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promise to take care of my heart

carmy berzatto x fem!reader

gif by @emziess

word count: 1,830

warnings: nothing? a little swearing, but this is pure fluff and that’s all

synopsis: carmy wants to cuddle with you for the first time.

a/n: hi! new character, i know. but i’ve become rather attached to carm in the past few months and i had a cute idea for him and here we are. he’s bringing me so much comfort right now and now i’m gonna share that with you <333

————

“Why don’t you pick out a movie or somethin,’ bub?”

“If I could find your damn remote, Carm, I would.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, eyes on his hands where they sit deep in the dishwater below. Good luck, he thinks.

QUESTIONS WITHOUT ANSWERS ˚ · . READ ON AO3

『JOHAN LIEBERT x GENDER-NEUTRAL!READER』

˚ · .─ SYNOPSIS: Set a decade after the monster's last havoc in Runenheim; he managed to settle someplace nobody knew him, resolute to wander alone until his questions were answered. Needless to say, a companion who'd be willing to stay amid his solitude was the last thing he expected on this journey.

˚ · .─ TAGS: post-canon, developing friendships, romance, fluff, soft johan (whew), pining, domestic bliss, acts of service, johan acting like a male wife when he's just a friend lol, johan is soft but his unremorseful tendencies still show itself if you squint hard enough. ˚ · .─ WORDS: 5.8k

⭒ ⊹ ⭒ hapee holiday season, everyone! here's a christmas gift for my johan lovers:)

The first time you gathered the needed gall to approach him yourself was when you were wandering the aisles. He was in his usual spot with a small stack of books aside. His posture was relaxed, one hand cradling a book while the other resting on the arm of his chair. The whispers you had heard didn’t do him justice. He was striking, indeed, but there was something else, something intangible—a quiet volume in his presence hiding beneath the tranquility. It was the same volume that made you hesitate, and so you lingered by the shelves first. It wasn't until the librarian’s words echoed in your mind. “It’s a pity seeing him alone all the time…” Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward and blurted out (casually, or so you hoped), “What are you reading?” When his gaze met yours, you felt the air shift. His eyes were the clearest shade of blue you had ever seen, perhaps akin to a lake hiding depths you’ll never reach. Looking back at it, you might’ve been right during that moment, for there are still so many things you don’t know about Johan even now. Going back, Johan took his own time, as if weighing your question, and for a fleeting second, you think he might ignore you entirely. Fortunately, he tilted the book slightly so you could see the cover. “Being and Time,” he said, voice as quiet as the space around you. You’d expect his voice to be deep and manly, but his soft-spoken tone didn’t disappoint you either. In fact, you might’ve liked it more than you imagined. “Heidegger,” you say, mostly to fill the space. “That’s… a lot to unpack.” A faint smile touched his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It is.” Then he closed the book in a manner so poised that it felt almost reverent. “Have you read it?” You shook your head. “Not yet. Philosophy’s always been a little intimidating. Too many questions, not enough answers. Not my thing.” For a brief moment, however, you thought it'd be nice to pretend you liked it just so you could talk to him longer. His smile lingered, softer this time. “That’s the point, isn’t it? The questions.” “And you like that?” you took a small step closer. “Questions without answers?” He leaned back slightly, considering you with a quiet curiosity that mirrored your own. “I think it’s better than answers without questions.” “Not really.” He raised his brows, and it didn’t take him too long to signal his hand on the spare chair in front of him, inviting you to his table so you could expound on your answer. You realized then that talking to Johan means having to deal with his words hanging often in the air, and even now you still find yourself caught between wanting to unravel his meaning and simply basking in the way he says it. Amid his tranquil is a tension, that invisible string pulled taut just before it breaks.

On the second, third, fourth, and perhaps even fifth time you two came across each other at the library, you had always pretended to see him coincidentally (feigning shock with a high-pitched “Oh hi there, Johan! Didn’t know you were there! It’s been a while! How are you?” that you prayed he didn’t find annoying) because, little did Johan know, your intrigue had been keeping you up at night. You frequented the library—with all sorts of books and topics diverse—to quench your curiosity about lots of things. But with this blonde man, how could your curiosity about him be quenched if not through this? At times, you thought he’d seen through your friendship scheme, but your inner demons brushed off the thought. After all, how could he tell that these moments were, in fact, not coincidental when you two were known by the librarians for frequently requesting library cards because the old ones had been too full to fill up? You glanced at the stack of books beside him and realized that they have a rather eclectic mix—existentialism, psychology, classic literature. “You have a theme going,” you say, nodding toward them. He followed your gaze. “These authors had… interesting ways of seeing the world. I like to understand how people think.” The faintest edge to his voice, however, made you wonder if he was speaking about others—or himself. “Do you ever agree with them?” “Not always, but understanding isn’t about agreement. It’s about perspective.” You nodded then, rendered into silence, unsure how to respond. There was a weight to his words that felt out of proportion to the simplicity of the conversation. But you didn’t mind. If anything, it makes you want to keep talking to him. “I’m sorry—” you said suddenly, realizing you had been standing there for far too long. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I just couldn’t help but notice. I’ll be off then! Have a great time.” When his gaze met yours again, there was a flicker of something softer. “It’s not an interruption,” and for the first time, his voice held a hint of warmth. “Sometimes, a conversation can say more than a book.” You smiled at that, feeling a strange, inexplicable comfort in his words. “Well, if you ever need someone to talk to about… questions without answers, I’m around!” He didn’t respond immediately, but his expression shifted, the faintest trace of curiosity mingling with something you can’t quite name. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said at last, and though his words are polite, there’s a quiet sincerity to them that makes you believe him.

It was approximately three months after those fateful (intentional) encounters, that the library had become a haven for you both. Your quiet camaraderie grew into something akin to a routine. You’d share the same table, absorbed in your respective books, the soft rustle of pages turning creating a rhythm that felt comforting in its simplicity. Occasionally, you’d catch Johan glancing at you, and there would go his unreadable gaze for a moment before returning to his book. That time, you were engrossed in a novel while Johan seemed to be studying Hegel. The silence between you was companionable, feeling like you had carved out your own little world amidst the whispers and movements of the library. But the spell broke when Johan spoke, “May I ask you a favor?” Not that it annoyed you. It actually did quite the opposite. Johan, this guy, asking you a favor? He rarely initiated conversations in the first place! Still, you tried to be calm about it, settling down your book with poise and all. “Of course, what is it?” “I’ve been considering moving to a quieter neighborhood. The place I currently reside in… lacks a certain tranquility.” You tilted your head, “Quieter, huh? You don’t strike me as someone who’d tolerate noise for long.” He gave you a faint but genuine smile. “It’s not the noise itself. It’s the... atmosphere. I’d prefer somewhere where the days feel less hurried.” “I might know a few places. My neighborhood is pretty quiet, actually. There’s a lot of greenery, and the people keep to themselves. It’s the kind of place where you can choose to go weeks without bumping into your neighbors or talk to them to your heart's content.” His eyes lit up very slightly, but that rare glimmer of interest in his face made your heart skip. “That sounds ideal. Do you happen to know of any available apartments?” You hesitated, mind racing. The apartment beside yours had been vacant for months. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was cozy, with a small balcony overlooking the courtyard. The thought of Johan living next door—of sharing more than just library visits—has kept your tongue tied for a while. “A-actually… there’s a place right next to mine.” But hey, at least you were still trying to sound casual about it. “It’s quiet, and the landlord’s a nice guy. I can give you the details if you’re interested.” “That’s very kind of you. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d appreciate it.” “Not at all!” you replied quickly, perhaps too eagerly. “I can show you the place after we leave here if you’d like.” “That would be helpful. Thank you.”

#johan liebert x you #johan liebert x reader #johan liebert x y/n #monster fanfiction #johan x reader #johan x y/n #johan x you #johan liebert fanfiction #johan liebert fanfic #monster fanfic #johan liebert fluff #johan liebert x gender neutral reader #johan liebert x reader fluff

Random Dishonored pistol think piece…

What makes the pistol interesting is that it sits in a weird middle ground between historical firearms and industrial era repeating weapons, pre-18th century visually but late 19th century mechanically. It’s not really a flintlock, not really a wheellock, and not really a revolver.

If you’ve spent time around firearms, especially older military rifles that have been modified to shit, you really appreciate that a good gun is a simple gun. Every spring, lever, gear, and linkage is another thing that can wear out, get dirty, break, or cause problems. A lot of firearms history is really the story of engineers figuring out how to do the same job with fewer parts.

Looking at Corvo’s magazine upgrade…

In our world, once you can manufacture reliable cartridges (self-contained rounds with the bullet, gunpowder and primer in a case), the best course of action is usually to store ammunition inside the gun itself. That might be a box magazine, which is a spring loaded container that stacks cartridges and feeds them upward into the action, or a cylinder, the rotating drum used in a cowboy-looking revolver.

Corvo's pistol goes in a completely different direction though. Instead of keeping ammunition inside the weapon, it feeds rounds from a visible belt running across the top of the gun that just pulls the active round into the chamber before firing. I disagree with whoever wrote in the wiki that this upgrade makes Corvo’s gun like a revolver (as I said, a revolver stores ammunition in a rotating cylinder that doubles as the firing chamber). Really, the game’s pistol is closer to a miniature belt-fed machine gun. What’s really impressive is how shrunk down it is. A belt feed isn't automatically unreliable, but shrinking one down to pistol size means you're taking a mechanism that already exists mainly because machine guns need big ammunition reserves and forcing it into a role where those advantages largely disappear. The firearm industry didn’t just happen to overlook belt fed pistols. It's a shockingly complicated and problem prone solution to giving Corvo more ammo.

As an aside, I’m so curious about other guns in the dishonored universe. Historically, firearms evolved from single shot muzzleloaders to repeaters through several approaches: revolvers, lever actions, bolt actions, tube magazines, box magazines, and then belt-fed systems. Why do we only see one kind of gun in the game?

I understand that by the time of Dishonored 2, there had already been years of technological exchange between Gristol and Serkonos. The pistols used in Karnaca and Dunwall are similar for the same reason a rifle in Canada and a rifle in Germany are broadly recognizable as rifles. Trade, military contracts, and industrial production tend to smooth out differences.

But in 16th century Europe, you had matchlocks, wheellocks, snaphaunces, early flintlocks, and all sorts of local experiments existing at the same time. Nobody knew which evolutionary branch would win yet. Even once gunpowder use became standard, the 19th century was full of bizarre guns that led nowhere: needle guns, chain guns, rocket balls, harmonica guns…

What if the pistols we see in game are just one species in a much larger ecosystem? I look at the game’s model and wonder what the local equivalent of a service revolver looks like in Morley, or what a Tyvian hunting rifle looks like after fifty years of development in subzero weather, or what bizarre thing a Serkonan duelist carries because that’s just what became fashionable there. Were Serkonan guns more like luxury mechanical watches? Beautifully made, highly individualized, full of clever solutions that a Gristolian factory worker would consider superfluous? There are just so many solutions to “how do you launch a piece of metal very very fast?” that I wish the game touched on more.

Wait. Actually... A hot minute later, I’ve found a few hints that other firearms exist. In The Tales From Dunwall, Part 1, soldiers carry rifles, and you can even see the characteristic blue glow in the barrels. Yes *in* the barrels x) The animation is highly stylized, but this does tell us that whale oil powered firearms aren't limited to pistols. The Dishonored RPG also refers to “pistols, rifles, and other guns”... Anyway..... I digress

Corvo’s pistol was clearly inspired by a 1600s wheelock; you can see the big circular mechanism on the side. In a true wheelock, you pour loose powder and a lead ball down the barrel, shove everything down, and a spring loaded steel wheel spins against a piece of pyrite to make sparks which ignite the powder in the pan, and boom. The problem is that wheelocks don’t use cartridges, yet Corvo’s pistol does, so the visual design is borrowing from a technology that predates cartridges by roughly 200-300 years to tell us This Is An Old Timey Gun. It's a bit like discovering your horse drawn carriage has a jet engine hidden under the seat.

Speaking of cartridges…

What’s funny is that, from a gun design standpoint, whale oil could actually make the pistol simpler. If you suddenly had access to a reliable fuel source that powerful, you wouldn’t need all the complicated mechanisms people historically invented to squeeze more performance out of black powder. E.g. you wouldn't need long barrels or increasingly elaborate locking and repeating mechanisms just to eke out a bit more muzzle velocity. And of course, gameplay aside, the Dishonored universe treats refined whale oil as stable enough to build an entire industrial civilization around. If it's safe enough to metaphorically pipe through the capital, it's probably safe enough that a pistol doesn't need a Rube Goldberg action just to keep it from detonating. Instead, Piero uses this advantage to make the gun even weirder.

In a normal firearm, the cartridge is actually doing several jobs at once. The primer (a small impact-sensitive explosive in the base of the cartridge) is struck by the firing pin and ignites the powder inside. That powder burns super fast, making a huge volume of hot, high pressure gas, and since the bullet is the easiest thing to move, the gas punches it down the inside of the barrel and out of the gun. Also, note that when the powder ignites, the thin cartridge wall swells and presses against the chamber. This creates a seal that prevents most of the gas from escaping backwards. Without that seal, hot gas and burning powder would basically turn the gun inside out.

Importantly, the cartridge case is not strong enough to contain firing pressure on its own. A 9mm case sitting on a table isn’t a gun. If you hit the primer, it’ll pop and split and throw fragments around, but it won’t launch the bullet with much force because there’s no chamber supporting it and directing the pressure.

Also importantly, the primer doesn't provide much energy. Its job is just to start the reaction. A typical primer only has a tiny amount of explosive to ignite the powder charge, but nowhere near enough to launch a bullet at useful velocity by itself.

And looking at the game’s bullets…. there’s a whole lot of blue in there….

(Admittedly Bend Time muddies the waters a lot. What looks like the entire cartridge gets fired rather than just the bullet… while a separate spent case is ejected from the pistol’s side through means unknown…) (some mysteries are better left unexplained)

If you accept that a few drops of refined whale oil can store absurd, predictable amounts of energy, an interesting possibility is that the whale oil acts as a monopropellant. Rather than using separate primer and propellant systems, the fuel itself quickly decomposes when triggered, and then boom.

The obvious question is why anyone would do this. Monopropellants exist, but they're generally associated with complicated things like rockets, where a certain amount of complexity is acceptable because you're launching a whole ass spacecraft. A handgun is expected to survive being dropped in mud and heated and frozen and generally abused. I've seen AKs modified to the point of really taking the whole thing apart, welding and hammering parts into shape in ways that put video games to shame. You want simple, idiot-proof guns in people’s hands, not rocket science. That said ! Dishonored has never been particularly concerned with workplace safety, so maybe the pistols are indeed monopropellants? Just how stable is whale oil canonically...?

I also considered that the oil cartridge could be working like a miniature power source that charges some internal component immediately before firing, like a tiny chemical generator. Most whale oil powered technology in Dishonored behaves like a fuel-burning system coupled to an energy storage device with a recharge period (think of Arc Pylons). I.e. you put whale oil into a machine, the machine charges something, and that stored energy is released in bursts.

The problem is that the pistol obviously acts much more like a firearm than a miniature Arc Pylon. If there is an energy storage component involved, it would have to be hidden somewhere inside the weapon which. why. Even the monopropellant system makes more sense. Still, it's an interesting possibility that’s more consistent with how whale oil gets used in-game.

Tl;dr from a worldbuilding perspective, the pistol is a successful firearm because every strange feature tells you something about the setting. It isn’t trying to be a realistic pistol by any means, but it is trying to be a pistol designed by a civilization that runs on whale oil instead, and in that respect it succeeds very well.

If anyone knows their gun history, please feel free to correct me if I’ve made any mistakes! I was also relying on an online translator dictionary for most terminology so that might've caused issues.

#dishonored #thought to myself there aren't enough analysis posts in the tags and then realized I could change that :p

When Should You Upgrade Your Business Website?

Let’s not sugarcoat it—your website can either grow your business or silently kill your leads.

A lot of business owners think, “My website is working fine.” But here’s the catch—fine isn’t enough anymore. With increasing competition and smarter users, your website needs to perform, not just exist.

So, how do you know when it’s time for an upgrade?

Let’s walk through the real signs 👇

1. Your Website Looks Outdated

You know that feeling when you land on a website and instantly think, “This looks old”? Your customers feel the same way.

Design trends evolve fast. What looked modern 3–4 years ago now feels clunky and outdated.

If your site hasn’t been refreshed in years, it’s probably time for a Website Redesign: When & Why Your Business Needs It in 2026.

A clean, modern look builds trust and keeps visitors engaged.

2. Your Website Is Slow

Speed is everything.

If your website takes too long to load, visitors won’t wait—they’ll leave. And worse, Google will push your rankings down.

A slow website affects:

User experience

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Improving speed, as explained in the Website Speed Optimization Guide, can dramatically increase traffic and sales.

3. It’s Not Mobile-Friendly

Most users today browse on their phones. If your website doesn’t adjust properly to different screen sizes, you're losing a massive chunk of potential customers.

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Traffic without conversions? That’s a red flag.

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You might relate to Why Your Business Website Is Not Getting Leads in Delhi (2026 Guide)—it highlights exactly where things go wrong.

5. Your SEO Rankings Are Dropping

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Using strategies like those in 5 Simple SEO Tips to Rank Your Local Business in Delhi can help—but sometimes, a full upgrade is necessary.

🧩 6. Your Website Can’t Handle New Features

As your business grows, your website should grow too.

Need features like:

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7. You’re Not Selling Online Yet

If you're still relying only on offline sales, you’re leaving money on the table.

An upgrade to E-Commerce Website Development allows you to sell anytime, anywhere.

That’s exactly why many businesses are shifting after reading Why Your Shop Needs an E-commerce Website.

8. Your Competitors Are Ahead of You

Let’s be honest—customers compare websites before making decisions.

If your competitor’s website is faster, cleaner, and easier to use, you’re already at a disadvantage.

Upgrading your website helps you stay relevant and competitive.

9. Your Website Doesn’t Match Your Brand Anymore

Businesses evolve—but many websites don’t keep up.

If your branding, services, or goals have changed, your website should reflect that too.

Consider upgrading with:

New visuals (Logo & Graphics)

Updated content

Better user experience

10. You’re Using Outdated Technology

Old platforms can limit your growth.

Modern websites are built using scalable and secure technologies. Many businesses now prefer solutions discussed in Why Custom PHP Is Better Than WordPress for Your Website.

Upgrading your tech stack can improve performance, security, and flexibility.

🔄 Upgrade vs Redesign: What Do You Actually Need?

Here’s the simple difference:

Redesign: Improves the look and feel

Upgrade: Improves functionality and performance

In many cases, you’ll need both to get the best results.

💡 Smart Tips Before Upgrading

Before you jump in, keep these in mind:

✔ Define your goals clearly ✔ Focus on user experience ✔ Optimize for SEO from the start ✔ Choose the right development type ✔ Work with experts

If you're unsure, guides like How to Choose the Right Website Designing Company in Delhi (2026 Guide) can help you make better decisions.

📊 Benefits of Upgrading Your Website

Still thinking if it’s worth it?

Here’s what you get:

Better Google rankings

Faster loading speed

More leads and conversions

Stronger brand image

Improved mobile experience

❓ FAQs

1. How often should I upgrade my website?

Every 2–3 years is ideal, but regular updates should be ongoing.

2. Is redesign the same as upgrading?

Not exactly—redesign focuses on visuals, while upgrading improves performance and features.

3. Will upgrading improve SEO?

Yes, especially if your new website is optimized for speed, structure, and keywords.

4. How much does it cost?

It depends on your requirements. You can explore insights from How Much Does Website Designing Cost.

🔚 Wrapping It Up

So, when should you upgrade your business website?

If your site is slow, outdated, not generating leads, or falling behind competitors—the answer is simple: now.

Your website is your digital salesperson. And in today’s competitive world, it needs to be fast, smart, and conversion-focused.

Don’t wait until you start losing business—upgrade before that happens.

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SB Infowaves: Powering Next-Gen Web Application Development with AI, DAO & Global Innovation

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The Garden Birth

The mountain estate had been in Iris's family for three generations, a sprawling sanctuary of cedar and stone tucked into a fold of the Blue Ridge range. But the Japanese garden pond at the property's eastern edge was her own creation. She had spent two years shaping it with her father's help, lining the basin with smooth river stones, planting lotus and water iris around its perimeter, installing a gentle recirculating pump that kept the water clear and cool. Around the edge of the pond, she had arranged flat, sun warmed rocks in a staggered ring, some large enough to sit on, others small enough to hold in one hand. They were gray and blue and speckled with mica, and they caught the lantern light like scattered jewels. It was meant for meditation, for koi fish she had never gotten around to buying. But when she learned she was pregnant, she knew exactly where she wanted to bring this child into the world.

The August evening was thick and golden, cicadas thrumming in the pines. Iris stood at the edge of the pond, her bare feet pressed into the moss between two flat stones, one hand resting on the low swell of her belly. She was twenty eight years old, beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with fashion or cosmetics. It was the beauty of a woman who had made peace with her own body, who moved through the world with a quiet, unhurried grace. Her dark hair hung loose down her back, tangled with small white flowers she had tucked there without thinking. She wore a thin linen shirt that clung to the sweat on her skin.

Behind her, Marcus was pacing the flagstone path, running his hands through his thick hair for the hundredth time. He was a good looking man, broad shouldered and strong, the kind of man who could split a cord of wood before breakfast and still have energy to spare. But right now he looked like a trapped animal. His eyes kept darting to the pond, to the steam rising from its surface where Iris's father had heated it with a submerged coil hours earlier, to the stack of clean towels on a cedar bench, to the soft glow of lanterns his father in law had hung from the surrounding maple branches.

"Shouldn't we call someone?" Marcus asked for the tenth time. "A doctor? A midwife? Someone who knows what they're doing?"

"We know what we're doing," said Clara, Iris's older sister, without looking up from the bag she was unpacking. Clara was thirty four, sharp featured and sharp tongued, a labor and delivery nurse who had seen it all and developed a permanent scowl as a result. She was unmarried, childless by choice, and deeply irritated by the fact that her sister had chosen to give birth in a glorified fish pond instead of a sterile hospital room. But she had driven six hours to be here, and she had not complained once about the lack of cell service or the presence of actual frogs.

Walter, Iris's father, was a different creature entirely. He was sixty two, lean and weathered, with the calm presence of a man who had delivered foals and calves and more than a few lambs on this very mountain. He had delivered Iris herself, right here on the property, though not in the pond. That had been in the main house, in a bed of straw his own mother had insisted upon. He knew birth. He respected it. He was not afraid of it.

"Marcus," Walter said gently, placing a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "She's not even in active labor yet. Those contractions are still ten minutes apart. We have time. What she needs right now is for you to be still. Your nervous energy travels right into her."

Marcus looked down at his hands, which he had been clenching and unclenching without realizing it.

"Right," he said. "Still. I can do still."

He could not do still. He lasted approximately forty five seconds before he was pacing again.

Iris turned from the pond and smiled at him, and that smile was so full of warmth, so utterly without frustration, that Marcus stopped in his tracks. She was having a contraction. He could see it in the way her jaw tightened, in the subtle tremor of her thighs. But her eyes remained soft. She breathed through it silently, her hand circling her belly in slow clockwise sweeps. The only sound was the soft rush of air through her nostrils. When it passed, she let out a long, quiet exhale and walked toward him, her bare feet silent on the moss.

"Come here," she said.

He came to her like a man approaching a sacred flame. She took his hands and placed them on her lower back, where the muscles were knotted and hard.

"Press there," she said. "Hard."

He pressed. She leaned into him, her forehead against his chest, and her body went rigid with the next wave. But no sound came from her mouth. Nothing but the slow, measured rhythm of her breathing.

"That's it," Clara said from the bench, not looking up from her watch. "That was a good one. Six minutes. She's progressing."

Walter nodded, folding a length of clean muslin cloth into precise squares. "She's right where she should be. Iris, love, how are you feeling?"

Iris lifted her head from Marcus's chest. Her face was flushed, her lower lip caught between her teeth. "Like my body is a tide," she said. "Like something is pulling from the inside and I can't do anything but go with it."

"That's your baby," Walter said. "That's him getting ready. Your body knows what to do. You know what to do."

Another contraction came before she could respond, this one stronger and longer. Iris gripped Marcus's forearms and bent forward at the waist, her spine curving like a drawn bow. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She simply breathed, deep and steady, her whole body trembling with the effort of silence. Marcus held her, his own breathing ragged, and when she straightened up again there were tears in his eyes.

"You're amazing," he said. "You're the most amazing person I have ever seen."

Iris laughed, a breathless, incredulous sound. "I haven't done anything yet. I'm just standing here."

"You're growing a whole human inside your body," he said. "And now you're pushing it out. That's not nothing. That's the most incredible thing a person can do."

Clara snorted. "He's not wrong. Though I could do without the word 'incredible' being used every thirty seconds."

The sun had fully set now, the lanterns casting warm pools of light across the garden. The pond steamed gently, its surface disturbed only by the occasional ripple from the hidden pump. The water was shallow by design. At its deepest point, near the center where Iris had placed a smooth stone seat, the water came up to just above her belly button when she stood. Around the edges, it was barely knee deep. This was intentional. She wanted to feel the water's embrace without losing the grounding presence of the earth beneath her feet. The flat rocks around the perimeter gave her places to sit, to brace, to rest.

By nine o'clock, the contractions were coming every three minutes. Iris had stopped talking between them. She moved through the garden in a slow, circling rhythm, sometimes leaning against a tree trunk, sometimes dropping to her hands and knees in the soft grass, sometimes standing with her arms wrapped around Marcus's neck. Through all of it, she was utterly silent. Her linen shift was soaked through. Her hair had escaped its loose bun and hung in wet ropes down her back. The small white flowers had long since fallen away.

"Water," Walter said. "It's time to get in the water."

Iris looked at the pond, and for the first time that evening, a small flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. The water looked black in the lantern light, depthless and strange, though she knew it would only reach her waist. She had practiced this. She had lowered herself into the warm embrace of the pond during her third trimester, floating on her back with her belly rising like a small island. But now that the moment was here, now that her body was shuddering with the force of a contraction, she hesitated for just a breath.

Marcus cupped her face in his hands, his palms rough from years of woodworking and chopping firewood, his eyes bright with a devotion that bordered on reverence. "You can do anything," he said. "You are doing it. Right now. Look at me. You are the strongest person I have ever known, and I am going to be right there with you the whole time. I am not going anywhere."

Clara appeared at Iris's side with a small cup of honeyed tea. "Drink this first. You need the sugar. And then you're getting in that pond whether you want to or not, because that water is going to take the edge off those contractions and you know it."

Iris drank. The tea was warm and sweet, and it settled something in her stomach that had been coiled tight. She handed the cup back to Clara and then, without waiting for her courage to falter, she stepped out of her shift and walked to the edge of the pond.

Her body in the lantern light was a map of this journey. The heavy curve of her belly, the dark circles of her areolas, the blue veins that traced across her breasts like river deltas. Her thighs were thick and strong, her hips wide and ancient in their design. She looked like a fertility goddess carved from warm stone, and Marcus forgot how to breathe.

She stepped into the water.

The heat rose up around her ankles, her calves, her knees. She gasped silently, her mouth open but no sound emerging, not from pain but from the sudden embrace of it, the way the water seemed to hold her. She kept walking until the water reached just above her belly, the deepest part of the pond, and then she stopped and turned to face the small gathering on the bank.

"It's perfect," she said. "Daddy, it's perfect."

Walter smiled, a rare and full smile that softened the hard lines of his face. "I know, baby. I know."

Another contraction rolled through her, and this time the water did its work. The buoyancy took the weight off her pelvis, allowed her to relax muscles that had been clenched for hours. She let her head fall back, her hair spreading across the surface like dark ink, and she breathed through the wave in perfect silence. Her face remained serene.

"That's it," Clara said, wading into the pond herself up to her knees, her scrub pants rolled to her thighs. The water barely reached her mid calf at the edge, and she had to step carefully around the submerged rocks. She had a waterproof flashlight in one hand and a clean cloth in the other. "That's the difference. You're going to open up so much faster now."

Marcus stood at the edge of the pond, uncertain. He had not been told whether he was allowed to get in. He looked at Walter, who nodded, and then at Clara, who shrugged, and then he was pulling off his shirt and boots and sliding into the water beside his wife.

The pond was shallow enough that when Marcus stood next to Iris, the water came only to his hips. He found a foothold on a flat stone on the bottom and wrapped his arms around her from behind, his chest pressed to her back, his hands resting on the crown of her belly. She leaned into him completely, her weight surrendered, and for a few minutes there was only the sound of the cicadas and the soft lap of water against stone.

Then the next contraction came, and everything began to shift.

This one was different. Iris felt it in her bones, a transition from the rhythm of active labor to something more urgent, more complete. Her body seized around a pressure so immense that she could not breathe through it, could only ride it like a tide. Her hands found Marcus's arms, her fingers pressing into his skin. Her mouth opened wide, but no sound came. Nothing but the rush of air and the subtle vibration of a held-back cry.

"That was a ten," Clara said, watching her watch. "And it lasted seventy seconds. Iris, I need you to tell me if you feel pressure in your rectum. Like you need to have a bowel movement."

Iris panted silently through the fading echo of the contraction, her forehead pressed to Marcus's forearm. "Yes," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I feel it. I feel like I need to push."

"Don't push yet," Clara said firmly. "Not until your body tells you it can't stop. You'll know. It won't be a choice."

Walter moved to the edge of the pond and knelt on a flat gray rock, his eyes level with Iris's face. "She's right, sweetheart. Your body knows the timing better than your mind does. Let it lead. Don't fight it, but don't rush it either."

Marcus kissed the top of Iris's head. "What can I do? Tell me what to do."

"Keep doing what you're doing," Clara said. "Be her wall. She needs something to push against when the time comes. You're her anchor."

For the next hour, the contractions came in a relentless but manageable tide. Iris moved through them in a state of deep focus, her consciousness retreating to some quiet interior place where time moved slowly. She squatted in the shallow water, stood, leaned against Marcus, knelt on the submerged rocks. Through each wave, she remained utterly silent. No moans, no groans, no chanting. Only the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing. Marcus stayed behind her, his hands on her hips or her shoulders, his voice a constant low murmur.

"You've got this. You've got this. I love you. I love you so much. You're doing it. You're really doing it."

At eleven thirty, Iris pulled herself upright and announced, in a voice that was calm and certain, "I'm pushing now."

Clara was on her knees in the water, her scrub pants soaked, her flashlight aimed at the space between Iris's legs. The water was shallow enough that Clara's knees rested on a flat rock beneath the surface. "Show me," she said. "Let me see."

Iris turned in Marcus's arms and let herself sink back against his chest. He was standing with his feet braced wide on the stone bottom, his thighs taking her weight. She was semi reclined against him, her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder, her knees bent and floating in the warm water. One of her hands reached back and gripped his thigh just above the knee, holding on as if he were the only solid thing in the world. The other hand rested on her belly.

"Like this," she said. "I want to push like this."

Marcus wrapped his arms around her ribs, his hands coming to rest just below her breasts. His mouth was at her ear. "I've got you," he said. "I'm not letting go."

Iris bore down with a force that surprised even herself, a primal bearing down that used every muscle in her body, that turned her face red and her eyes wide. But she made no sound. Her jaw was clenched, her teeth together, her breath held in a long, silent strain. Her fingers dug into Marcus's thigh, and he did not flinch. In the beam of Clara's flashlight, something appeared. A small dark shape, barely visible, emerging from between her labia and then retreating when the contraction faded.

"That's his head," Clara said, her voice tight with something that might have been excitement. "That's his hair. He has hair, Iris. Dark hair like yours."

Marcus made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "He has hair? That's incredible."

"Quiet," Walter said gently. "Let her focus."

The next contraction came less than a minute later. Iris had barely caught her breath. She bore down again, her body taking over completely. A series of involuntary, powerful pushes left her gasping and shaking, but she kept her mouth closed, her sounds trapped behind her teeth. The baby's head advanced further, a crown of dark hair and wrinkled skin, and then it stayed. It did not retreat.

"He's crowning," Clara said. "Iris, he's crowning. You need to ease him out now. Short pushes. Pant if you need to. Don't tear yourself."

Iris could not think about tearing. She could not think about anything except the ring of fire, that intense burning that demanded her full attention. But she had prepared for this. She had practiced her breathing for months. She panted in short, quick, silent breaths, just as Clara had taught her, and she pushed with small, controlled efforts. Her face remained calm, her eyes half closed, her lips pressed together. Her hand squeezed Marcus's thigh, and he covered her hand with his own.

"That's it," Walter said, his voice low and steady. "That's exactly it. Small pushes. Let your body open."

The head advanced another inch. Then another. Iris could feel the shape of it now, the curve of his skull pressing against her perineum, the strange and wonderful reality of his existence made suddenly tangible. She reached down with her free hand and touched the top of his head, the wet hair, the soft skin. Her fingers trembled.

She did not make a sound.

Marcus was crying openly now, tears streaming down his face, his arms trembling as he held her. "You're so close," he said. "You're so close, baby. I can see him. I can see his head. He's so beautiful. He's perfect."

"Pant," Clara commanded. "Pant pant pant. Good. Now push. Small push. That's it. That's it."

And then, without warning, the head emerged.

It happened in a single, sudden release. One moment the head was crowning, a tight and burning stretch that seemed to go on forever. The next moment it was out, sliding free with a rush of water and fluid, and the pressure that had been building for hours simply vanished. The absence of pain was so abrupt, so total, so utterly unexpected that Iris's composure finally broke.

She screamed.

It was not a scream of agony. It was a scream of pure shock, a raw and startled cry that tore from her throat before she could stop it. Her whole body jerked against Marcus, and the sound echoed off the surrounding trees, high and bright and wild. It was the first noise she had made in hours, and it lasted only a second before dissolving into a gasping, breathless laugh.

"Oh!" she cried, her voice cracked and wondering. "Oh! It's out! His head is out!"

Clara laughed, a genuine laugh that cracked her usual stern expression. "Yes, it is. His head is out. And he's looking right at me. He has your nose, Iris. He has your nose."

The baby's head was the size of a small apple, dark haired and slick with vernix, rotated to one side as his shoulders realigned themselves in the birth canal. Iris went limp against Marcus, her body boneless between contractions, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She had never known exhaustion like this. She had never known wonder like this.

"One more," Walter said. "One more push and his shoulders will clear. You can do this, Iris. You were born to do this."

Iris looked down at the water, at the small dark head floating between her thighs, at the tiny face she could now see. His eyes were closed, his mouth a small bow, his cheeks round and perfect. She reached down again and touched his cheek, and he turned his head slightly, as if recognizing her touch from the inside.

"Hello, little one," she whispered. "Just one more minute."

She pushed again, this time with a quiet, focused effort. Her face remained serene, her breathing controlled, her lips sealed shut once more. Marcus held her firmly, his hands steady on her ribs, his thigh solid beneath her grip. The baby's shoulders turned. His body slid free in a gentle rush, and Clara caught him before he could sink, her hands sure and steady, and lifted him to the surface.

He screamed. A thin, reedy, furious scream that cut through the night like a bell.

And Iris, who had been so silent for so long, went very still. She reached down with shaking hands and took her son from her sister's arms. She pulled him to her chest, his cord still pulsing between them, his body slick and warm and impossibly small. He was still attached to her, still part of her, but also separate now, a person of his own, a tiny stranger she had known her whole life.

Marcus wrapped his arms around both of them, his face buried in Iris's wet hair, his shoulders shaking with sobs. "He's here," he kept saying. "He's here. He's really here. You did it."

Walter lowered himself onto a large flat rock at the edge of the pond, his clothes soaked, and placed a hand on his daughter's cheek. "He's perfect," he said. "Look at him. Ten fingers. Ten toes. A full head of hair. You grew him in your body, Iris. You grew a whole person. And now you've brought him out into the world. There is no greater thing."

Clara was crying too, though she would deny it later. She busied herself with the cord clamp and the clean muslin cloth, but her hands were shaking and her nose was running and when she looked at her sister's face, that beautiful, exhausted, radiant face, she had to turn away for a moment to compose herself.

The baby had stopped crying. He lay on Iris's chest, his cheek pressed to her breast, his tiny fists curled against his chin. His eyes were open, dark and unfocused, and he stared up at his mother with the ancient, knowing gaze of a newborn.

"Hello, little one," Iris whispered. "Hello, my love. I'm your mother. And this is your father. He's been very nervous all day, but don't hold that against him. He has a good heart. The best heart."

Marcus laughed, a wet, broken sound. "She's not wrong. I was terrified. I'm still terrified. But I love you. I love you both so much I can't feel my face."

"That's the adrenaline," Clara said, but she was smiling now, a real smile that transformed her whole face. "And probably the cool water. Speaking of which, we need to get you both out of here. The placenta is coming and I don't want to fish it out of this pond."

The birth of the placenta was anticlimactic after the surprise of the head's emergence. Iris sat on a flat stone at the edge of the pond, her son still at her breast, while Clara guided the cord and Walter held a basin beneath her. It came out in a single, glistening mass, the tree of life that had sustained this child for nine months. Iris looked at it with wonder, at the intricate network of veins and tissue, and felt a profound gratitude for her body and what it had done.

Marcus wrapped them both in a thick towel, then another, then another. He was useless at anything else now, his only function to provide warmth and softness and the steady pressure of his hand on her back. It was exactly what she needed.

They stayed in the garden until the lanterns began to sputter and die, until the first hint of gray appeared in the eastern sky. Walter brought out a thermos of broth and a stack of buttered toast. Clara checked the baby's temperature and breathing and color and pronounced him healthy. The frogs had returned to the pond, their croaking a soft counterpoint to the baby's occasional snuffles.

Iris looked out at the garden she had built, at the shallow pond lined with river stones, at the flat gray rocks where she had sat and rested, at the man she loved and the sister she bickered with and the father who had never once doubted her. She looked at the tiny creature in her arms, his face mashed against her breast, his breath warm on her skin.

She had wanted this child. She had wanted him with a ferocity that had surprised even her, a longing so deep it had felt like a physical wound. She had wanted to give Marcus a son, to build a family with him in this remote mountain place, to watch him become a father the way he had become a husband: with his whole heart, with every clumsy, earnest, beautiful part of himself.

And now here he was. Here they all were.

The baby opened his eyes again, and this time they seemed to focus, just for a moment, on his mother's face. Iris smiled down at him, tears slipping down her cheeks and falling onto his forehead.

"Welcome," she said. "Welcome to the world, little one. We've been waiting for you."

#giving birth #birth kink #screaming birth #birth #birth blog #birth story #request

TIPS FOR WRITING COMBAT, TACTICS, AND / OR FIELD MEDICINE SCENARIOS PT. 2

Hello again! Coming out of the woodwork with my niche interests and hoping to pass along some information about writing things such as combat, tactical operations, and / or field medicine!

Disclaimer: I am not a medical professional, nor am I someone who has served in the military or law enforcement in any capacity. Any information in this post is gained from personal research in mostly internet circles. Some topics may be unsettling/disturbing, so please take care in reading.

You can view part one of this post [HERE].

Note: This part will be written more in-depth, as the sources I've pulled from are either no longer accessible, or from narrators I would not feel comfortable platforming due to their motives for sharing this information (e.g., anti-human rights individuals with qualified backgrounds). Knowledge is power, but we don't have to platform fascists in order to share it (* ^ ω ^)

To start this post off, I'll share some archives I've found since part one! This way, if you're just looking for resources and don't want to read something super lengthy, this post is still (hopefully) useful to my fellow writers.

Safety Data Sheets [Archive] - A collection of safety data sheets for what looks like various types of compounds, mostly based around industrial work (e.g., concrete mixes, roof coatings, etc.). While arguably not relevant to this sort of topic focus, I think it could be in the right scenarios, especially as sheets provide first-aid instructions, hazard classification, and details about specific compounds.

War Medicine [Archive] - Definitely a more historical reference (dated 1918), but published by the American Red Cross Society in France covering… war medicine. Includes various diagrams and topics.

Field Manuals and Technical Manuals [Archive] - A collection of field and technical manuals from various military services spanning across various decades. I believe most of these are U.S.-based.

Now, for the in-depth written information, placed behind the "keep reading" button.

#rph #rpc #writing guide #tactical guide #guide #judasrpc

The love of a hero

Missed Confessions

Masterlist

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

A/n: Just a quick chapter with Red hood I whipped up

Description: Red hood is worried about how much you’ve been working lately and pays you a visit

Pairing: Red Hood x Reader

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:Reference:

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Dead tired. You were dead tired. Being short staffed was understandable at first, manageable but now it’s just getting annoying. Your past five shifts, they’ve made you stay overtime and it was horrible. Your patients, even being horrible people, didn’t deserve to get a lesser service just because the hospital they are at doesn’t know how to manage staff. So in all honesty you were both very angry and very tired.