aurë entuluva

₊⁎ ˚✧ about me

greetings! I’m Leto, and thanks for checking out my blog! here I post and write about whatever fits my fancy, which is mostly reader insert nonsense at the moment. you can get an idea of what I write and who I write for in the masterlist and rules down below.

this blog is 18+, minors dni. I will be posting explicit content on this blog, this is not the space for you.

masterlist // tag list // rules and info

requests are: OPEN

16 ⧽. their crush/partner being the only one who can bring out their playful and sweet side

prompt list ✵ masterlist

//

“Fenriiiiiiis.”

You poke him in the side.

“No.”

You poke him again, a little harder, in the spot you know is unprotected by his long leather tunic. Right between the laces that criss-cross at the side, just underneath his ribs.

“Just one?” He doesn’t reply. You poke him again. “A little cloud spotting never hurt anyone, you know.”

“Just enjoy the sunset, Hawke.”

He doesn’t budge. You weren’t expecting him to, not really, but you huff dramatically all the same, because it is still not the response you were hoping for.

It’s a lovely day for once along the Wounded Coast. You had only encountered one group of ne’re-do-wells along the stretch of caves that led the way to the coastline. There was only a little blood splattered across you both, which made the sunset you were watching much more enjoyable than most sunsets you endured along what you could barely call a beach.

There was a little still splattered artfully across Fenris’ face, spotted across his nose and under his lips. You want more than anything to kiss it off of him. A little blood never hurt anybody in the pursuit of passion, surely.

You flop dramatically to his side instead, huffing as you land on your back and look upside-down out over the water.

The clouds in question rearrange themselves into different shapes as you look at them from this angle. You had pointed out a bunny to him earlier, trying to rope him into your little game of observation. A little lighthearted fun, an attempt to bring the mood up after you had watched him stick his hand through the chest of a man that was clearly some sort of trafficker or slaver.

It’s not that you didn’t like the serious, forlorn side of him. You loved what made him dangerous, that fierce way he fought and determined way he hunted down those who hunted others. Ruthlessness was its own sort of sexy, when it was paired with care instead of cruelty.

Still, you were dead set on lightening his load, however ridiculous it felt at times. You would spoon feed him what you called whimsy bit by bit, and either get him to crack a smile tonight or die in the attempt.

From your new upside-down perspective, the cloud now looks rather like a cat. You tell him as much, needling him with your elbow this time.

You don’t react when he pauses for a moment, and tilts his head ever so slightly. You don’t pump your fist and cheer to the heavens, however much you’re doing so internally. Inside your head. On the outside, you are perfectly still and collected, master of tranquility. Really, you are!

When he glances back at you, he raises an eyebrow at the grin you have on your face, wide and stupid.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he ends up saying, straight-faced as he ever is as he looks back across the sea. He tilts his head again, and you feel crazy for the way your heart skips a beat at the sight. “You were right the first time - it’s far more like a bunny than a cat.”

You don’t acknowledge the way your smile is far more genuine than it has any right to be. You can’t, not in a serious way that examines too closely the love you feel for the elf at your side. So you don’t, and push buttons instead, in a way that you excel at.

“I mean upside-down, Fenris,” you take mock offense. “Look at things my way, would you? If you lay down and relax, then look back-“

“I will not,” he says. He looks at you again, and your heart tries its best to beat out of your chest as his lips tilt into the smallest of grins. “You look ridiculous. And you have sand in your hair.”

Amusement shines in his eyes, not too uncommon a sight, but it never fails to make you feel accomplished. Amusement, and something else you don’t let yourself study too closely. You poke him in the side again, between the laces in that spot you know is ticklish.

“Yeah, well, you - your face is ridiculous,” you tell him as he swats at your hand.

“My face is ridiculous?” He questions slowly. As if asking that’s really what you’re going with. He pushes at your knee after fending off your fingers, before tapping at the center of your chest. “You’re the one wearing a stained shirt.”

You look down at yourself, realizing a split second too late that you’ve fallen for it. Hook, line, and sinker. His finger flies up, hitting your chin and your nose as you fail to lean back in time. If there wasn’t sand in your hair before, there certainly is now as you jerk your head back against the beach dune.

You reach for his hand as he pulls it away, only to phase through his fingertips. You look at him incredulously, to see him smiling the sort of smile you would have, wide and amused and more than self-satisfied.

“What was that you said?” You ask him, tone deceptively light as you sit up. “About not wanting sand in your hair?”

The two of you, grimey and still splattered in enough blood to be conspicuous, devolve into play-fighting along the coast. Two fully grown, fully trained warriors, trying to stick sand in one another’s hair. It’s ridiculous. The cloud-bunny and the Maker above are surely judging you harshly for your nonsense.

17) seeing the love marks they left on their partner later and getting turned on all over again remember how it got there in the first place

18+ suggestive content

prompt list ✵ masterlist

//

Your eyes track his movements as he gets out of bed. The tumble of his curls as he shakes his hair out, and then sweeps it over one shoulder. The expanse of his back as he stretches, shoulder blades pinching together and muscles rolling underneath freckled skin.

You can see the marks you left in the night as he sits and braids his hair one handed, just to keep it out of his face. Red lines where your nails had scratched into the meat of his shoulders, not as raised but still irritated. A dark bruise blossoming at the juncture of his throat and shoulder, where you had dug your teeth into his skin. The odd smaller hickey you can just barely glimpse when he twists, dotted down his hips.

You know if he turned to face you, you’d see more. If he parted his legs just right, you’d see marks where you bit and sucked at his inner thighs. You’d see faint lines down his chest, where you had scratched as he had pressed you down without warning, rolling his hips in a way that made you lose control.

He’s beautiful. Breathtaking. His arm shifts as he gets further down with the braid, stretching out where you marked him along his shoulder. It’s so vivid, staining his skin like a dark wine spilled between his freckles and moles.

You remember the noise he had made last night when you put it there. The soft, nearly inaudible gasp, the way his chest had seized for a moment at the stutter in his breathing. How he had stretched out further, inviting the prick of your teeth and warmth of your mouth.

He liked it as much as you did. The small reminders, so long as they would not interfere with his day to day duties. The look of the marks in the mirror, the reminder of bruises when he tightens his armor and feels the ache.

You sit up yourself and stretch, purposeful in pulling at the muscles that ache, a sweet reminder of what he had done to you. When he finishes braiding his hair, you reach forward and hand him a hair ribbon off your own wrist, using it as an excuse to crowd into his space and press your chest against his back.

“Morning,” he greets you, as he takes the tie from your outstretched hand. You hum in response, embracing him for a moment. Your lips seek out his shoulder, and you purposefully press your lips against the darkening bruise you left the night before.

With a palm pressed against his stomach, you can feel him take a deep breath. You can imagine the way his eyes might flutter to close, the way he might drink in the feeling of your lips against the mark you already made.

He sighs out your name, a soft warning. You ignore him.

“You’re beautiful,” you tell him. “So, so beautiful.”

You move your lips to the back of his neck, pressing soft kisses there as your hands move up to hold his shoulders. Your thumb finds that bruise and presses in, rubbing slow and deep circles to remind him that it’s there.

Knowing it’s you doing this to him - marking his pretty skin, getting him to react to such simple touch - it makes you almost delirious.

! you absolutely can omg. send me samakro requests forever and ever please

20 ⧽. finally confessing their love, only to realize the other has fallen asleep right next to them

send in a prompt and a character!

prompt list ✵ masterlist

//

The EDF issued heat lamp illuminates the cave around you, reflecting off the small ice-covered stalactites, and casting your shadows against the walls. As the weak little thing splutters, your shadows seem to dance against the stone, the only bit of motion besides the snow swirling outside the mouth of the cave.

You and Samakro sit as close as you dare to the little machine, soaking in as much warmth as you can in the below freezing temperatures.

Despite the chill, you cannot believe how lucky you are. The ship you had booked passage on could have easily crashed into somewhere more desolate. The storm outside could have started while you were still searching for shelter. The cave could have not existed at all, yet here it is, perfect for your needs.

The wind gusts outside, as if to protest the fact that it cannot drag you along with its force. Snowflakes blow in, forceful until out of the reach of the wind, and then slow in a spiral to the floor of the cave. There’s enough space between you and the entrance to save you from the sharp cold of the wind, but it doesn’t stop the shiver that shakes you as the temperature drops a few degrees.

Samakro looks at you from across the lamp, red eyes narrowing. He has that furrow between his brows, one you recognize well from your years serving with him.

“It might be best,” he says slowly, “if we huddle together. For warmth.”

The wind picks up outside, almost drowning out his quiet suggestion. You look at him, almost shocked, before rationalizing the idea properly. You remind yourself to have the mindset of a warrior, and not the mindset of someone hopelessly pining over their CO.

“That would be wise,” you concur. You force yourself to uncurl and stand, resolutely not flinching as the cold presses its attack. You don’t take time to stretch out your tense limbs, rushing as quick as is respectful to Samakro’s side and sitting yourself down.

It isn’t as awkward as you might have feared. It’s instinct once you’re next to the heat of his body, survival ingrained into the animal part of your brain that drives you towards warmth and away from the killing cold. His hip presses against yours, then his side, then his arm wraps around your shoulder as yours wraps around his waist.

As the sun starts to set, soon the only source of light is the little heat lamp you’ve both shuffled closer to. As the temperature drops further, and night falls, polite propriety flies out the window. Your hands end up tangling together in an attempt to keep your fingers from freezing, facing the lamp and pulled close to either his chest or yours. You’re pressed so tightly together now if you were any closer you would be in his lap.

You wouldn’t call it warm. Even with the heat lamp, the cold is sharp, and you only get true warmth when you feel his skin against yours. But it is far more comforting than sitting on your own had been.

Samakro had always been steady in your eyes. Safety without question, surety without doubt. Even here, half frozen as you were, he was a comfort you could not deny. It felt as if the storm could not touch you, despite the chill you both were under.

You lean your head against his shoulder, watching the heat lamp flicker as it fights against the cold. The chill doesn’t seem so bad now. The bite is less harsh, and what doesn’t feel numb feels warm, pressed up against Samakro.

The Chiss in question sighs, staring straight ahead as your eyelids start to close.

He can barely feel the heat lamp. It feels like the only point of warmth is you, miraculously alive, pressed up against him so tightly he wonders if you’ll be frozen together like this. If weeks from now, they’ll find you both bound together, frozen as one instead of two separate wholes.

It’s a strange thought to have when he should be considering survival, one that’s far more poetic than he’s prone to imagine. As romantic as it is dark.

There are worse ways to go. In the vacuum of space, to the cruelties of the Grysk, in some sort of firefight or explosion. Slipping gently into death, frozen at your side, is at least peaceful. But he doesn’t want to die. Not here, not now, when there is so much more you both could live through.

Not without telling you how he feels.

He’ll blame Thrawn and his artistic tendencies for his sudden bout of madness. Just as he’ll blame him for what he’s about to do, half delirious with cold and half concussed from the crash several hours before. He takes a deep breath, and sighs out again, his breath fogging up the air.

“I love you,” he murmurs. And then, steeling himself, he repeats it louder. Straight forward, to the point, with little room for misunderstanding his intentions. “If our fate is to freeze to death on this forsaken rock, I will not die regretting that you never knew.”

There. Honest as well as logical. When you don’t respond, he sets his jaw and then turns to look at you, bracing as if for impact. Never let them say he was a coward who could not face vulnerability, who could not face you and all you are to him.

You’re fast asleep. Cheek pressed against his shoulder, your weight leaned against him. His heart stops in his chest.

Nothing else matters as he realizes this. Not his confession, not your proximity, not his complicated feelings.

He pulls his stiff fingers out from your frozen grasp, and reaches around you to shake your shoulder. Once, and then twice, a little harder, and he thanks every god he’s never believed in as you blink awake, bleary and confused.

“Stay awake,” he tells you sharply. Even half asleep as you are, you can hear the edge to his tone. The concern that bleeds out of him for your sake.

“I’m awake,” you promise. You reach your hand up to your shoulder and cover his hand with yours, fingers slow as they bend over his. “I’m okay.”

You look up at him, not knowing there are imprents of the lines of his uniform on your cheek. You’re as cold as he is, but the point of contact between your hands suddenly burns.

“Stay that way,” he orders gruffly. You have the audacity to smile at him, a half grin that you would never dare to share with him during active duty.

17 ⧽. carefully bandaging the other’s wounds, even if it’s just a tiny cut

prompt list ✵ masterlist

//

Elrond has always been a capable healer and a capable warrior. He had even proven himself to be a capable leader, when the land needed his wisdom. You knew this well about your love, in all the years you have spent at his side.

It does not stop you from fretting when he comes home from patrol, banged and bruised with a nasty cut across his forehead.

“Do not fret,” is the first thing he says when he dismounts his horse and sees you are there to greet him. He knows you too well, and knows how he must look, covered in blood. “It is far better than it looks.”

He speaks in that gentle way of his, reassuring and certain in a way that is always soothing. A leader before he was a warrior, and a healer before he was a leader, he had long mastered the skill of speaking in a way that cemented authority and soothed all who would listen.

You know the elf beyond all the roles he’s ever played, and so you do not listen, and drag him as politely as you can to the nearest available medical room when he insists on staying to debrief and send out the next patrol.

Despite his protests, he follows without much fuss, and is patient as you sit him down and gather a bowl of water and a cloth, salve for his wound, and a roll of bandages.

You kneel down next to him, wet the cloth and wring it out, and frown as you start to dab at the worst of the grime around his forehead. “You’re still bleeding.”

“Head wounds bleed a lot,” he reminds you. “Truly, it is not as bad as it looks.”

“But it is worse than it could be,” you counter. You dip the cloth back into the water and squeeze it out again, internally wincing as the water turns red. “Why was this not bandaged before now?”

At that, he looks sheepish - an uncommon look on the Lord of Rivendell. “There were others injured,” he begins to explain. You finish his sentence for him with a sigh.

“And you would not use them on yourself if others had the need.”

You wish you could chide him for such selflessness. You wish he could see you how you see him now, his face half covered in blood with bruises blossoming across the cheek that isn’t stained red. You almost wish he wasn’t such a devout healer to put all others above himself - but you don’t, because if he wasn’t who he was you wouldn’t love him nearly half as much.

Once the wound is cleaned, you inspect it, deciding on if it needs sutures. He does not interrupt nor provide his own input, trusting you with his well being despite his own mastery and knowledge. It truly is much better than it had seemed - with the old blood rinsed out and the grime wiped away, it is far more clean a cut than you had first assumed.

You end up slathering the cut in the salve and wrapping it with bandages. You’re careful to keep his hair out of the sticky salve, and wrap his head without tangling hair into the bandages.

Your hands remain steady. Certain and calm, as you have learned from him, proving yourself to be capable when holding his health in your hands. Shaky hands are not the reason he reaches up to hold your wrist when you grab the wet cloth again to clean the rest of his face.

“I will be alright,” he promises. His thumb rubs against the pulse in your wrist, and something wound tight inside of you loosens, like a peg turning to lower the tuning of a string.

“I know,” you sigh out. “I know. Just - let me have this. Please.”

You need to wipe the rest of the blood from his face with warm water and a cloth. You need to bandage his wounds and ensure the binding is tight. You need the process of stitching him back together to reassure yourself that he is truly alright, alive and healing well under the palms of your hands.

He lets you go, and sits patiently as you wipe away the rest of the blood that had dripped down his face. He holds still for you, even as you brush the cloth over the bruises that sit high on his cheek, wiping the grime away from the tender skin as carefully as you can.

The more you clean him up, the longer he sits under the gentle care of your hands, the more you both relax. His eyes flutter closed at some point during your routine, his shoulders dropping even as you rub cream into what must be painful bruises.

You would keep him this way forever if you could. Safe from all harm, in the quiet halls of healing. You would give him time to sit still, peace and quiet until his skin stitched back together and his bruises faded from a splotchy blue to a faded yellow.

A distant bell chimes somewhere in the valley, and Elrond opens his eyes, breaking the spell. A capable elf your love was, and that meant duty was a weight he would never drop off of his shoulders.

So you relinquish your control, trusting him once more with the life you cherish more than your own. “You’re clear,” you tell him, feeling much more certain about it.

He carefully inspects your work as you tidy, long fingers running along the lines of the bandages. You busy yourself with re-capping the salves you used as he stands, as not to reach for him once more.

It does not stop him from reaching for you. The front of his armor is still tacky with blood when he pulls you close, but you find you don’t care as he kisses you. He tastes like healing herbs and summertime, and the rush of him and his love is enough to have you forgiving the distant chiming of bells that demand his attention elsewhere.

19 ⧽. finding the other crying at the beach after searching for them for hours, cheering them up, then playing in the sand and shallow water

prompt list ✵ series masterlist

//

The sun is just starting to set when Maedhros finds you along the eastern shore.

It’s a novel sight, to see you sat on the beaches of Aman without the light of the trees illuminating his view. Dusk turns the sky a darker navy and paints in shades of pinks and purple on the horizon while the sun sets behind the mountains to the west. He had seen these beaches in the light, when he had somehow been graced permission to land again on the white sand of his home. He had seen them in the dark, where the water had seemed to be the same color as the blood on his sword.

This was something new, even if the lands were once familiar to him. The sight of you on these beaches, a lone windswept figure against the beauty of the evening, was novel without the glow of treelight illuminating your features.

He might appreciate the sight more if he hadn’t been searching for you since the sun had been high in the sky.

He treks through the sand to get to you, his worry giving way as he approaches. A sorrow replaces it with each footstep, as you clearly hear him approach and draw further into yourself.

He’s quiet but for a huff of air as he sits down to the right of you, his body protesting as he hits the ground and curls up his knees to match your posture. For a long moment, neither of you say anything. The waves crash against the shore, the gulls cry out overhead, and you weep, silently, staring off across the sea.

“Do you ever miss it?” You finally ask him. You don’t turn to look at him, even as he turns to look at you. Your eyes are fixed on the horizon.

He looks back out across the sea. Far across the waves, all he can see are the distant dots of outlying islands. Yet he knows you are looking further beyond, into the navy horizon, to another land you can no longer see.

“I do,” he admits. The waves roll in and out, the water crashing in your ears in a constant rhythm, almost drowning out his quiet response.

You know he understands what you mean, even beyond the land you have not named. You know he sees the emotions you have not spoken, feels the nostalgia for a place that no longer exists, not really.

There were forests in Valinor, mountain ranges and pastures of grass, great cities and vast gardens - but it all felt so manufactured. A land meant to be perfect, that maintains the image of being untouchable despite the darkness that had seeped in through the cracks. The slow and stagnant life of a people who never aged and were slow to change.

Middle Earth had been wild in its beauty. Sharp edged and dangerous, yet wonderous beyond measure. Kingdoms would rise and fall, swords and shields would rust, the short lived folk would burn bright like little fires until their lives burned out. The land seemed to live and breathe, changing to adapt, living despite the darkness and death that had marred it so.

Even Beleriand, before it had sunk into the sea, had charmed you. While you had once gone with a vague idea of justice and fighting for the sake of your people, the land itself had won you over.

You missed it terribly. It was an ache in your chest that felt like a knife stabbing into your ribs and twisting. You had a home again, but some part of your soul would always remain across the sea, in the wilderness of Beleriand and the beauty of Middle Earth. In the life and light of the friends you had left far behind.

Maedhros reaches over and wraps his arm around your shoulder. He does not give you platitudes, nor does he try to dry your tears, but he remains steady at your side as you shake with silent sobs.

“The sun sets here,” he says, as the worst of your shaking stops. “They never shared the light of our trees, and we never knew the lamps of old; now we all share what light we have.”

You wipe your eyes, and consider the sight in front of you instead of the horizon you cannot see. The deep purple and blue of a sun nearly set, a view you would not have gotten when you were young and the trees still shined bright. Bright white stars glow bright above the last band of daylight, sparkling as they always do.

“We all share the same stars,” you add, comforted by the sentiment he’s shared with you.

Change still occurred in this timeless land, no matter how slow it seemed. And though the fleeting nature of the land you loved and the people you cherished had alway meant you would say goodbye, you would always have the comfort of knowing you existed with them under the same sky.

pairing: maedhros / reader

summary: war rages on between the jedi and the sith. as a jedi on the front lines, you wonder just when this conflict will end. a sith attacks, a battle is staged, and a storm brews on the horizon

content: star wars au (old republic), gn!reader, jedi reader, background relationship, canon-typical violence, themes of grief and mourning, force nonsense

do i clench my fists? - ridgeclub ✵ masterlist

The oncoming storm is a background buzz in the force as you fight. It hums somewhere in the air and in the part of your mind that is always alert and aware, the tingle of anticipation that promises something, and something soon. 

It is not there yet. It does not demand your attention no matter how the clouds darken, so you ignore the distant thunder and stay tuned in to the fight in front of you. 

This is the present threat, the immediate action that rings little bells in what triggers your reactions and reflexes. The hiss-snap of a lightsaber, the burning ozone from heavy blaster fire, the immediate killer intent from the darkness that sloughs off the enemy you face in staggering waves. 

The Sith in front of you snarls through their mask, their red saber crackling, threatening to set the tall grass around you ablaze. You flourish your own saber, twisting an ache out of your wrist, and launch into an attack. 

-

“Because I am doomed!” 

He slams his hand down on the table, making the silverware rattle with the force.

“All that we start with love in our heart is cursed to our terrible fate. All that is connected to us is doomed the same, to end in darkness, to rot in despair. I am doomed to be doomed, for the silmarils will always demand those that hold them to keep, and I must always demand their return.”

He fits you with a look, a cold, withering look, and it takes all you have not to freeze in it. “You insist on fighting for something doomed from the beginning. You insist on putting yourself on a path you have no need to go down, one that will only ever promise ruin. And I will not let you.”

It was all terribly unfair.

You had been there when he had sworn the oath, had spilled blood on those western shores, had travelled far and wide with him. The Valar didn’t understand, and maybe there had been pride and vanity when Fëanor had refused to give up the silmarils, and had sworn so viciously for their return; but you know Maedhros had always sworn out of duty and love, for his father and his brothers. 

You had done the same for him, and you were beyond saving now. You had not taken the oath, had never spoken any binding words, but your love ran deeper than anything you could ever swear upon to the stars above, to the Valar on their thrones, to Eru itself.

There was never any other path for you.

“I don’t remember taking your council into consideration,” you bite back rather heatedly. “I don’t recall asking for your permission, Maedhros.”

You bite his name out like it’s a curse. Curse him, and curse the evil that has driven you both here. Curse the love that has made you stay. 

“You would be needlessly damning yourself for something beyond saving,” he says, cold in his rage. In his need for control. Cold as the pass he used to guard, before the forces of Morgoth had overran the northern front, and forced you further south.

He speaks with a terrible certainty that tells you he has made peace with his own fate. It is not something you would make peace with. Not now, not in a thousand years, not so long as he stood before you and still drew breath.

“You are not a thing, Maedhros,” you snap. “You are an elf! My elf! An elf that is still here, still fighting. And it is not needless, and I am not blind to these risks.”

You step around the table, ignoring the terrible anger. The way he imposes his height, the way he snaps and rages, the way his red hair and shining eyes make him seem to be of fire, of a devil. He is trying to be intimidating, and it is no small feat for he has this ability to harden his gaze and cow even the strongest elves. 

“Do not ask me to sit idly while you put yourself in harms way. Do not ask me to run off with my tail between my legs because the road has grown dark, and danger lies ahead. Above all, do not ask me to abandon you to carry the world alone.” 

He tenses his jaw, before he has to look away, breaking your gaze. “I am asking you to save yourself. Is that so difficult to understand?”

“And leave you to save your brothers on your own? To save yourself? I think not.”

You reach for his hand, and grasp it, following him even as he tries to pull it away. You won’t let him scare you away like this. You won’t be pushed away.

“I did not swear your oath, dear heart. I will not swear it, for you are right, it is madness. But I will not sit by while you damn yourself. I will not leave you alone, for I cannot bear to leave you alone, nor be alone, in all this. I do not care if this curses me, or stains me, because I would do it a thousand times over, because it is you. Maedhros, look at me.”

He doesn’t, not right away. He sits there, shoulders heaving with his breaths, for a long, tense moment. You’re breaking him down, you know you are, and you know he’s hating himself for it.

You squeeze his hand tightly. 

“I cannot let you damn yourself for my sake,” he says, finally raising his head. He’s crying, you realize, silent tears that roll down his cheeks like drops of silver.

There is something broken in his expression, something vulnerable and bloody in the way he looks at you now. The misery of an elf who does not want what goodness he has left to fall to darkness, yet cannot bear the thought of you leaving.

“I am already damned.” You move your other hand to reach up and cup his jaw, keeping his gaze fixed upon you. “I spilled blood as you have, I left knowing it meant exile, I have made myself an enemy of those who are against you. It is not something you can stop, as much as you can the wind or the sea.”

You rub your thumb along his cheekbone, gently wiping away his tears.