A ROUSE"

"Actually I only told you i agree to point out how this code addition can be exploited over a disagreement with ONE issue!!!!1"

i just...

im......

would Brokenstar training babies be One Issue? Would Bramblefake being a bully to his entire clan be One Issue? Would Leopardstar allowing Tigerstar to take over RiverClan be One Issue?

One Issue....

And MIND YOU I'm Pro-tigerHeartstar, actually, but the WHOLE fucking point of the rule is that you can depose someone who is not acting in the best interest of the Clans. Fym ONE ISSUE??

IT'S A BIG ASS ISSUE!

So anyway Berryheart is embarrassed in front of everyone, tigerHeartstar tells the group, "You're going to support me or get out of my Clan"

All of her supporters fall in line, but Berryheart chooses exile.

So Berryheart and her group isn't punished for the hate crimes, it didn't lead to anyone getting actually hurt, this faction of cats just settled back down and Berryheart alone was exiled for political opposition to occupation.

not the hate crimes

GOTTA STRESS

The hate crimes did not cause lasting damage, the radicalized group did not cause any violence at this gathering

Berryheart is exiled for political opposition to occupation.

The consequence she faces for the hate crimes was simply not having her son Spireclaw back her up because she caused trouble for Fringewhisker. Like it's on the same level as being a bad in-law and not ATTEMPTED MURDER BASED ON BIGOTRY

And tigerHeartstar, jesus christ

His consistent trait has been becoming unreasonable WHEN HIS FAMILY IS THREATENED. WHY are we tossing this out the window now?

I REALLY REALLY hope that the spoiler thread is misrepresentation, and tigerHeartstar didn't ACTUALLY exile her but said something like, "this is what we're doing. don't like it, leave. you don't have the votes"

SO FOR NOW; I'm going to reserve judgement on what the writers are doing with tigerHeartstar.

This seems like the exact sort of thing that may be worded in an inaccurate way

But that said,

I'm beside myself with disappointment in this turn of events. Why is this about legitimate political proceedings? Why did they make the CULMINATION of this arc about bigoted violence and radicalization a legitimate, peaceful attempt to use the process THEY JUST ADDED, FOR THIS EXACT PURPOSE?

Anyway, then it ends on a cliffhanger

Podlight claims to be the new medcat, pointed out as just being a political maneuver, to appoint Splashtail as the new leader.

Frostpaw watches on in shock and thinks about how bad it is that a murderer is now in charge of RiverClan, and how no one would believe her if she told them all now

I sure hope the next book contains something worth reading. like a fight or something. in the battle cat series. in the arc where theyre trying to say something about violence.

[drdemonprince]

autistic anon here again, thanks for fielding my question, you're a real one for not all toxic positivity on it. i guess i should've formulated things better, because i didn't mean to imply being completely wrapped up in decision paralysis to the point of doing nothing. that's a mental hurdle i've cleared a long time ago, so shit gets done. i have a few emails sitting in my inbox of fundraisers i helped with that closed out, and it;s making me emotional just thinking about it.

there's a weird disconnect between knowing that you're just one person (and that's something i actually like, i'm no-one special, that's a very freeing thought), and fully feeling it. because somewhere there's always a nagging worry i could do more. as true as it is, reminding yourself you're doing what you can feels like a convenient self-soothing lie when you're in the pit of a bad night. probably the calvinist whispering poisons in your ear. (being afraid of falling in the trap of slacktivism or just reposting everything as a signal boost and patting myself on the back for a job well done, amongst them. which is BS, but knowing isn't believing.)

i mentioned the autistic part for a reason, because community is something i've never quite experienced and only understand in the abstract. like those fundraisers i helped with many, many other people, that's a community effort and i'm proud i could contribute my little bit. translating that to in-person efforts has been a big ??? though. it's not very parseable or approachable to me.

i hadn't quite grokked this as all being part of shame, i have your book sitting here and have read it a while, probably should reread it.

Hey, thanks for writing back! I hear from people of all levels of engagement, from having never done anything to like dedicated black bloc hard core mother fuckers so it's hard to gauge from a single message what someone's particular situation is.

It sounds like you are already doing a ton, choosing actions to take, following through on them, reflecting on the impact of your tactics, and then regrouping to do more and to try things differently where you can. Yet you still feel like shit sometimes and as if you're not doing enough. What to do about those feelings?

Well. Consider those feelings aren't a problem you have to fix. They're just a thing that will happen. Because of cultural conditioning and endless exposure to alarming messages and imagery online they're just gonna come up. Those feelings can just exist while you keep doing the damn thing.

You've already got your behavior on lock. You're doing what you can and not succumbing to choice paralysis. You're hopefully not burning yourself out. It doesn't sound like anything needs to change, maybe other than you not consuming too much online bullshit that's making you feel even more guilty needlessly.

You say: "there's a weird disconnect between knowing that you're just one person (and that's something i actually like, i'm no-one special, that's a very freeing thought), and fully feeling it."

Yeah, you might not ever fully feel it. As long as you keep acting like it's true, you're good imo.

i feel like the most evil selfish unlovable human being alive most days. it doesn't really matter that i do. it sucks, but that's just a fact of how my life has been. i can keep picking myself up and doing what i have decided is right for me to do anyway. i do what i can to avoid triggers that make that feeling worse, so that it doesn't become a barrier to action, but otherwise i just... keep on living, with terrible emotions and terrible thoughts. and i focus on my actions.

As for the community piece, I hear you, it's really fucking hard. I think it's very humbling work that is so worth doing though. Often it involves showing up to the work that a group is doing and living with the fact that you won't know what the fuck is going on and looking inept for a while. it's a necessary distress tolerance building exercise, getting more comfortable with just being there and rearranging the chairs and setting up the food and feeling like a dumbass who has nothing to contribute.

being able to sit with those feelings and keep showing up and not having an ego about it is enough to earn a lot of trust and foster deeper connections, I find. so many people fail to be able to even do that in most organizing/activist/volunteering spaces. I understand it feels mortifying but it is another one of those situations of getting over oneself in a way that's ultimately so freeing and beautiful. when you can accept that people want you around even if you never have anything to say and do nothing but bring paper cups and take out the trash. it's a real object lesson in how not being all that important can be a wonderful thing and make it possible for us to find love and acceptance.

[olderthannetfic]

To the NLOG anon:

I had written a long piece but lost it, so the gist of it is that bullies are social chameleons. They will always try to find a way to get away with bullying while claiming to be the victims. And many of the "bad" NLOGs were girls looking for ways to recreate the status quo with them at the top instead.

I think that NLOGs were a natural result of the post 9/11 conservative paranoia of "anyone who is not a good American™ is a Satanic Menace to Society" (where good American meant white, christian, affluent, thin, conventionally attractive, straight...and everybody else, from foreigners, fat people, anyone gender non conforming or even alternative people were "planning the downfall of civilization"). In that climate, harassment towards "the weird" was not only tolerated but encouraged as the moral thing to do.

And the thing is, if you are ostracized from society but discouraged to learn about feminism and such, then it's no wonder that your only way of defending yourself is by using the same attacks used against you!

The big change here I think came with the recession where suddenly society became fascinated with the weird, and being a hipster or a nerdy girl was "acceptable" (hence the "golden years" of Tumblr). Many of the bullies who had gained notoriety thanks to their privilege suddenly realised they couldn't get away with it as talk about discrimination and feminism was becoming more commonplace, and so many people adopted NLOG looks and attitudes to keep doing society approved bullying.

Nowadays tho you don't see many NLOGs because, like you said, we either know better now and have deconstructed ourselves or simply because in this era of "bring back bullying" most people don't need to hide behind underprivileged people to harass someone. If they want to hate on other women they can just become a tradwife/high value woman and go back to the conservative politics of the 2000s or they can pick a bit of #girlbossfeminism while going back to their hyper feminine roots to claim *throws dice* that you have to like pink or you have internalised misogyny and that you should just try to fit into the mold, for your own good, you know.

So yeah, those who want to oppress will find a way to do so under any costume, while being the loudest and sidelining the rest of us. There's nothing to do about it, unfortunately :(

--

I mean... sure...

But the actual phrase "not like the other girls" rose to prominence to point out how fucking obnoxious a class of book is for its heroine who is always like "I don't want to stay home and do needlework!" and then the book is set in some era when rich ladies are supposed to be running an entire manor house or something, not just embroider, and the author has blatantly missed all of that. Or it's some Anita Blake bullshit where the heroine hates literally every other woman, and especially all of them with blond hair because the author is insecure and bugfuck nuts.

It's a specific dumb trope in fiction and term in criticism of that dumb trope.