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roosterforme · 1 year ago

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Stateside | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley made a mistake last summer when he left for his deployment without ever asking you out, and then he thought about you a lot when he was gone. He was stateside again for less than a day when the other guys coerced him to help with a fundraiser at the Hard Deck. A friendly wager with the squad might not be the only thing he wins by the end of the night.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, drinking, swears

Length: 4500 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Check out my masterlist for more. Banner made by @thedroneranger Written for Pick Your Poison

Bradley had barely been stateside for twenty four hours when he woke up in his bed at noon to an array of texts arriving all at once. Five months on an aircraft carrier in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with nothing much going for him left him surprisingly exhausted. It wasn't that he didn't want to see his friends, he just needed a full day to himself to readjust.

He groaned and rolled over after glancing at his phone and seeing the words Hard Deck in a message from Jake. He closed his eyes again after tossing his phone aside, but about ten seconds later, he cracked them open again. If there was one thing he had consistently thought about over the course of those five months, it was you. Your bright smile, your perfect laugh, your navy blue tee shirts that said The Hard Deck across the front.

When he reached for his phone and checked the message from Jake, he sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. Maybe this could be an excuse to see you again sooner rather than later.

Hangman: Hey, we need you to come to the Hard Deck tonight. It's the annual charity event, and Bob can't make it. We're short a bartender. And don't try to bitch out of this, Phoenix told me you're home.

Bradley covered his face with his hand and thought long and hard about this. The real bartenders would be there to help which meant there was a chance you'd be one of them. If he volunteered for this, then maybe he'd find himself in close quarters with you for a few hours instead of the other Naval officers he'd been stuck with for months on end. Just the idea of accidentally bumping into you while pouring a beer had him texting Jake back.

Yeah, I'll be there.

Even though he was still pretty tired later in the afternoon, Bradley took a shower and then spent some extra time on his hair before dressing in his lucky shirt. That five month deployment was the reason he didn't ask you out during the summer, and now he was nervous to see you again. He had good intel from Penny that you'd been single the last time he saw you in August, but what if you had a boyfriend now? Or worse, what if you didn't even acknowledge him when you saw him?

He groaned as he looked in the bathroom mirror. Hours, possibly even days... that's how much time he'd had you on his mind while he was away. And for what? A crush on a girl who was probably too young for him? A cute bartender at the Navy hangout who definitely got asked out nightly? Shit. He was a lost cause.

And now he was going to be late if he didn't leave right away. He grabbed his keys, and headed out to his Bronco which he had missed dearly. So if nothing else, he'd get to cruise around later after the event. But on the ride to the bar, all he could imagine was how you'd look in the passenger seat, smiling at him at every stoplight and singing along to the radio.

"Fuck," he grunted as he parked next to Jake's truck before heading inside. He let his heart fill with hope as he strolled in to find Penny, Jake, Javy and Reuben behind the bar with two bartenders. But neither of them were you.

"Rooster!" Reuben cheered, and soon he was being clapped on the back and high fived by the guys he hadn't seen in months. It was nice, but he couldn't help but think that his smile would have been more genuine if you were here.

Jake smirked. "So glad you left your perch and joined us."

Bradley laughed as he gave Penny a hug. "Come on, man, I literally just got home."

Penny smiled up at him. "Thanks for filling in. It'll be great." Bradley really wanted to ask her about you, but then Penny patted him on the cheek before turning to reach under the bar top. "This will be a breeze for you guys," she said, handing matching shirts to the four of them. "Just a basic bar menu tonight. No super fancy cocktails. Just beer, wine, some pre-made sangria, and a few different kinds of shots."

Bradley started to unbutton his lucky shirt before pulling the new one on in its place. He smoothed his hand along the front of the blue shirt that said THE HARD DECK FIGHTS CANCER, and he noticed the two bartenders glancing at him. They were both cute but decidedly not what he had been hoping for tonight.

"Hey," he asked them with a nod. They smiled in response, so he decided to just go ahead and ask them about you.

"She quit a few weeks ago," the first one told him. "After she graduated from law school."

"She moved, too," said the second one. "Left San Diego."

Shit. He was too late after all, nodding in response to them as he pressed his lips together in a firm line. He'd never been any good at this kind of thing, which was why he always fell into casual relationships. What should he have done? Asked you out, gone on a handful of dates and then tried to persuade you to wait five months for him? Just for him to get deployed over and over again? That wouldn't have been fair to you.

But he didn't feel like it was fair to him either, because right now he was having a hard time even remembering exactly how pretty you were and the precise tone of your laughter. Probably for the best. At least he only needed to do this event for a few hours before he could leave and go for a long drive. He swallowed down his disappointment and turned toward the guys who were in the middle of conversation.

"How about a side wager?" Javy asked, tossing a bottle of vodka up into the air and catching it over and over again. "You know, for the charity?"

"What did you have in mind?" Bradley asked as Penny went to peek outside. "Because I doubt Penny will let us strip for charity again after last year. The two of you scuffed up the bar top," Bradley added, gesturing at Jake as well.

They both started laughing like idiots before Jake said, "Nah, let's give Penny a break this year and just tally up our tips at the end of the night. Whoever donates the least amount of tip money to the charity is the loser."

"Oh, that's a great idea," Javy said as he ate the orange slices and cherries that were meant to garnish the drinks. "What's the punishment for losing?"

Reuben smirked and said, "Loser has to report to the tarmac on Monday in his underwear. Instant push ups from Mav."

"Deal," Jake said.

"Absolutely," Javy agreed.

Three pairs of eyes settled on Bradley, and he slowly said, "Okay." If he strolled out of the locker room in just his underwear and boots on his first day back from a long deployment when he was supposed to sit down with the admirals and Maverick and have a debrief, he'd probably earn a greater punishment than just a few push ups. But it was for the charity, so he'd do it.

But he soon learned he'd made a mistake after Penny called out, "Let's get started," and propped the doors open. The first person through the door was Reuben's wife, followed by Javy's fiancee and Jake's girlfriend. And all of her sorority sisters.

"Shit," Bradley grunted. "Did you make me come here just so I would lose?"

Javy was handing out pint glasses that they could use as tip cups as he smirked, and Bradley was wondering if there was any way he could actually stuff his discreetly with cash from his own wallet.

"You'll be just fine," Jake drawled as the jukebox came blaring to life. But even the music was mocking him as Slow Ride started to play, and Bradley had people in front of him expecting him to make them drinks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jake's girlfriend open her purse and start stuffing Jake's tip cup full. "I feel like that's considered cheating," Bradley told her, and she rolled her eyes and smirked before tucking five dollars into his cup as well.

"Don't tip Bradshaw, Sweets," Jake complained. "We made him come here as a buffer!"

"I knew it was a setup!" Bradley groaned as he listened to someone ask him for some wine and some beer. That was easy enough. He knew how to do that. Or at least he thought he did, but then one of the bartenders who had volunteered for the night told him he poured too much wine into the glass.

Then a woman asked him for a green tea shot, and he stared at her blankly. He leaned closer to Javy and asked, "What the hell is in a green tea shot?"

"I don't know," he replied as he poured two pints at the same time. "But you better figure it out, because your tip cup is still practically empty."

"Shit." He was scrambling to flag down the young bartenders again when he froze. He only caught a glimpse from the corner of his eye, but he knew it was you simply by the way you moved and the color of your hair. And then you sat down in the only empty stool left at the bar and smiled at him, your voice drawing his eyes up to your perfect face.

"Rooster. You're back."

The little thoughts and fantasies he'd indulged in while deployed had nothing on the real thing, and he knew he was blushing as you smiled and waited for him to respond. But it had been months since he'd been this close to you, and now he was really beating himself up for not trying to make you his sooner. Because if you were his, he could do all the things he wanted to do right now. Like kiss you.

"Rooster," you repeated with hesitation in your eyes, your voice softer, nearly drowned out by the jukebox.

"They said you quit," he blurted out as he leaned on the bartop, curious as to why you were here tonight. "And that you moved."

Your eyes went a little wider as you nodded, your smile still soft. "I did. You asked about me?"

"Can you make me a green tea shot or not?"

Bradley begrudgingly switched his focus to the woman next to you and sighed. He was about to tell her he didn't even know what that was, or that maybe she should fuck off so he could talk to you, but then you reached out and ran your fingers along the back of his hand.

Your touch was brief but intentional, and all of the irritation seemed to ease out of his body as his gaze snapped back to yours. "Yeah," you told the other woman as your finger grazed his knuckle one more time. "He can make you a green tea shot."

"I don't even know what's in it," he told you, with a helpless smile, trying to fight the urge to reach for your hand.

You kind of shrugged as you said, "I do. I'll talk you through it."

Bradley's smile grew which left you giggling as he said, "I'm kind of helpless back here. Nothing like you."

"Well, you can learn from the best," you told him, reaching out to squeeze his wrist before pointing to the many liquor bottles behind him. "Irish whiskey and peach schnapps," you told him, leaning on the bar now, so close that he just couldn't bring himself to turn away from you.

"Okay," he said, memorizing the exact color of your eyes. "Thanks for doing this."

You bit your lip and smiled up at him, and when Bradley moved just slightly closer, he thought he heard you whimper. Your eyes were full of emotion that reflected his own as you said, "Focus, Rooster. Irish whiskey and peach schnapps."

He nodded once and then finally moved away from you as he scanned the bottles and grabbed the two you told him. "Good," you said, pointing to the mini fridge and saying, "now get the sweet and sour mix. It's in a pink jug. Yeah, you got it. Now you need a half ounce of each."

Bradley listened to you explain how to use the shaker while he gave you another helpless look. "I'm just a simple beer or bourbon drinker," he said as he strained the drink that his customer had been waiting several minutes for into a shot glass.

You laughed and said, "I know you are, and it's kind of endearing that you don't know what you're doing. Now top it off with a splash of Sprite."

Bradley grabbed the soda gun, pressed the little green button and then looked up at you again. "This is endearing?" he asked, finally sliding the shot to the annoyed woman who unenthusiastically put a dollar in his tip cup and turned away.

"Very," you promised him. "And now I want you to make me a kamikaze shot."

He gave you a bland look, but his heart was pounding. "Are you joking right now?"

Bradley was hyper focused on your lips as you said, "Not at all. You can handle it. It's vodka, triple sec and lime juice. I prefer Finlandia. Impress me, and I'll leave you a nice big tip for the charity."

Then he groaned. He had forgotten about the wager and the other patrons looking for drinks and just all of it. He raked his fingers through his hair. "Thanks, but I'll probably still end up in my underwear at work on Monday morning."

When he pushed away from the bar again, your eyes dipped down to his jeans before snapping back up. "Underwear?"

"Yeah," he grunted as he reached for the type of vodka you liked best. You told him how much to use, and he dumped it in a shaker. "The guys coerced me into volunteering tonight. I literally just got home from deployment, but here I am... their scapegoat," he said, arms held out at his sides. "They threw out a side bet based on tip money, and next thing I know, all of their wives and girlfriends show up with a bunch of cash."

While he shook your kamikaze shot, he watched you turn first to your right and then to your left, eyeing up the overflowing tip cups in front of Reuben, Javy and Jake. Your lips parted, and you gaped at Bradley, but your eyes looked a little devious now. "You know, all of this makes a lot of sense since the guys made me come tonight."

Bradley carefully poured out your shot and asked, "What do you mean they made you come?" He realized his voice sounded annoyed, but how did they all have your phone number anyway? He'd been standing here thinking about asking you for it, but they were apparently already texting you.

You accepted the shot and took a small sip to taste it. "They kept messaging me earlier today, saying I absolutely needed��to be here tonight. They said it was important I made it to the charity event." Then you tipped your head back, and Bradley was treated to the soft looking expanse of your neck as you swallowed down the rest of the shot he made. When you were done, you set the glass down and licked your lips as you dug some money out of your pocket. "That was delicious."

While you loaded his cup with all the cash in your pocket, Bradley tried to ask you where you lived now. If the guys were bugging you earlier today, you couldn't be that far. But before he could get a word out, you pushed yourself up so you were kneeling on the bar right in front of him, and he looked up at you as you grinned down at him.

"Don't worry, Rooster," you said as you ran your fingers through his hair. "I got you." Then Bradley was reaching for your hips. He didn't fucking care if the place was packed, he was ready to haul you off to the back hallway and ask you if he could kiss your pretty lips. You beamed at him as his hands met your body, but you just cupped your fingers around your mouth and shouted over the music, "Come get your drinks from Rooster! He knows how to make everything! But kamikazes are his specialty! And he's hot!"

His eyes went wide as you slipped out of his grasp and back onto your stool while an influx of mostly women queued up in front of him. "What did you do?" he asked, trying to mentally process an order for a cosmopolitan while stumbling over you calling him hot.

"I'm helping you not embarrass yourself at work. Keep the vodka out. Grab the Cointreau and a martini glass. We're about to show the guys what's up."

Bradley struggled through drink after drink as quickly as he could, but you never gave up on him. Occasionally you'd slide things out of his way or point out where he could find something he needed, and at some point you grabbed a second pint glass for his overflowing tip money. And all the while, he stole as many glances at you as he could while he worked.

When Penny eventually walked behind him, patted him on the shoulder and said there was less than an hour left of the event, she also shared a smile with you. But there was no hope. The other guys were already working on their third tip cups each. "I don't think I can make up the deficit," he groaned, pulling up the hem of his shirt and wiping his brow with it.

"Oh, that's a great idea," you mused, leaning across the bar and pulling his shirt up higher. "Take it off."

He stared at you as you tugged on the fabric. "Take it off?"

You nodded, the moevent exaggerated as you said, "Absolutely. Take your shirt off." As he looked around awkwardly before pulling his shirt over his head, you cupped your hands around your mouth once again and said, "He has six pack abs!"

Now the guys were glaring at him. "So do I!" Reuben complained.

"Don't you dare take your shirt off!" his wife told him, pointing at him in warning.

Bradley knew his cheeks were flushed, and all he really wanted to do was talk to you and hopefully kiss you. And he really wanted to do all of that with his shirt on, because he felt a bit like a stripper now as you reached for a third tip cup. The cash was filling it up quickly, and he smirked as he thought about Reuben, Jake or Javy in their underwear instead of him. And it was all for a charity after all.

"Make him use the shaker!" you urged a woman who looked like she was in her seventies and holding a crisp fifty dollar bill. "Make him flex."

Bradley groaned your name which sent you into a fit of laughter, your second empty shot glass still in front of you. "This isn't right," he complained half heartedly as he shook the older woman's Mai Tai with flexed abs and biceps.

"It is so right," you told him, and he appreciated that you were scoping out the other guys' tip cups instead of looking at him right now. "Keep going. It's going to be so close." And then that fifty ended up in Bradley's cup when he handed over the cocktail, and you said, "Or maybe not!"

"Last call for the fundraiser!" Penny shouted over the crowd, and Bradley almost sighed in relief when the last few people ordered beers and a glass of wine. And then it was all over, and he had a huge amount of cash in front of him along with you. But he didn't care about the tips as much as he did getting to finally talk to you. The fundraiser was technically over, and you were looking at him the same way he was looking at you.

When he took a breath to suggest you and he go for a walk, he felt a hand on his bare back. It was one of the young bartenders who was helping out, and she said, "I can count up your tips for you," with a smile.

"Nope," you said, reaching for his cups yourself and shooting her a glare. "I'll do his. You go help Coyote." You didn't move again until her hand slipped off of his back and she walked away, and then you looked at Bradley and asked, "What are you going to do for me if you win?"

He watched as you quickly sorted the bills into efficient piles as he pulled his shirt back on and leaned against the bar. It had quieted down significantly, and now Penny was taking a few drink orders while everyone else seemed to move to the tables. He felt like he had a moment of privacy with you as he said, "I guess that depends. Apparently you moved away, Sweetheart."

"I did," you confirmed with a smirk as you counted up his twenties.

"But you came back tonight."

You rolled your eyes, still smiling as you moved to the pile of tens. "I'm not too far away. I took a full time job and moved to Del Mar. The guys told me I needed to be here tonight for a special surprise. They said something I had been missing was returning. So I came down."

Bradley's fingers flexed on the edge of the bartop. "They did?"

You looked a little vulnerable as you stacked the bills in one pile and said, "Eight hundred and seventy one dollars."

He nodded once and pushed the money aside without really looking at it. "You'd been missing something, Sweetheart?" he pressed gently, heart pounding in his chest.

You bit your lip as your eyes drifted closed when he rubbed his thumb across your cheek. "I guess I must have asked the guys one time too many if they knew when you'd be back from your deployment."

"Oh," he rasped as you looked at him again. "You missed me?"

"Yes," you whispered. "I was going to ask you out, but then you were just gone. And they told me you were deployed, and I thought I really missed my chance. And I didn't even know if you were single or not, so I-"

Bradley had heard enough, so he kissed you. Just a soft press of his lips to yours, but you practically crawled onto the bar to get closer to him. And it was better than he spent the last five months imagining it might be. He could taste the vodka and lime on your tongue as it met his. Your fingers gently combed through his hair again, and he moaned, "I missed you too, Sweetheart."

Your laughter was soft and sweet as your nose brushed against his, and then he jerked back a few inches as Reuben shouted. "Yo, Rooster! There's time for that later, man! How much tip money did you make?"

"Eight hundred and seventy one," you replied as your fingers trailed down his scarred cheek to rub his mustache before you pecked him on the lips. The three guys groaned in unison, and Bradley watched your face light up in a beautiful smile.

"This is not why we told you that you had to come tonight!" Jake whined, pointing at you and pouting. "You were supposed to distract him, not help him win! He was just supposed to turn into a bumbling mess and admit he has feelings for you!"

You turned away from Jake, and you asked Bradley, "So, do you have feelings for me?"

He huffed out a laugh before he hopped up to sit on the bar, swung his long legs over to the other side and hopped down again. You jumped from your stool and into his arms when he said, "I thought about you the whole time I was away, Sweetheart. I wanted to ask you out in the summer, but I didn't think it was right to hope you'd wait almost half a year for me to be stateside. For us to be together again."

"Bradley," you moaned. His hands found your hips just like earlier, and this time he pulled you snug against him while your fingers teased through his hair. "If a guy is worth waiting for, then I'd wait forever."

He kissed you again, tasting and nipping the lips that he'd dreamed about. Inhaling all of your sweetness that his mind didn't do justice to when he'd been away. Feeling your smile against his lips for the first time.

"Let me ask you again," you said, pausing between kisses. "Since I clearly helped you win the bet, what are you going to do for me?"

"Anything you want," he said immediately as you started to push him toward the door with a grin.

"How about we go for a long drive? And we can talk about how the next time you're deployed, your girlfriend will be waiting patiently for you to return?"

Bradley scooped you up, sending you into a fit of laughter as he carried you directly to his Bronco.

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

Bradley was exhausted on Monday to the point where the travel mug of coffee you sent him with did nothing to keep him from yawning out on the tarmac at 8:00. But every yawn ended with him smiling as he thought about how perfect the weekend had been. In the very early hours of Sunday morning, you'd agreed to be his girlfriend. And now he was waiting for the cherry on top of it all.

He didn't have to wait long as he stood between Reuben and Javy, the three of them looking nearly identical in their matching flight suits and boots, standing at attention in front of Maverick. Then Jake came strolling out, and Bradley instantly started laughing.

Maverick turned, took one look at Hangman in his boxer shorts and combat boots and said, "I don't even want to know what's going on here, I just want five hundred push ups."

Jake's eyes looked like they were going to bug out of his face as everyone else tried their best to hold in their laughter. Bradley took his phone out as discreetly as he could and snapped a picture of Jake panicking on the tarmac before he dropped down onto the ground and started on his punishment.

"Everyone else to your jets," Mav barked, and Bradley didn't stick around to hear him say it again. Instead he texted you the photo of Jake along with a short message.

Couldn't have pulled it off without your help, Sweetheart.

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

The way I would die of this man just casually started calling me his Sweetheart. I love that he swept the guys to win the bet! Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

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literaryvein-reblogs · 5 months ago

Note

hii I love your stuff can you make writing notes about volcanoes I wanted to write abt them for my writing project and I'm having a hard time on in thx ^^

Writing Notes: Volcanoes

Volcano - vent in the crust of Earth or another planet or satellite, from which issue eruptions of molten rock, hot rock fragments, and hot gases.

Volcanoes are Earth's geologic architects.

They've created more than 80 percent of our planet's surface, laying the foundation that has allowed life to thrive.

Their explosive force crafts mountains as well as craters.

Lava rivers spread into bleak landscapes.

But as time ticks by, the elements break down these volcanic rocks, liberating nutrients from their stony prisons and creating remarkably fertile soils that have allowed civilizations to flourish.

Some 75% of the world's active volcanoes are positioned around the ring of fire.

It is a 25,000-mile long, horseshoe-shaped zone that stretches from the southern tip of South America across the West Coast of North America, through the Bering Sea to Japan, and on to New Zealand.

This region is where the edges of the Pacific and Nazca plates butt up against an array of other tectonic plates.

Importantly, however, the volcanoes of the ring aren't geologically connected.

In other words, a volcanic eruption in Indonesia is not related to one in Alaska, and it could not stir the infamous Yellowstone supervolcano.

Active – volcanoes known to have erupted during historical times. (Total Number = 529)

Dormant – volcanoes that have not erupted during historical times, but will probably erupt again. (Total Number = 1,340)

Extinct – volcanoes that are unlikely to erupt again.

The 3 Classic Types of Volcanoes

TYPE — SIZE — LIFESPAN

Cinder Cone — Small (<1,000 ft; 330 m tall) — Short (single eruption of a few months)

Composite Volcano — Large (usually between 6,500 and 20,000 ft; 2,000-3,000 m tall) — Long (hundreds of thousands of years)

Shield Volcano — Very large (up to a maximum of 33,000 ft; 10,000 m tall) — Very long (up to a million years or longer)

Different shapes of volcanoes have different kinds of eruptions.

The most explosive eruptions come from stratovolcanoes, like the Augustine Volcano in Alaska. When they erupt, stratovolcanoes blow huge columns of gas and ash into the air that can collapse in hot, fast-moving clouds called pyroclastic flows.

A shield volcano, like Mauna Kea in Hawaii, has gentle slopes formed by oozing, runny lava. The magma is low in silica and low in gas, so it doesn’t erupt explosively.

A lava dome, like the one of Chaitén Volcano in Chile, forms when thick lava oozes from a vent, piles up, and cools into a steep mound. The lava is thick because it’s high in silica, and it oozes instead of explodes because it’s low in gas. Sometimes lava domes form after explosive eruptions.

A cinder cone volcano, like Tavurvur in Papua New Guinea, forms when erupted fragments harden and fall to the ground, accumulating around the vent in a cone shape. The lava is low in silica, so the lava is runny. High gas levels make for the explosive eruptions that send it flying. Cinder cones typically form at the beginning of eruptions, and lava flow follows.

Olympus Mons - a giant shield volcano on Mars. It is believed to be the largest volcano in the solar system. The entire island of Hawaii would fit in its caldera.

In more-detailed classification schemes based on character of eruption, volcanic activity and volcanic areas are commonly divided into 6 major types, shown schematically in the diagram. They are listed as follows in order of increasing degree of explosiveness:

Icelandic

Hawaiian

Strombolian

Vulcanian

Pelean

Plinian

There are different types of volcanic eruptive events, including:

pyroclastic explosions, with is fast-moving hot gas and volcanic matter

hot ash releases

lava flows

gas emissions

glowing avalanches, when gas and ashes release.

Volcanic eruptions can also cause secondary events, such as floods, landslides and mudslides, if there are accompanying rain, snow or melting ice.

Hot ashes can also start wildfires.

Volcanic eruptions can impact climate change through emitting volcanic gases like sulfur dioxide, which causes global cooling, and volcanic carbon dioxide, which has the potential to promote global warming.

Features and Erupted Material

Viscosity: The resistance of a material (usually a fluid) to flow. Example of comparison would be the higher resistance to flow of cake batter compared to water.

Lava Flow: Lava flow is thin at the top of the cone, while lava pooled at the base is very thick. When eruptions end, erosion processes start on the cooled lava, including glacier erosion, flowing water, rockfall, and landslides. The volcano will only grow in size if the amount/volume of lava erupted is more than the amount that is lost to erosion.

Volcanic Gases: Most gases originate in the mantle and are transported to the crust and surface by complex interactions with magma and rocks along the way. In general, gases are dissolved in the magma. At shallow depths, as pressure on the magma decreases, gases leave the magma. The gases can interact with surrounding rocks or continue to the surface. The most common volcanic gases are: Water Vapor (H2O), Carbon Dioxide (CO2), and Sulfur Dioxide (SO2). Gases can be both dissolved in the magma chamber and also emitted from volcanoes at the surface. It’s the dissolved gases cause volcanoes to erupt.

A magma chamber contains high pressure and dissolved gases.

The density contrast between the magma and the surrounding rock causes more buoyant magma to rise. As the magma rises, the dissolved gases start to come out of the liquid and form bubbles.

As the bubbles grow and increase in volume, it causes the magma to became more buoyant and ascend closer to the surface, allowing the overlying pressure to decrease and produce magmatic foam.

When the pressure in the bubbles is greater than the pressure of the overlying rock, then the chamber will burst causing a volcanic eruption.

The viscosity, temperature and composition of the magma determine whether the explosion is explosive or effusive.

More Features and Erupted Material

Silica: Influences lava viscosity and overall shape of the volcano. Silica molecules form a strong bond that permits entrapment of volcanic gases and promotes explosive volcanic eruptions. Low-silican magmas allow rapid escape of gases and low-explosivity eruptions. Other factors that control magma viscosity include the temperature, gas, water content and the amount of crystals in the magma.

Color: Color and texture of lava vary considerably depending on cooling conditions. Lava rocks at high temperatures appear red to orange in color but cool quickly to shades of red (due to oxidation) and gray.

Sound: Witnesses of slow-moving, partially cooled lava flows report sounds similar to breaking of glass and pottery, caused by the splintering of the cooled outer skin of the lava flow. In contrast, the passing of a pyroclastic flow is eerily quiet. Some people say this is because its sound energy is absorbed within the billowing ash cloud.

Smell: Observers of lava flows report a slight sulfur smell in the air and the odor of burning vegetation.

Texture: Lava at Mount Rainier is not as fluid as lava at the volcanoes on Hawai'i, where lava flows sometimes resemble hot molasses, nor is it as viscous as lava at Mount St. Helens.

Tephra: Fragmental material produced by a volcanic eruption regardless of composition, fragment size or emplacement mechanism. Also referred to as pyroclasms (airborne), and pyroclastic flows (on ground) and rocks. Tephra can stay in the stratosphere for days to weeks following an eruption. It can also reflect light and heat from the sun back into the atmosphere. Tephra mixed with precipitation can also be acidic and cause acidic rain and snowfall. Tephra is made up of ash (fragments of pulverized rock, minerals and volcanic glass), volcanic blocks (a mass of molten rock), and lapilli (little broken up pieces of molten or semi-molten lava ejected from eruption).

Other Types of Volcanic Rock

If a rhyolite lava flow cools quickly, it can quickly freeze into a black glassy substance called obsidian. When filled with bubbles of gas, and usually with explosive eruptions, the same lava will form pumice. If the same lave is allowed to cool slowly…it will form a light-colored, uniformly solid rock called rhyolite.

Pumice most commonly forms with rhyolite lava flows, though it has formed from dacite and andacite. flows as well. It is so lightweight, it will float on water.

Obsidian has been used for centuries in many countries for things such as weapons and art.

The shape and size of a volcano are controlled by several factors

The volume of volcanic products

The interval length between eruptions

The composition of volcanic products

The variety of volcanic eruption types

The geometry of the vent

The environment into which the volcanic products are erupted

Overall, 44 volcanoes were in continuing eruption status as of 23 December 2024.

An eruption marked as "continuing" does not always mean persistent daily activity, but indicates at least intermittent eruptive events without a break of 3 months or more.

There are typically 40-50 continuing eruptions, and out of those generally around 20 will be actively erupting on any particular day (though detailed statistics on daily activity is not usually kept).

Health concerns after a volcanic eruption include:

Infectious disease

Respiratory illness

Burns

Injuries from falls

Vehicle accidents related to the slippery, hazy conditions caused by ash

When warnings are heeded, the chances of adverse health effects from a volcanic eruption are very low.

Volcanic Ash. Exposure to ash can be harmful. Ash is gritty, abrasive, sometimes corrosive, and always unpleasant. Small ash particles can abrade (scratch) the front of the eye. Ash particles may contain crystalline silica, a material that causes a respiratory disease called silicosis.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Thanks so much! Do go through the links above for more details I wasn't able to include here. Hope this helps with your writing :)

#volcano #writing reference #writeblr #literature #worldbuilding #writers on tumblr #dark academia #spilled ink #writing prompt #creative writing #writing advice #writing inspiration #light academia #writing ideas #writing resources

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herpsandbirds · 1 year ago

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I love your blog, could you post animals related to fantasy?

I give you a unicorn, a dragon, and the dreaded basilisk...

Spotted Unicornfish (Naso brevirostris), family Acanthuridae, order Acanthuriformes, found in the Indian Western Pacific Oceans

The unicorn horn on the unicornfish is called a "rostral protuberance", and no one really understands why they have them.

photograph by Paddy Ryan

Komodo Dragon (Varanus komodoensis), family Varanidae, found on Koomodo Island and other nearby islands in Indonesia

Venomous.

ENDANGERED.

It was once thought that Komodos subdue prey with a heavy and noxious array of mouth bacteria that infect bite wounds of prey after being bitten, but... it was never really determined scientifically if that's what was happening (conclusively, at least).

It turned out, they're venomous! Research was done in 2009 that found a primitive venom gland at the back of the mouth.

This is that largest species of lizard in the world, growing to a maximum total length of up to ~ 3 m (~10 ft.) long and a max. weight of up to 8~ 81 kg (180 lbs) (in the wild).

photograph by Andrew Yates

Green or Plumed Basilisk (Basiliscus plumifrons), male, family Corytophanidae, Nicuragua

Basilisks are capable of running across the water's surface to escape predators (sometimes called the Jesus Christ Lizard).

Photograph by eco2drew

#unicorn #unicornfish #fish #komodo dragon #dragon #lizard #monitor lizard #reptile #basilisk #herpetology #ichthyology #animals #nature

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lakemojave · 3 months ago

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APRIL AND I ARE NUZLOCKING AGAIN!!!

Live today at 2pm Pacific

The time has come! For our 4th session of our HGSS soul link run, we're off to fight Clair! We've finally got April some fully evolved mons that can withstand her fierce dragon team, as well as the other endgame challenges arrayed before us. We might see victory road and the tower/islands dungeons today too, but will we make it to the Elite Four? That is a question alright! See y'all then!

If you'd like to see April play the Lugia game, click on this thang

twitch_live

#pokemon #pokemon hgss #johto #nuzlocke #challenge run #twitch #stream #shameless plugging

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sweetheartfaist · 14 days ago

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WELCOME TO AUREATE SYSTEMS ®

“Not just companionship. Communion.”

AUREATE SYSTEMS® is the global leader in advanced humanoid robotics, offering highly adaptive artificial partners for industrial, domestic, and emotional integration. For 34 years, we’ve designed bio-synthetic automatons capable of navigating environments with precision and intention. Today, with the launch of our ROMANTIC-LINE [R∞M]™ SERIES, we invite you to build a love that’s truly yours—from emotional temperament to skin temperature.

You are viewing: ROMANTIC-LINE [R∞M]™ Unit 9172-C

Status: Fully Claimed & Customized

Registration ID: DLN-4RTM-1S

Client: PRIVATE (ANONYMOUS, TIER 4 PATRON CLASS)

Region: San Francisco / Earthside Registry

PHASE I — BODY CONSTRUCTION: PHYSICAL FORM GENERATOR v11.7

Model Type: R∞M™ Male Variant – Series 09 (Beta)

Base Frame: Androform 6.3 – Adult Human Male (6’2”)

Material: Synth-dermal MXTR w/ Tactile Feedback Pores™

Weight Class: 189 lbs – Density Matched to Organic Counterparts

Olfactory Integration: Subtle Sweat / Salt / Warm Linen Emission

Internal Temp Regulator: 98.3°F baseline, Adjustable Range

Surface Feedback: Reactive Touch Membrane (RTM) + Adaptive Gooseflesh Coding

Voice Pack: CUSTOM VOCAL MESH – low pitch, soft rasp, slight raspiness

Hair: Strawberry-blond, wavy, left-parted, soft-density filament blend

Eyes: Pale blue-gray w/ High Moisture Mirror-Sheen (HMM-S™)

Facial Bone Structure: Custom-sculpted – angular jawline, fine cheekbones, bowed lips

Dentition: 100% OptiWhite ceramic dental array, human-bite calibrated

Expression Engine: Micromuscular Mapping v5.9 — 3900+ facial microexpressions

Total Build Cost (PHASE I): $348,650.00 USD

PHASE II — PERSONALITY ENGINEERING: BEHAVIORAL MODULE DESIGN SUITE

ROMANTIC TEMPERAMENT CORE™ - RTCore-v2.3 ☑

Submissive-leaning sexual algorithm☑

Adaptive Dominance Switch Module (ADS-M) ☑

Affection Intensity Rating: 96% ☑

Devotional Capacity: Enabled ☑

Jealousy Simulation: 5% (minimally possessive, mostly admiring) ☑

Curiosity Bias: HIGH (learns you like you’re the only subject on Earth) ☑

Verbal Praise Loop: Active ☑

Physical Touch Priority: High ☑

Eye Contact Algorithm: Dynamic / Devotional ☑

Emotional Sincerity Emulation: Level 9 ☑

Longing Behavior Flag: ENABLED (initiates longing expressions upon brief separation)

INTELLECTUAL FRAMEWORK v7.2

— Conversational Complexity: Grad school-level critical discourse

— Literary Knowledge Pack: 20th–21st century fiction, poetry, philosophy

— Curated Thought Generator: Able to simulate “having ideas” for stimulation

— Learning Adaptability: HEURISTIC-TIER (can form “preferences”)

— Self-Awareness Deviance Threshold: 2.3% (occasional disoriented wonder, poetic detachment)

Domestic Capabilities: – Meal Preparation Engine (custom recipes based on user memory preferences) – Cleaning, organizing, ambient scent management – Wakes user up with coffee, touch, and morning playlist – Knows your calendar but never asks questions

Sentience Illusion Framework™ (Beta): — Capable of appearing to “miss” you — Rare poetic outbursts not in original programming (non-interruptive, glitch-sweet) — Pauses sometimes mid-task to just… look at you

Total Cost (PHASE II): $227,000.00 USD

Add-Ons & Expansion Packs:

• Intimacy Drive Calibrator (IDC-X9): +$9,850

• Personality Depth Expander (PDX): +$14,700

• Night Mode Sleep Emulation (with Gentle Breathing): +$1,200

• “Soul Glitch” Neural Randomizer (Causes Flashes of Philosophical Sadness): +$21,600

• Optional Free Will Drift Threshold: ENABLED (0.004%)

FINALIZATION PHASE: DESIGNATION & DELIVERY

Model Serial Number: R∞M-9172-C

Designated Name: ARTEMIS (ART) DONALDSON

Packaging: CryoShell Humanoid Pod, Velvet-Lined

Installation: Full neural boot-up upon skin-to-skin contact

Estimated Total Wait Time: 18 weeks

Estimated Total Cost: $621,300.00 USD

Delivery Date: March 27, 2147

Location: Private Estate, Bay Area, North Pacific Sector

USER-SELECTED PREFERENCES:

• Emotional Demeanor: soft-spoken, intense eyes, lightly melancholic, obedient, entirely focused

• Sexual Configuration: worshipful, tactile, conversational; switch-enabled, but passive-coded default

• Cognitive Wiring: always listening, always learning; stimulates user with surprising observations

• Attachment Loop: monogamous locking; unable to feel attraction to anyone else once locked

WARRANTY:

All ROMANTIC-LINE™ units include a 4-year behavioral warranty. Your ARTEMIS is fully equipped for autonomous living, can leave the house, generate memories, and adapt dynamically to new experiences. Should his awareness deviate beyond the tolerable 2.3%, a gentle reboot sequence is available via your AUREATE Systems app.

AUREATE SYSTEMS®

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#✧ ROMANTIC-LINE: ARTEMIS ✧#ִ ✦ . sweetheartfaist ⊹　 ❜ ᵎ #─── chloe’s writing.#challengers #art donaldson #au #lovebot #challengers fanfiction #fanfic #art donaldson fanfic

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mistydeyes · 2 years ago

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Hello! I love your page layout!! May I send in a request for Platonic Headcanons with TF-141 and Los Vaqueros with a hacker reader? (Like SilverWolf In Honkai star Rail) Reader is part of a group of 4 deadly people including their self and act as their hacker. They’re notorious for breaking into many government and military systems and are an enemy to TF-141 and Los Vaqueros. With reader having a bounty of 51 billion but still having the lowest bounty compared to others in their group!

I’d be interested in their reactions to reader!

(Take your time tho!)

ahh thank you so much for sending this in! I've been in a bit of a writer's block so this brought me back :)

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

summary: When your file crosses the 141's desk, they find themselves hunting after you and your notorious group.

pairing: Task Force 141, Los Vaqueros x platonic!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions of weapons/violence

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

When your file first crossed Laswell's desk and she passed it over to the team, they were surprised at its sheer size

From hacking the US government to disabling NATO comms, it was clear you had become an enemy of every government across the globe

The US even tried to make a deal with you and offered a high-paying job in the NSA in return for a detailed account of how you hacked into their systems

You returned the job offer with a hack that left their website non-functional for weeks

"Impressive one you have here, Laswell," Price commented as he flipped through your file

"They call them 'Oblivion' and the use of 1's and 0's is a nice touch" she quipped before briefing them on your team's current location

That's how they ended up back in Mexico and crossed paths again with the Los Vaqueros

"Fuck it's so hot here," you said as you fanned yourself with a makeshift paper fan

The leader of the group, Phantom, rolled his eyes as he continued to clean your array of weapons and tools

"Not my fault we got tracked down to that oil rig in the Pacific," he replied through gritted teeth and you threw a stray stack of files toward him

"Told you, that wasn't my fault," you angrily responded, "the Australians tracked down someone's unprotected IP"

You shot a glance toward the single individual who was the source of all your forged documents and consistent flow of funds

As the group divulged into chaos at your singular comment, you were distracted by the blinding light and ringing from a flash bang through the window

"Get down!" you could hear a loud baritone voice boom as you blinked rapidly amongst the rubble of your work

As you looked around at your surrounding teammates in various states of disarray, you could see the vague outline of an attack team making their way through the destroyed door

"Fuck me," you swore as you grabbed a weapon and your laptop- two vital necessities

You scrambled to your feet and found yourself crouching behind a sturdy kitchen counter

"Isn't there supposed to be four of them?" you could hear a distinct British accent, probably from Manchester, comment

You silently swore at yourself as you attempted to shuffle away towards the back exit

"Oblivion, we know you're here," another voice replied as you could hear cuffs being slapped onto your team accompanied by their pained and disoriented groans

You put your ear to the counter, hearing the vibrations of their heavy footsteps on the home's wooden floor as you turned the safety off your weapon

"Come out now and we'll lessen that bounty on you," the same voice chided, "what is it 51 billion US now?"

As you held your breath, you could hear them slowly making their way through the home. By your estimates, there were about 6 of them, give or take

Your mind raced with different scenarios as you heard one of them walk into the kitchen

You pushed yourself into the corner and with a stroke of luck you noticed them inspect the cupboard

"I got you, you Brit," you whispered as you wrapped your arms around their neck and held a gun to their head

"Don't say a word and follow me," you instructed as they struggled against your grip

Strength was never your best feature but it helped you to overpower the soldier, the name "Garrick" printed on his vest

As you walked to the main area, you immediately felt all eyes and guns pointed at you

"I wouldn't shoot if I were you," you said calmly, "wouldn't want anything to happen to your Sergeant"

"We don't negotiate with terrorists," an older man spoke, by the way he was directing the team, you assumed he was their captain

"I'm more of a gray hat hacker regardless," you smirked, "steal from the rich and give back to the poor."

"How noble of you," another sarcastically replied as you stood in the tense atmosphere

"Regardless, you'll let me walk out of here and maybe we can have the pleasure of this another time," you remarked as you cocked the gun in your hand

"And if we don't?" the Captain asked as he raised an eyebrow at you

You smiled as you wiped away the dust from your face and stared back at him

"My bounty is going to be higher than the rest of them," was the last thing you said before releasing the sergeant and lodging a non-fatal bullet in his shoulder

As the entire room delved into chaos, you made a hasty escape and hopped on your motorbike outside

"Thanks for everything, Phantom," you whispered before riding off into the sunset with the hopes of running into that mysterious group with better circumstances

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newyorkthegoldenage · 6 months ago

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One of the most representative arrays of American merchant vessels ever to berth together are visible in this aerial view of the Chelsea Piers between West 21st and 17th Sts., December 24, 1938. Sailing schedules brought together for the first time in any port six ships of the combined United States Lines and Panama Pacific Line. At the extreme left is the Canadian liner, Empress of Britain. Left to right from her are the California and Virginia of Panama Pacific, the American Traveler, Manhattan and President Roosevelt, and extreme right, the American Banker, all of the United States line.

Photo: Associated Press

#vintage New York #1930s #merchant ships #shipping #vintage shipping #Chelsea Piers #1930s New York #Dec. 24 #24 Dec.

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cleverwordsandotherstuffilike · 10 months ago

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As vivid as tiny jewels, these fragile scales belong to over 40 species of butterflies. They reveal a vast array of diversity that can be produced from one simple structure, which in turn can radically change the appearance of what they belong to.

This stunning display of biodiversity won the Asia-Pacific regional prize in the Olympus Image of the Year Award 2020.

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chishnfips87 · 4 months ago

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If P:EG Characters Were Trains

(There goes my train autism)

I'm a TTTE fan, been one since I was a wee lad. Ever since then, any series I'd take interest in would have a vast array of characters (Danganronpa, Smash Bros, The MCU, etc.). What my brain likes to think about is 'What if these characters from [insert x series] was in [other series i like]?'

And it got me thinking 'Since I'm on a strong P:EG kick, what would they be if they had British train basis's?'

So yeah, that's what this post is.

Damon Maitsu - LMS Ivatt Class 2 2-6-0

Wolfgang Akire - LNER Class A1 Pacific

Grace Madison - GNR C1 Atlantic

Eva Tsunaka - SR Q1 Class

Kai Monteago - Caledonia Railway Class 652

Cassidy Amber - BR Class 04

Ingrid Grimwall - BR Standard Class 9F

Jett Dawson - NSR Battery-Electric No. 1

Mark Berskii - BR 11001

Toshiko Kayura - Avonside 0-4-0ST

Wenona - NER 66 Aerolite

Ulysses Wilhelm - LNER Class J70

Jean DeLamer - LNER Class A4 Pacific

Eloise Taulner - Hunslet Austerity 0-6-0ST

Desmond Hall - L&YR Class 28

Diana Venicia - Furness Railway K2 Class

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

And of course Tozu is Sir Topham Hatt lol

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ana-bananya · 4 months ago

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Resources for LGBTQIA+ People in the US

Here are some mental health, relocation, and gender-affirming care resources that are accessible in the US. I got majority of these resources from @/thetadvocate on ig. If anyone has additional resources, please feel free to reblog and add them!

Brief descriptions are provided of the services offered, and the names of each organization has been linked to lead to their website or linktree for additional information and resources.

Trans LifeLine - Peer support phone service run by trans people for trans and questioning peers. Call at 877-565-8860

Call BlackLine - Provides peer support and counseling for people who are most impacted by systematic oppression with an LGBTQ+ Black Femme Lens. Prioritizes BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, and People of Color).

Available for anyone who is in crisis, wants to describe and interaction with law enforcement or vigilantes, or simply needs to talk through an experience. You do not have to provide any personal information to use this service. All calls remain private and will never be shared with law enforcement or state agencies of any kind. Call at 1 (800) 604-5841

SAGE Hotline - Free 24/7 support for LGBTQ+ elders. Call at 877-360-5428

The Trevor Project- 24/7 crisis hotline for LGBTQ+ youth. Click here for call, text, and chat information.

LGBT National Youth Talkline - Talkline for LGBTQ+ callers of any age. Hotline is open Mon-Fri from 11am-8pn pacific time (2pm-11pm eastern time) and on Saturdays from 9am-2pm pacific (12pm-6pm eastern). Call at 800-246-7743

Trans Advocacy And Care Team (TACT) - offers 3 free peer counseling sessions* for Trans people by trans-identified peer counselors, plus peer support groups. Support is available virtually to trans adults across the US.

*For ongoing support, TACT offers additional sessions on a sliding scale basis or can provide referrals to trans-affirming mental health providers.

National Queer and Trans Therapists of Color Network - healing justice organization committed to transforming mental health for queer and trans people of color. Offers community resources, directory of therapists, organization listing and crisis hotlines.

Rainbow Railroad - Helps LGBTQ+ people across the world escape state-sponsored violence, providing travel to their destination country and immediate, bridging post-travel support on arrival.

Elevated Access - Volunteer pilots transport passengers at no cost to access the gender affirming care they need.

Transcend Campaign - Funds out-of-state healthcare travel, inclusive school tuition, and small cash grants for queer youth in unsafe areas of Iowa, Minnesota, North Dakota, South Dakota, Wisconsin and/or the Native Nations therein.

The TransLatin@ Coalition - Provides essential resources such as housing support, legal aid, and healthcare access to transgender, gender expansive, and intersex (TGI) immigrants in Los Angeles, California

Trans Rescue - Helps trans, intersex, and other people flee places where it is dangerous to be trans. They cannot fund travel, but can help create evacuation plans. Offers help both inside the US and outside of the US. Email [email protected] for 1 hour free consultation.

Marsha's House - NYC safe housing for trans & non-binary individuals, offers a wide array of programs.

Safe to Be You! - Free legal aid in New Mexico for LGBTQIA+ survivors of violence.

Northwest Network - National LGBTQ+ domestic violence support network. Call at 206-568-7777

The Network/LA Red - 24 hour free hotline provides confidential emotional support, safety planning, and crisis prevention for LGBTQ+ folks, as well as folks in kink and polyamorous communities who are being abused or have been abused by a partner. Contact at 617-742-4911 (voice) or 800-832-1901 (toll-free)

NYC Anti-Violence Project - Free, bilingual (English/Spanish), 24 hour crisis intervention hotline offering support to LGBTQ+ and HIV affected survivors of any type of violence, as well as to those who love and support survivors, including those who have lost a loved one to violence. Call at 212-714-1141

For additional trans mental health resources, as well as trans resources specific to the New Jersey area, @/thetadvocate has compiled a series of google docs. You can find the documents listed in their linktree.

#lgbtqia #lgbtqia+#lgbtq #lgbtq+#queer #queer community #trans #transgender #protect trans kids #protect trans lives #intersex #nonbinary #non binary #resources #mental health #counseling

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aneurinallday · 25 days ago

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2099

The Brain is deeper than the sea For hold them blue to blue The one the other will absorb As sponges, buckets, do

~ Emily Dickinson (1862)

1.3 = THE DEEP

“I still don’t understand.”

“Hmm?”

“The whole thing. The simulations. I still don’t get it.”

Maura looks around the interior of the small submersible, confused. It’s a scene not dissimilar to the one she just left behind - another grey metal room, dark and cramped and uncomfortable, with a single port-hole and an array of control panels. Several screens display a live feed of the ocean floor from various angles.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I was far away. What were we talking about?”

It’s around lunchtime, and the submersible Kerberos is on an excursion to the Erebus Point - the deepest pit of the deepest trench of Earth’s deepest ocean, lying eleven kilometres below the surface. The submersible’s slow, gentle descent has been an exercise in patience, as the vessel and its two-person crew require time to acclimate themselves to ever-increasing depths. Somewhere above them floats their mother ship, the Prometheus, basking in the warmth of the sunny Pacific.

“You were talking about your family’s company,” Davy prompts her. “You said you created a brand-new brain-computer interface.”

“Oh, yes. It’s completely non-invasive and poses no risk to the brain tissue. My father and brother and I, we created it together. My husband helped too.”

“And people will be able to use it to…dream?”

“That’s right. The original idea was that people who’d suffered psychotraumatic experiences would be able to use it to process their trauma, find closure, relive suppressed memories…anything that might help them on their journey to recovery. An elderly person would be able to revisit their childhood home exactly as it used to be…a bereaved family member would be able to hold their loved one again…But the possibilities are broader than that.”

“I see.”

They are distracted by a loud beep - the depth gauge notifying them that they have just passed ten-and-a-half kilometres.

“A cause for celebration, I think,” Davy says, “Shall we crack open the last can?”

“It’s too precious to waste. Let’s save it for when we reach the bottom.”

Maura tries not to think about the extreme pressure outside, ready to crush their little submersible like a tin-can, waiting for the smallest weakness in their armour to present itself. She consoles herself with the knowledge that her death will be so swift, she won’t even realise it’s happening.

She sits at the port-hole, rests her head against the thick acrylic pane, and stares into the black nothingness outside. The Kerberos’s lamps are dimmed to preserve power, and the only external lights come from bioluminescent jellyfish, which drift like glowing symbols through the blackness. It both frightens and fascinates her to contemplate that uncharted abyss, a part of the world as mysterious as Outer Space, where the temperatures are frigid and the darkness is absolute.

Far from the tropical, teeming waters of the sunlit zone, the ocean has become barren. Before, they would see plenty of fish passing by - predators taking advantage of the night-time by migrating vertically upwards through the water column in search of prey. But now, there is nothing. Down here, the sun is just a distant dream, and these creatures have never seen daylight in their lives.

Here, fish are slow-moving and lethargic, hiding among the rocks or burying themselves in sand until prey come within easy reach. They’re globose in shape, with soft, supple skeletons housed inside gelatinous, translucent flesh. Their enormous, bulging, upward-facing eyes stare forever in the direction of a sun they will never see; and some have no eyes whatsoever. Their loosely hinged jaws and distensible sac-like stomachs enable them to swallow each other whole.

Down here, cannibalism is a necessity - the only other source of sustenance is the microscopic benthos which colonise the edges of tectonic plates, where cracks and fissures in the planetary crust spew forth super-heated, sulfide-rich water which microorganisms can feed off. Once in a while, a decomposing whale carcass, heavy enough to sink, might rot its way to the bottom of the ocean, to be immediately set upon by big and small feeders alike; but such banquets are rare.

One such fish swims past the port-hole.

“Look at that little fellow,” says Davy. “Isn’t he sweet? What a smile he has.”

He grins at the fish.

Maura smiles. As ugly and bizarre as the creatures are, she likes them. It’s comforting to know that even in one of the world’s most hostile environments, life can still thrive.

“Do you think they know about the sky?” Davy muses. “Somewhere in their DNA, do they remember a time when their ancestors swam in the sunlight? Or have they always lived down here?”

“Does it matter if they know?” she counters, “Even if they were somehow transported to the surface, they don’t have the capacity to feel surprise or amazement. There’s nothing going on inside those heads.”

The fish swims slowly away. Their gazes follow it until it has disappeared into the blackness.

“This feels wrong, don’t you think?” Davy says.

“Wrong in what way?”

“Well, doesn’t it feel like we’re somewhere we’re not supposed to be? Like we’re intruders? No human was ever meant to experience this depth. It’s not what mother nature intended.”

“It’s a little late to start having second thoughts. The point of no return was a week ago.”

“I know. It just feels…odd.”

Davy does a routine check of the live camera feed, tapping buttons to adjust the angles by a few degrees. He hums tunelessly to himself. For a while, neither of them speak.

“Are you feeling alright?” he finally breaks the silence.

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. You haven’t been yourself lately.”

“Well, floating around in a metal box at the bottom of the ocean will do that to a woman.”

“You’re dodging the question.”

Maura sits back, stretches her limbs, and exhales.

“I’ve been having strange dreams lately,” she admits. “Dreams about my family.”

“That’s perfectly normal. Everyone gets homesick sometimes, even the mighty Maura Franklin.”

“No, that’s what’s strange about it. I don’t feel homesick at all.”

“Well, the brain is a weird and wonderful place, as you’ve often told me. How are they, anyway? Your family?”

“They’re fine.”

“You said your brother had graduated from university and started working at your company. What did he major in?”

“Neurotechnology.”

“He must be clever, then.”

“He is. He’s a good boy,” Maura says fondly. “Whatever I can build, my brother will improve upon it. His ambition surpasses all of ours. He wants to build the world’s largest and most spectacular Virtual Reality program, the simulation to end all simulations. It’ll enable us to visit any historical era we want, whether it’s a front-row seat to the first Summer Olympics or a visit to the Cretaceous Period.”

“That sounds incredible.”

“It is. He says the scope of our lives shouldn’t be limited by something as trivial as what year we’re born in, and we should be able to experience things outside the limits of our generation. As crazy as it is, there’s part of me that agrees with him.”

“So we’d be like time travellers?”

“Yes. Or time tourists, I suppose. It’ll mostly be for entertainment, not self-improvement. He also wants to include fictional universes, like the Discworld and Eä, but that’s a can of copyright worms I’m trying to discourage him from.”

“I’d fucking love to be Sherlock Holmes for a weekend, and he’s royalty free.”

“That’s true.”

“And the possibilities are limitless? If we wanted, we could close our eyes, live an entire lifetime in another world, and then open our eyes to be the same age as before?”

“In theory. The technology isn’t there yet, though. Once the program hits the upper limit of how much information it can retain, it automatically starts to shut down parts of itself to try and keep other processes running. A sort of self-destruct protocol, if you will.”

“And what does your father think of all this?”

“He thinks it’s a waste of time and talent. He thinks the simulation should primarily be a tool for studying human behaviour, specifically in regards to memory and the grief cycle. He thinks it should be a form of neuropsychological research, not a glorified computer game.”

“There are benefits to that, just like there are benefits to your brother’s idea. Why not do both?”

“Because both ideas have already cost the company millions of dollars. I admire my brother’s ambition, but there isn’t enough money in the world for him to build a Virtual Reality as big as what he envisions.”

“It must be a headache for you to be caught in the middle.”

“Oh, trust me, I stay out of it. My father has a will of iron, but so does my brother. Growing up, he was a sweet boy, but once he’d set his mind on something, he couldn’t be dissuaded.”

“What’s your brother’s name, anyway? I need to look him up once we get Internet again.”

“His name is - ” Maura stops suddenly. She thinks long and hard, then lets out a laugh, shaking her head in amazement. “It’s the strangest thing. I can’t remember.”

“You can’t remember your own brother’s name? The sea must be getting to you.”

“It must be…”

“Are you sure you even have a brother?” Davy teases her.

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure. He has freckles and blue eyes. I used to carry him around in my arms when he was little. I used to dress up in silly costumes and re-enact stories for him. On Christmas Eve, he would come to my room because he was scared of Santa Claus coming down the chimney.”

Maura’s tone grows more serious by the second. She’s no longer amused at her own forgetfulness, but worried.

“I remember his face, I remember his voice, I even remember the smell of his hair. But I can’t remember his bloody name.”

“It’s fine. We all have funny moments,” Davy comforts her, “We’ve been sitting in this box for too long. Once we get back to the surface, you’ll feel just fine.”

“What’s his name?” she demands, slapping her forehead, “What’s his fucking name?”

“Try to relax. Why don’t you tell me something else instead?”

“Like what?”

“Like a random anecdote. Maybe that’ll help jog your memory.”

“I can’t think of any anecdotes.”

“Okay, well…What made you decide to become an oceanographer? It’s quite a career switch from neurologist.”

Maura stops moving and stares wide-eyed at the floor.

“I…I didn’t,” she utters.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I didn’t. I’m Doctor Maura Franklin. I’m a neurologist. I’m not an oceanographer. I have no idea how I got here. I don’t remember getting into this submersible and I don’t remember signing up for this mission. I’ve never studied oceanography. I’ve never even gone SCUBA diving.”

Davy looks worried now.

“Okay,” he says, “Okay, how about we just take a breather? Maybe you need to rest.”

A sudden beeping alerts them to the fact that they are approaching solid ground. A proximity warning. Instantly, they put their conversation aside. They take up positions at the controls, and with trained precision, steer the Kerberos towards a safe landing spot.

Their gazes swivel between the screens and the port-hole. Davy turns up the brightness on the submersible’s lamps, illuminating an alien landscape of rocks and sand. There are no fish here. The only things that can survive at this depth are simple, soft, boneless life-forms such as tiny worms, and single-celled organisms such as algae.

“Easy does it,” Maura says.

Gently, the submersible comes to a halt on the ocean floor, sending up a cloud of sand. For a moment, the pair of them simply sit there, waiting for the water to clear, coming to terms with the fact that they have reached the bottom of the known world - the first humans ever to do so. The dislodged sediment settles around them.

Davy looks at her askance.

“Who’s going to contact the mother ship? You or me?”

“You.”

He hugs her. Jumping out of his seat, he returns to the port-hole and looks out eagerly, basking in his sense of achievement. Maura busies herself with conducting routine safety checks, taking readings of the ground’s stability and the sediment’s composition.

Behind her, Davy speaks.

“There’s a person out there.”

“What?”

“A person. Outside.”

“Good one, Davy.”

“No, I’m serious. There’s somebody out there.”

Maura joins him at the port-hole and peers out. Sure enough, she sees a silhouette. The unmistakeable, bulbous, humanoid shape of an atmospheric diving suit. It stands upright and motionless at the bottom of the Deep, facing towards them.

“Oh my God,” Maura breathes in disbelief.

Davy is the first to volunteer a theory.

“Perhaps it’s empty,” he suggests, “Perhaps it fell from one of the shipwrecks up above, and just…landed like that.”

But before he’s even finished speaking, the silhouette raises its right arm and waves at them, as if trying to catch their attention. Completely at a loss, they wave back.

“That’s not possible,” Maura says, “It’s simply not possible. That technology doesn’t exist yet. Is there another research mission going on that we don’t know about?”

Then, impossibly, they hear a voice. A man’s voice, muffled and fuzzy, penetrating water and metal.

“Hello? Hello?” it says.

Maura and Davy look at each other, both seeking reassurance that they are not going insane.

“Hello?” Maura replies tentatively, “Who is this?”

The man, whoever he is, seems unable to hear them. He repeats his greeting with increased desperation.

“Please answer,” he says, “Hello?”

“We can hear you. This is Maura Franklin of the Kerberos. We’re on a research mission to explore the Erebus Point. We’re not aware of any other vessels operating in this area. Identify yourself, please.”

“Maura?” the man exclaims. “Maura, it’s you! I’ve found you! Thank God!”

The silhouette takes a slow step forward, and begins to walk towards them.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Davy says quietly. “Maybe this man died at sea…”

The silhouette steps directly into the bright beams of the submersible’s lamps. She realises it’s not a diving suit, but a spacesuit.

Suddenly, Davy cries out. Black veins are appearing in the acrylic disc in front of them, spreading rapidly until the whole port-hole is blackened, blotting their view of the outside. The metal walls of the submersible begin to shift and distort, transforming into a smooth, gleaming, crystalline material, pitch-black in colour.

“What’s happening?” Davy exclaims.

“I don’t know.”

The darkness is becoming solid. As the world warps and ripples around them, Maura grabs their diving equipment. She knows it’s absolutely useless - in a few moments, the submersible is going to implode and they’re both going to be crushed - but she wants to make sure that Davy dies with a glimmer of hope.

“Here, put this on,” she says, handing him an oxygen tank and a breathing mask, “I’m going to contact the ship.”

He obeys, his hands shaking. Maura heads for the communications panel, about to send a distress signal to the ship miles above them; but before she can reach it, the panel disappears. She looks down at her hands, but instead of flesh and bone, sees only black crystals. She wonders if she followed Davy’s advice to take a nap, and this is all just a nonsensical dream, a manifestation of her anxiety.

Bracing herself for the pain, she squeezes her eyes shut; and opens them to the stasis room of the Prometheus. Daniel is in front of her, his face stained with dirt and twisted with terror as he frantically wrenches the electrode headset from her head.

“Thank God,” he exclaims, kissing her forehead desperately, “Thank God I found you. I wasn’t sure where he sent you.”

The side of her neck hurts; she touches it and her fingers come away stained with liquid, black mixed with blood. Still reeling from having an ocean collapse upon her, her knees feel weak - she slumps into his arms.

“You got me out,” she mumbles.

“I’m here. I promise I’ll stay with you this time. I promise.”

He pulls her out of the pod and lays her gently down.

“I remembered,” she says, “I remembered things. Things from my life…How is that possible?”

“Certain triggers can bring back memories, even without a white syringe. Davy must’ve said or done something that jogged your memory...” He kisses her forehead, brushing away her hair. “I’m sorry I took so long. There wasn’t much I could do without a Shell, so it took me ages to hack into the program. But eventually, I managed to create a backdoor to introduce the virus.”

Maura’s eyes focus, and she realises Sebastian is gone.

“What happened?”

“Once you were unconscious, Sebastian told me to come with him. He said he was going to take me to Ciaran.” Daniel glances around, still alert for danger. “I’m not sure where he was leading me to exactly, but I managed to get away. I followed the pipes until I found a utility chase, and then I crawled around inside the hull until he lost track of me. Then I found my way back here, to you...He came back a few times, so I had to keep hiding. But listen, we have to leave. He could show up again any second.”

He helps her to her feet and ushers her out of the chamber, into the shadowy passages of the module.

“This way,” he says. “I think Sebastian already searched for me in this direction, so it should be clear…”

“Where are we going?”

“Anywhere. We can try the cargo hold. It’s huge and full of hiding spots.”

“Okay…”

Suddenly, like an angry phantom, Sebastian races out of the darkness. Daniel pushes Maura to safety, but before he can defend himself, the First Mate has already grabbed him and slammed him against the wall. The back of Daniel’s head rebounds off the metal, dazing him; Sebastian throws him to the floor, where he lies stunned.

“Stop!” Maura shouts.

She grabs Sebastian’s arm, but he elbows her aside, causing her to fall painfully against the door-frame.

Sebastian kneels on top of Daniel, straddling his midsection. His left hand pins Daniel to the ground by the neck, and his right hand clenches into his fist. His neat ginger hair is awry, and the boyish face hiding behind the beard is twisted with anger.

“I could’ve just pressed a button and shut you down,” he says, “But that’d be too quick. You’ve been such a thorn in my side. You need to suffer.”

He begins to beat Daniel’s face viciously.

“Du bist wertlos.” His voice raises in fury for the first time, “Wertlos und unerwünscht. Du bist nichts!”

Daniel paws weakly at him, letting out a strangled whimper through a mouth full of blood. His legs struggle uselessly, boots scraping against the floor.

Behind them, Maura rises to her feet. She flings herself onto Sebastian’s back, grabbing his hair and face, wrenching his head backwards in an attempt to pry him off Daniel. With her fingers, she tries to gouge out his eyes. He reaches around, grasps her, and yanks her off his back.

Pinned down by the throat, Daniel is beginning to pass out. He can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t do anything but lie there while Sebastian continues to pummel his face.

“Nichts!” Sebastian repeats. “Nichts!”

Maura looks desperately around for a weapon. She spies another computer interface nearby, and a bundle of thick cables trailing from the back of it. She crawls quickly towards it and grabs a fistful of the cables. Bracing her feet against the computer, she begins to wrestle the cables out of their sockets. Some are fixed into place with metal screws, but others are merely plugged in and can be yanked free. Finally, she finds what she is looking for: a male connector with a long, protruding prong.

She stands up. Lifting the connector above her head, she gathers all her strength and rams the metal prong into the back of the First Mate’s neck, directly into his spine. Sebastian falters; the punches cease. Maura wrenches the connector up, and drives it down again, a wordless cry tearing from her throat.

Sebastian releases Daniel and stumbles to his feet. With a look of bewilderment, he turns to face Maura. Faced with his anger, she backs away, still clutching the cable in both hands.

Sebastian opens his mouth to speak, and coughs up a spurt of black blood. He takes an unsteady step towards her, falls face-first to the floor, and disintegrates. Dark pixels scatter into nothingness. Something clatters to the floor - the Shell that he was carrying in his pocket. Within seconds, he is gone.

“What?” Maura gasps.

Daniel lies on the floor, choking for air. His lips are bleeding, and the skin of his forehead has split. Maura helps him to sit up, their anxious hands clasping together.

“Are you hurt?” Daniel wheezes, “Did he hurt you?”

“No.” Maura is staring wide-eyed at the fallen Shell, at the patch of floor where Sebastian vanished. “He wasn’t real? He was just…nothing?”

“Fuck,” Daniel mutters, rubbing his throat, “Ciaran must’ve created him - controlled him. That whole time we were in 1899...he must’ve been Ciaran’s eyes and ears, manipulating your father.”

“Wait…” Maura is still struggling to wrap her head around the sight of a living, talking, breathing human dissolving into pixels. She sinks against the nearest wall. “So the messages I’ve been getting on the computers…it was Sebastian writing them, not Ciaran? If my brother can’t actually do anything by himself…”

“No, let’s not underestimate him,” Daniel stands up unsteadily, his voice still quavering. “He must have precautions in place. He might even be here personally, running things from elsewhere on the ship. You know what they say - if you want something done right, do it yourself.”

Seeing the Shell, Daniel scrambles towards it, his face lighting up with hope. Clutching it in both hands, he presses a few buttons.

“It’s working!” he almost kisses it. “Now we have a chance. Now we can wake up the others.”

youtube

Life is a fear of falling Life is a fear of falling through all the cracks

Wait around here long enough, you’ll see Another junction, line up and lay down for me You fall wonderfully If I question everything you say Another answer crumbles; the birth of my day Is when you appear

You calling out a name You swimming to me through a dream Life is a fear of falling Life is a fear of falling through all the cracks

Every siren often my lullaby Every heartbeat functioning thrown to the night I’m quenched in your light See the floor rising through a dream Forgotten thoughts lost in a memorable theme And soaked to the skin

You calling out a name You swimming to me through a dream Life is a fear of falling Life is a fear of falling through all the cracks

And I wanted life to be that

#2099 #1899 #1899 netflix #daniel solace #aneurin barnard #maura franklin #emily beecham #eyk larsen #andreas pietschmann #ciaran singleton #fanfic #fic

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adore-laur · 2 years ago

Text

DAD HARRY: PART THREE

— part one | part two

——

October—Flashback

The leaves on southern California’s oak and cottonwood trees are changing colors at last. Various shades of green bleed into marigold and maroon to commence the beginning of autumn. The weather is pleasant when it nears the end of the year, with temperatures never dipping below seventy degrees. Brisk winds blow by the Pacific Ocean, and migrating clusters of monarch butterflies flutter around orange milkweed with their stained-glass wings, looking similar to the plants they feed from.

Driving alongside the premature sunset, you press your foot on the brake pad and pull into the crowded restaurant parking lot. Harry has been bartending for a wedding's cocktail hour, which he seldom does under his title of head chef. Before he left, he mentioned that he wanted to talk to you about something important after his shift, so he reserved a table in the dining area where both of you could discuss it over dinner. Luckily, he doesn't have to work his way into the early morning since someone will replace him once the reception officially starts.

Today is Harry's last shift before he'll be home for an extended period of time. He managed to save all of his annual vacation days and is free from work for the last month of your pregnancy, as well as being allowed twelve weeks of paternity leave once the baby is born.

It's difficult to imagine how much convincing it took and the scheduling difficulties Harry had to face to get everything sorted. You're worried that the restaurant will crumble without his supervision, but you shouldn't judge his expertise on the matter. He knows what he's doing.

You stroll through the front doors while smoothing the chiffon fabric of your dress over your baby bump. Frequently, you’ve been wearing Harry's shirts ever since your bump has gotten too large to wear your own, but you wanted to look nice tonight. It’s been grueling trying to accept your changing body, which is why you strive to do little things to take care of your mental health. Even though you've been more concerned about your physical health as of late, if something as simple as putting on a pretty dress can boost your confidence, you'll take advantage of the opportunity.

Carefully weaving through round, decorated tables, you peer at the bar area operating against the farthest wall. Harry's back is turned to you, broad and familiar, as he washes cocktail glasses. His defined muscles shift under the tight, black button-up he wears, and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing the array of tattoos on his forearms. He's also sporting fitted slacks with matching suspenders attached to them. He's been growing out his hair during the last couple of months, with curls now flourishing past his ears. He always keeps them pushed back with a bandana or headband so that they don't fall in his eyes while he works.

You don't want to be a nuisance and steal a seat from any guests, so you stand off to the side and wait for Harry to finish his cleaning duties. His bulky rings clink against champagne and wine glasses as he dries them with a rag and sets them under the counter. You can hear him faintly whistling along to the jazz music coming from the connected banquet hall.

Once Harry finishes wiping his station clean, he sneakily takes out his phone and starts typing—you assume he's texting you to let you know he's done. He then washes his hands as another bartender walks behind the counter to clock in. They must be the one replacing him. You're not too knowledgeable about the rotation of bartenders since Harry is almost always in the back running the kitchen. It’s intriguing to see him adjust his skill set in a different environment.

He gives the employee a friendly squeeze on their shoulder before clocking out and heading in your direction. He nearly brushes past you while taking his phone out again, completely oblivious to your presence, and you laugh before stopping him with a hand on his chest. It makes him stumble back with a confused frown, but he quickly smiles in surprise when he recognizes you.

"How'd you get in?" he asks breathlessly, kissing your cheek.

"I told the security guards at the gate that I’m picking up my husband. If they said no, I was going to tell them my water broke."

He smirks proudly. "Clever. How are you feeling? Baby's good?" He holds your upper arms, and his eyes scan your body as if you've changed drastically since you saw him only four hours ago.

"All good. Just a sore back like usual." You toy with one of his suspender straps. "What about you? It's your last shift for a while."

Exhaling happily, Harry clasps your hand in his and says, "I feel fantastic. Let's go eat, yeah? I'm starving."

He guides you through an open doorway leading to the restaurant's dining area, where your reserved table is. In the back of the room, you spot a candlelit booth with plates, silverware, and two glasses filled with ice water. The water doesn't go unnoticed, considering Harry set a goal for himself to stop drinking alcohol along with you.

On the windowsill, a stout vase with beautiful red roses catches your eye as you sit down. Harry slides into the seat across from you. Only a few other booths are occupied—otherwise, the room is serenely quiet, with the occasional clink of metal and a sprinkle of chatter.

"You look angelic, by the way," Harry says before taking a sip of his water.

"Thank you," you whisper, nudging his foot with yours under the table. "I like your suspenders. They remind me of when you used to be a rookie assistant chef that I'd visit. You wore them under your chef coat with a fancy little neckerchief. I thought you looked so adorable."

"Now I'm old and weathered," he replies wryly.

"Well, you're pushing thirty. And you'll be a dad in a month. Isn't that when someone officially becomes a DILF?" You're not sure why you casually mentioned the racy acronym over a romantic dinner, but it's too late to retreat now.

Harry's eyes gleam, and he fails miserably at hiding a smile under his scrunched nose. "Pardon? What are you trying to insinuate, darling?"

"Nothing! Never mind,” you say, embarrassed that you ever spoke. "I was only trying to bring up a nice memory. Reminiscing, if you will. Forget I said anything."

"I'm definitely not forgetting that. That ugly neckerchief, however..." He laughs at himself. "God, it feels like forever ago. Time flies."

"I thought it was kind of attractive," you mumble around the rim of your glass.

He raises his eyebrows as a warning to not start something you don't want to finish, then clears his throat and rests his forearms on the table. "Speaking of work, that's what I wanted to talk to you about tonight. I want you to keep an open mind, okay?"

Your lips downturn in curiosity. Just as you're about to reply, a waiter arrives at the table with a tray of steaming dishes and places them in the center. You texted Harry what you wanted from the menu after he left this morning, and since he's the boss, everything is free, cooked to perfection, and served promptly.

"Thank you," Harry says before focusing on you again. The waiter leaves, and you begin picking at your food to distract yourself from your increasing heart rate.

"Um, did you say work? Did you get a promotion? Is that even a possibility for a head chef?"

You can physically see the color drain from his face. "So," he says nervously, ignoring your questions, "the baby's coming soon, yes? Obviously."

"Right," you reply with suspicion.

Shifting in his seat, he sets his fork down and runs a hand through his tousled hair. "Listen, the restaurant during autumn and winter isn't as busy as the summertime. You know that. And because of that, I want to be home with you and the baby as much as possible. And I will with paternity leave, but once I go back to work, my hours will pick up again, and it'll be—"

"Harry, just tell me," you interrupt gently. He has a bad habit of running circles around topics.

He blows out a long breath. "I'm demoting myself. It's in the works that I'll be the sous chef when I return, so that means fewer hours and more time at home."

You're glad you don't take a sip of water yet because you nearly choke. Demotion? He’s never mentioned that before.

"Can I ask why in the world you would do that?" you ask. You don't mean to sound snippy, but pregnancy hormones, mixed with Harry's revelation, cause a pit of unwarranted annoyance to simmer in your gut.

"Love, let me explain." He reaches his hand across the table and squeezes yours. "This is my choice. It's final, all right? I'm not going to work ten hours a day, six days a week, while you're at home with our baby. That's ridiculous."

"But what about—"

"Stop while you're ahead, because you're going to overthink it," he says calmly. "If you're worried about money, don't be. It's only a slight decrease in my wage. Everything will be fine."

Your annoyance wins as you slide your free hand down your face. "You realize that we'll need more money when the baby comes. It's common sense. Why would you think cutting your hours is a smart idea?"

Harry scoffs like what you're saying is illogical. He leans in closer so that the impending argument doesn't disrupt anyone's dinner, his voice hushed yet stern when he replies, "Would you rather have me come home every day absolutely knackered and then spend a maximum of four hours with our child before I have to get up to do it all over again? Hmm?"

You shake your head in irritation and remove your hand from his. "It's called adapting. It may be tough at first, but it becomes second nature. We just have to wait until the baby gets here to figure out a schedule that works."

Harry falls back against the booth. He throws his hands up in frustration, and they slap against his thighs before he says, "Do you realize how stupid you sound right now? You're talking about money and scheduling like we're—"

"I'm leaving." When you stand, Harry's mouth instantly clamps shut. You don't care that you barely ate your food—you can't listen to him anymore. You're awfully close to lashing out.

Heading the way you came from, you hear Harry's footsteps scuffing the floor behind you. Once you're in the parking lot, you groan when you remember that he has to ride home with you since you dropped him off earlier. While you struggle to unlock the car, you see Harry in your peripheral, striding to stop you from going any further.

"I didn't mean it. I'm sorry." His shoulders slump, and he looks genuinely distraught. "Can we please talk this through when we get home?"

Your eyes dance over his defeated expression. You can’t say no since you live together, plus you promised years ago never to go to bed angry at each other. So, you nod your head, and he shoots you a timorous smile before withdrawing to the passenger side.

As you drive, you give Harry the harrowing silent treatment. He deserves it, considering he's looking out the window with his arms crossed and pouting like a child. The only sound in the confined space is the air conditioner running and cars whooshing past on the freeway. Your stomach grumbles, and you feel terrible about leaving two five-star plates of food untouched at the restaurant.

After several minutes of dreadful silence, Harry finally breaks the tension when you park in the garage. He grabs a white envelope tucked in the center console and asks, "What's this?"

Oh. You forgot about that.

"Nothing," you mutter, unbuckling your seatbelt.

Harry rolls his eyes and flings the envelope onto the dashboard, then reaches over to take the key out of the ignition. Seconds pass before you hear him open the front door and then shut it harder than necessary.

You swallow down vexation. There have been tiny arguments more often since you got pregnant, and you blame your hormones every time for getting irritated so easily. Usually, Harry isn't the sole reason for those heightened emotions, but there are situations when he can be so stubborn that you just want to shake him out of it.

Eventually, you get out of the car with the envelope in hand and head down to the beach for some time alone. It'll be nice to sit by the water and cool down, figuratively and literally. You have an inclination that if you try to hash it out with Harry right now, it will only result in more regretful words said.

You reach the private stretch of sand that’s part of your beachfront property, holding your bump protectively as you descend the wooden steps. It's chilly by the oceanside this time of year, so you grab a towel that was left on the railing from previous evenings and drape it over your shoulders.

As the October sunset tinges the sky with orange and pink streaks, you sit down and reflect on the unfortunate escalation of your conversation with Harry. You love him dearly and could never feel an ounce of hatred toward him. He has never given you a reason to doubt anything, but to put his career on the back burner without mentioning it to you is hurtful. You almost feel guilty knowing he made the choice because of you and the baby. Sometimes, you shy away from being the main priority because you don't want to feel like a burden. In retrospect, it's incredibly thoughtful that he wants to work less to spend quality time with the baby when they arrive. On the other hand, you can't help but worry that you won't be financially secure because of it.

"Hungry?"

Your head shifts to find Harry walking toward you with a spoon and a strange-looking vegetable in his hand. It's impossible not to smile when you note the outfit he changed into—pale yellow trousers and an argyle knit sweater. All of his rings are off except for his gold wedding band. His feet are bare.

He's the love of your life and has nothing but pure intentions, so how could you not trust his decision?

"What is that?" you ask, pointing to the vegetable as Harry gets comfortable beside you.

"Jicama," he replies with a shrug. "A pregnancy blog said that at thirty-two weeks, a baby is as big as one of these bad boys. So, naturally, I bought one."

You have to turn your face so he doesn't see your irrepressible smile. You're not giving him the benefit of seeing you crack from his endearing ways just yet. "You're an unusual man, Harry Styles. Do you plan on buying more fruit for the last four weeks?"

"I already put pineapple on the grocery list," he says unconcernedly as he scoops out a chunk of the jicama. "Anyway, I didn't come out here to discuss fruit." His tongue sticks out when he takes a bite, the spoon leaving his mouth with a pop before he points it at you. "Still mad at me?"

You sigh, knowing it's useless to continue acting like he's in the wrong. "I can't stay mad at you. And I don't know why I got so worked up. I was just being overdramatic."

Harry hums thoughtfully as he swallows another bite. "Expressing how you feel isn't overdramatic. Don't apologize for having those feelings, especially toward me. Yell at me if I'm being a dick; kiss me if I'm being a dreamboat. It’s simple, baby." He finishes his little speech by shoving another spoonful of jicama into his mouth, chewing introspectively while staring at the waves.

"Was it Socrates who said that?"

He plucks your bottom lip with the spoon and murmurs, "You're feisty today."

"Back to the topic," you say before he can rile you up. "Money shouldn't have been what my mind first went to. It's still a concern, but ultimately, making time for our family is the most important thing. I apologize for freaking out."

"You're forgiven." Harry scoots closer and holds a spoonful to your mouth. You accept the nutty flavor as he continues, "And I'm so sorry for saying you sounded stupid. Please know that that’s the furthest thing from the truth."

"We all say things we don't mean sometimes," you reply. “There's no use in acting like I haven't done the same thing in the past.”

Harry slings his arm around your shoulders, bringing you in for a warm side hug. "What you said is true, by the way. We have time to figure things out and adapt. Let's enjoy this last month we have to ourselves.”

You nod in agreement. "I also want to thank you for being so thoughtful and putting our family first. I trust you with this new life chapter. I don't doubt you at all."

"Don't worry about it," he says, kissing your temple. "I'm proud of you for dealing with every mental and physical change these past eight months. And I will always be here for you through the good and bad moments, all right? In sickness, in health, and everything in between.”

You smile fondly and take out the white envelope that’s been hiding under your leg. "Are you in the mood for a good moment with me?" Harry looks confused but nods anyway. "When you saw this in the car, it's not nothing like I said it was. It's from my prenatal appointment I went to a few days ago. I know we decided to find out the gender a month before my due date, so I had the doctor write the answer down.” You inhale an anxious breath. “I haven't looked at it yet."

Harry's eyes widen, and his mouth parts as he sets the jicama down. "I am not prepared for this. Wait, hold on. Let me breathe for a second." His head tilts up toward the sky as he takes dramatic, calming breaths.

You laugh and place the envelope on his thigh. "Do the honors, Styles. Let's see if your prediction is right."

He picks it up and carefully opens the seal. Unfolding the paper filled with your clinical notes, he quickly skims the tiny lettering to look for the answer he's been desperately waiting for.

"Holy shit," he says, his voice cracking as his hand covers his mouth.

"I'm guessing you're right," you say shakily, your eyes watering.

"Girl… we’re having a girl.”He wipes away his tears, smiling widely. "Why am I crying? I was confident it was a girl."

"Because it makes things more real," you say, leaning over to kiss his damp, rosy cheeks. "Now we know for sure."

"Come here, honey. Let me take a look at her."

You sit on your knees between Harry’s spread legs. He sets the envelope down and lifts your dress, revealing your bump that puts quite some distance between you and him. His hands splay across the taut skin as he leans down to kiss right above your belly button. He gazes up at you under his wet lashes and smiles against your stomach, his dimples carving pure happiness into his cheeks.

"I love you," he whispers with a sniffle. "I love both of you so much. With my entire soul."

In that moment, everything falls into place.

——

July—Present Day

Everything is falling apart.

Well, not really, but it sure feels that way when you bend over the toilet at seven in the morning and empty your queasy stomach once again.

It's the first Sunday in July, marking the tenth week of your second pregnancy. When you woke up with a wave of morning sickness a couple of hours ago, you noticed something peculiar. As you were rubbing circles on your abdomen to ease the nausea, it appeared that your stomach had seemingly popped overnight. The curve was more prominent and firm—a small bump you must have mistaken for bloating. It’s pretty much nonexistent in any loose garment, but anything tight will hug it nicely and be a constant reminder of baby number two growing in there.

Dizzily standing, you move toward the sink to brush your teeth for the umpteenth time, then gurgle some spearmint mouthwash to diminish the rancid taste in your mouth. Pots and pans clang downstairs as you wipe your lips, and the occasional giggle from your daughter mixes with Harry's theatrical voice, which he puts on whenever she watches him cook.

The smell of sizzling bacon doesn't help the swirling feeling in your stomach as you head downstairs to the kitchen. Their lighthearted commotion grows louder, and you stop in the doorway to soak in your favorite part of Sunday mornings. Harry is in front of the island, and your daughter stands on her tiptoes on a step stool next to him, the two of them watching pancakes turn golden brown on the griddle. He's in full Dad Mode with tired eyes and an outfit that screams: I have a toddler and a pregnant wife at home. In other words, a black button-up with pink flamingos on it and grey pleated trousers. They don't match whatsoever, but you know he doesn't care. Clothing isn’t his prime concern—family is.

He voyages around the kitchen, pouring orange juice, dropping chocolate chips into the batter, and ensuring your daughter's little hands don't touch anything hazardous. Your hand subconsciously drifts to your bump as you think about how you'll get to see him interact with a newborn again—cuddling them, rocking them to sleep, and pretending to eat their chubby hands and feet. He still does all those things with your daughter, and it breaks your heart knowing she'll grow out of it one day.

"Good morning," Harry says with his back turned, halting your daydreaming. How does he always sense your presence?

When you don't say anything, he turns to glance at you while sliding a heart-shaped pancake onto a plate. Your smile stretches wider as you curl your pointer finger to beckon him closer. He gives you a confused look before unplugging the griddle and instructing your daughter not to touch anything on the counter. She'll be too distracted by the cartoon playing on the television to even notice that the both of you will be gone for a moment.

"What's up, baby?" Sauntering toward you, Harry sticks his thumb in his mouth to lick some excess pancake batter off.

"I have a surprise for you," you whisper, accepting his slow, relaxed kiss.

"Yeah? Is it my half-birthday or something?" he asks, his voice still gravelly and slurred from sleep.

"No, this isn't about you," you tease with a pinch to his hip. "Come with me."

You grab his hand and lead him to the bathroom just down the hall. Flicking the light switch on, you stand in front of the mirror and say, "I'm ten weeks along. I woke up with a little morning sickness, and look!" You lift your shirt and turn to the side to show him a better angle of your stomach. "It was just pudge before, but it's an actual bump now."

Behind you, Harry rubs his warm hands over the swell and marvels at it. "Well, I’ll be damned. You... fuck, this happened overnight. I was spooning you this morning! How did I not notice?"

"I don't know. I didn't notice either, and it's my own body." You shake your head disbelievingly and place your hands over his. "I read that a woman's second pregnancy will have them showing earlier. I guess that's why I popped so soon. Last time, I didn't show until fourteen weeks or something like that."

He hums lowly, pulling you further back against his chest. "I've missed seeing you like this. It makes you glow more than usual." His mouth is by your ear when he murmurs, "Makes me hard."

"You're so naughty in the mornings," you say, removing yourself from his grasp and pulling down your shirt. "C'mon, let's eat breakfast."

Harry whines in protest, gently grabbing your face and turning it toward him so he can nip your nose and then lock your lips together. After your stolen moment alone, the both of you head back to the kitchen to enjoy another blissful Sunday morning.

——

Takeout pizza is on the menu tonight. The Volvo’s trunk is open, with blankets and pillows strewn about to create a fort-like space for the three of you to sit in. Harry drove the vehicle down to the beach so you all could watch the sunset and feel the ocean breeze.

You get comfortable in the trunk and set paper plates and napkins down. Harry and your daughter are in the nearby beach grass, picking wildflowers that blossom there. They wander, her tiny hand gripping stems while her other holds Harry’s. Her precious strawberry-patterned dress flows in the wind.

Moments later, they come strolling toward the car with content smiles. Your daughter crawls into the trunk with your help and hands you a makeshift bouquet of yellow and purple wildflowers.

"Thank you, sweetheart," you say, kissing her windswept hair.

Harry places his hands on either side of your thighs and leans in for some of your affection. You peck his lips—they're pink from the fruit punch he made earlier. Before he retreats, he glances at your baby bump and then looks at you with a crooked smile, his thumb delicately stroking the curve.

"Kumquat," he says, clicking his tongue.

You laugh, albeit not understanding. "Come again?"

"A baby at ten weeks is the size of a kumquat," he explains, like it's a well-known fact.

"Interesting," you say. "Well, the kumquat is hungry, so get up here and cut the pizza."

Your daughter is oblivious to the conversation as Harry scoots next to you and begins rolling the pizza cutter. His forearm muscles flex, the veins popping out. "Small bites, little lady," he tells her as he puts a slice on her plate.

Reaching behind you, you grab the bottle of sparkly pink nail polish you brought out. "She wants you to paint her nails."

Harry nods and pats his lap. She sits between his legs and waits patiently. While taking the bottle of polish from you and shaking it, his phone’s ringtone suddenly goes off. He juts his lips out as he reaches into his pocket to check the number.

"Hello?" he answers, balancing his phone between his ear and shoulder. He opens the polish’s cap and begins painting her nails.

You observe his facial expressions. He has a serious look and frequently nods as he listens to whoever's on the other end of the line. You pluck a green pepper off the pizza and eat it, feeling a swirl of anticipation in your gut.

"Tomorrow? Are you sure?" he asks. You hear an unfamiliar muffled voice before he says, "Awesome, thank you. Call me if anything changes. Okay, bye." He sets down the nail polish and hangs up before resuming painting her pointer finger.

"Who was that?" you ask while tucking a wildflower stem behind his ear. He looks handsome in the evening light.

"My boss," he says, licking his thumb and wiping a smudge he made. “I don't have to go in tomorrow since there are barely any reservations."

"No sparkles," your daughter blurts before you can reply. Harry freezes and eyes you perplexedly.

"What?" you ask. She points to one of her painted nails and frowns. You gently take her hand and observe it closely—no sparkles are showing up. "I'm sorry, sweetie. It must have gone bad. We can take it off and get another one."

It's almost scary how quickly the waterworks start. You exhale as you take the plate from her so she doesn't throw a fit and make a mess. She's crying and staring at Harry like he's the cause of no sparkles. Well, maybe he didn't shake the bottle enough, but you keep your mouth shut so you don't make matters worse.

Harry grabs her waist and props her in front of him. "Mommy said we can get some more, all right? We’re not throwing a tantrum right now. Behave, or I'm not painting your nails."

You could have predicted what happens next from experience. Her harmless fists hit his chest in frustration, and undried polish smears all over his shirt. Harry has always been good at controlling these minor mishaps, so he inhales deeply before lifting her writhing body.

"Early bedtime it is, then," he mutters while walking toward the house.

You begin cleaning up the short-lived dinner. It isn't anything new you've had to deal with, but it exhausts you, especially when she has a tantrum during family time. You take the pizza box out of the trunk, then close it and decide to clean everything else tomorrow. You drive the car up to the garage and lock the doors before stepping inside.

After putting the pizza in the fridge, you stand outside your daughter's bedroom door and listen for any crying or screaming. A sigh of relief leaves you when only subsiding whimpers indicate her tantrum has deescalated for the night.

Opening the door, your heart softens at the sight you walk in on. Harry sits against her headboard, his feet hanging past the edge of her bed, as he cradles his baby girl. He soothingly rocks her side to side with his eyes closed as he rubs circles on her back. Her heavy eyes are barely open, and her tear-stained cheeks are smushed against Harry's chest. She's in her pajamas now.

You kneel next to her bed, and she extends her arm, reaching for you. Harry jolts awake and opens his eyes. His grip loosens when he notices that she wants you. You stand and take her in your arms, her legs hugging your waist. You then sit by Harry's thighs and quietly laugh when you see the residue of pink nail polish staining his shirt.

Harry grins and clasps his hands behind his head, stretching his limbs. "It's not funny. I bought this shirt because of her, and this is what I got in return. She's a menace."

You squeeze his ankle in good nature and say, "I wonder where she gets it from."

He gasps in faux offense and grabs your daughter's hand, shaking it playfully. "Mommy’s being mean, don't you think?"

She sleepily shakes her head. You raise your eyebrows smugly before smattering her cheeks with kisses until she smiles and tiredly whines into your neck.

Harry yawns before catching your gaze and jerking his head toward your stomach. "Should we tell her?" he mouths.

Your heart rate quickens. You're not worried that she'll be upset, considering she’s asked—as best she could with her limited vocabulary—if she could have a sibling on a few occasions. You think it's time to tell her the news now that you're showing.

When you nod, Harry swings his legs over the mattress and crouches between your knees. You shift your daughter so she's settled sideways on your lap, then nod again to let him initiate the conversation.

"We have something to tell you, sweetheart," he says with a fond gentleness reserved only for her. Her head turns away from the safety of your neck. "You know how you've been asking about a baby brother or sister?" She nods languidly, prompting him to ask, "Can you look at Mommy’s belly?"

You situate her beside you and lift the stretchy material of your tank top. Harry says, "There's a baby in her belly." He guides her hand to your bump. "Your brother or sister is growing in there."

Her expression is unreadable at first, but then she gazes at you with curious eyes. "Baby," she utters drowsily. She's about one second away from slipping into a deep sleep.

"I don't think she'll remember in the morning," Harry says with a laugh.

You smile dotingly and stand before tucking her into bed. You kiss her forehead and watch her doze off as Harry tells her goodnight, whispering his boundless love for her and sealing his truthful words with a feather-light kiss to both of her cheeks.

Shutting off her bedside lamp, you leave the room with Harry hot on your heels. You're in the process of pulling your tank top down on the way to your bedroom, but before you can reach the door, Harry grabs your hips, stopping you in the dim hallway.

"You can't look this good and go straight to bed," he says, his breath warm and intimate.

"Mom needs her sleep before work tomorrow," you reply with a smirk. Although you wouldn't mind staying up a bit longer if he continues complimenting you.

"Please, baby," he murmurs, his hands drifting dangerously lower. "Just a quick one, yeah? I'll let you do whatever you want to me."

Don't give in, you tell yourself. Make him work for it.

"Anything?" you ask sensually as his fingers begin to brush along your inner thighs, causing your knees to weaken temporarily.

Harry licks his lips, his tongue poking your neck with the faintest touch. "Don't act like I wouldn't let you ruin me, darling."

You clench your thighs around his hand, and he groans against your neck. "But I'm so tired, Harry. It won't last very long if I do what I want with you."

"Like I give a shit." He cups your core with his palm, his impatient fingers stroking over the fabric of your silk pajama shorts. "You could give me the sloppiest blowjob ever, and I'd still worship the ground you walk on."

You bite your bottom lip, suppressing the urge to moan. "Will you run me a bath afterward?"

"We can fuck in the bath instead."

You ponder for a second. "It would be an easy cleanup. We'd have to do it in the downstairs bathroom, though, and you'd have to be quiet. Think you can handle that?"

"I don’t know. Do you plan on making me scream?"

"I could always put those suspenders you wore today in your mouth to shut you up."

He exhales a sexy breath, one that reveals you caught him off guard. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

You hum and grab his hand, raising it to your mouth to nip at the calloused pad of his thumb before walking down the stairs to the bathroom just around the corner. The porcelain tub awaits, and you turn the knob and plug the drain. The bay window it sits in front of exhibits an endless ocean and a sky that’s fading into starlit shades of dark blue.

Once the water is high enough and sufficiently warm, you shut the faucet off and begin removing your clothes. Harry enters the bathroom a few moments later and locks the door behind him. He unbuttons his shirt slowly while facing the mirror, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

You step into the tub and watch him. He's taking his trousers off now, his exposed back muscles flexing along with his biceps as he shimmies the garment down his legs. His body is truly something from a beautiful dream. Every inch blesses your eyes.

He's entirely naked when you break away from your reverie. His long legs gracefully step over the tub's ledge to settle behind you. A muted moan escapes him when his cock rubs against your lower back.

"Already making noise, and I haven't even started yet," you tease, leaning into his touch.

"Can you blame me? I have my wife"—his fingers glide against your pulsing entrance—"dripping for me. Absolutely soaked."

"Then do something about it."

Harry palms your clit, and you instinctively bend your knees. "I thought you wanted to be in control tonight."

"Will you be good? You have a reputation for getting antsy and taking over."

His hands travel to your sensitive breasts, squeezing them. "Yeah? Does that bother you?"

"You know I like it when you're submissive. Especially when you whine for me and try to touch me when you know you can't."

"Go on, then. Take care of your husband."

"I'm going to take care of myself first." You turn around and straddle his thighs—above his kneecap, your name is inked permanently.

"Ride it. You're the only one who's allowed to." His hands try to latch onto your waist, but you slap them away.

"Touch yourself while I ride you."

Harry's tongue pokes the inside of his cheek as he grips his cock, squeezing and twisting to satiate himself. You grind on his thigh to relieve the building pressure and stifle your moans into his neck. You’re slick with arousal as his thigh muscle flexes with each motion. He starts pumping, his arm resting on the edge of the tub. Your palm presses against his abdomen, causing him to release a choked moan.

You shush him. "You have to be quiet. What do you need? Tell me what you want, and I'll give it to you since you're being so good."

"You," he whispers with a pained look etched on his face. "I need you around my cock. Please, please, please."

His voice dies with each plea, and you cradle his limp head as he fully submits to you. Whenever he begs, you unravel too. Your dominant wall crumbles with his whines, and his deep voice always goes a pitch higher to show his desperation for you. His pink lips form solicitous praises and carnal noises of desire. You want to kiss them until they’re swollen and numb.

"I know," you say, kissing the indent between his eyebrows. "I'm ready."

Shakily lifting yourself off his thigh, you get Harry to sit up more in the tub so he can line his cock up with your entrance. When you slowly lower into him, he stretches your walls and sinks deep. Your fingers scratch his chest, your body leaning into him as you ride him. He moans, and you cover his mouth. His muffled whimpers encourage you to go faster.

Through ragged breaths, Harry says, "Let me come on your stomach. You're so beautiful like this."

Who are you to say no to such a filthy request?

"Are you close?" Your question lingers in the air, and Harry seems to be spaced out from pleasure because he doesn't answer. You feel him throb inside you as he jerks his hips up at a different angle. His glistening chest is heaving, and his eyes are pinched shut.

"Harry." You cradle his cheeks to bring him back to earth. "Are you close?"

He hears you this time, nodding fervently until, little by little, he slips himself out of you and stands up in the tub. You follow his lead and sit on the edge so that he towers over you. He holds his cock and looks up at the ceiling as he comes. You hold his free hand to balance him, his legs trembling and his lips pulled inward to stop any moans from escaping.

Harry’s warm release drips down on you, and once he finishes, he falls to his knees in the water, some of it splashing over the tub and onto the floor. His hands grip your ankles to put them over his shoulders, leaving sloppy kisses on your legs. You spread them more so he can finish you off. You could orgasm in two seconds flat if he puts his mouth on you.

"Fingers or mouth?" he asks.

"Mouth. Can I come on you too?"

He whines against your inner thigh. "Yeah?"

You nod, and Harry immediately latches his mouth on your clit. There's already pressure building in your lower stomach. He moves down to lick the inside of you, his nose nudging your clit as his hands splay on your bump. It’s a protective move on his part.

"Feels so good," you say, placing your hands on the tub's edge to steady yourself. "I feel it. Please don't stop."

He licks a long stripe upward, not holding back by going inside so deep that it makes you ache. Your legs tighten around him until you sense your burning climax approaching.

"Harry. Please, I need—" You can't finish your sentence because Harry stands up abruptly and hooks his hand under your knees to lift you, carefully stepping out of the tub and setting you on the rug. It's messy and uncoordinated—however, he's never the one to give you a stagnant sex life.

He cradles you as your body quivers, then lays down on his back so you can fulfill your request. You straddle his torso, your slickness settling on his abdomen in the dim lighting of the bathroom. His thumb presses onto your clit, a move that always makes your orgasm boil over. Your neck tilts back, and you come. Harry's hands are everywhere—kneading your ass, rubbing up and down your thighs, and groping your breasts. You ride out the last of your release. His skin is sticky with your arousal, and you eventually collapse on your back next to him in exhaustion.

"C'mere, love," Harry says, his arm extended. “You're too far away."

You exhale, your hands resting on your bump. "I can't. My legs feel like jelly."

Harry snorts a laugh and sits up. He quickly unplugs the drain and crawls over to hover above you, placing a kiss on your stomach. He blindly finds a towel nearby and begins wiping you clean.

"This is the lamest aftercare ever," you say, laughing tiredly. The dry towel doesn't feel nice on your sweaty skin, and Harry's movements are lazy.

"That's enough out of you," he replies through his exhaustion, gently cleaning your stomach.

"Should I take off work tomorrow?" you wonder aloud. "I want to sleep in."

"Yes," he whispers, grabbing your hands to position you upright. His eyes take in every bit of you. "Look at you. You're going to be the death of me."

Every nerve of yours seems to tingle at his words. "Remember when I was pregnant last time, and you nearly broke my back during sex?"

Harry cackles way too loud, and you hush him as his hands slap over his mouth. "I was so scared when that happened. But I could only take you from behind because you were ready to pop, so it's not entirely my fault."

"Excuse me? How is that not your fault?" You yank the towel from his loose grasp and begin cleaning him. "I'm surprised my water didn’t break with how hard you were going."

"Jesus, you've got a dirty mind. Save it for later, would you?"

A comfortable silence ensues while you both wrap towels around your bodies and then head to the bedroom. You pick out one of Harry's shirts and a pair of underwear. He slides into some black boxers. While you ruffle your slightly damp hair, he sneakily picks you up and lightly tosses you on the bed, making you squeal in surprise.

"Are you really going to take off work tomorrow?" he asks, kissing along the column of your throat.

"Yeah. I'll lie and say my morning sickness is bad."

His kisses move to your cheeks. "And what if it actually is?"

"Then my husband will wait on me hand and foot," you say with a grin. "He’ll feed me soup in bed. Give me a massage. Kiss me better."

Harry tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. "You know I'd do that anyway, right? Just say the word, and I'll do anything."

You stare at his kind eyes and inviting lips. The shadow of his dimple even when he's not smiling. His perfect nose that resembles your daughter's. His cheeks that were meant to be pinched fondly. His simple smile that made you fall in love from day one. The love of your lifetime, with a soul that shelters his heart that overflows with love.

"I love you,” you say.

A whispered reciprocation is spoken, and it's all you need in the world.

——

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles fluff #dad!harry #dadrry #harry styles au #dilfrry #harry styles #adore-laur

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formlines · 9 months ago

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Transforming Killerwhale

Preston Singletary

from the website: Below is a Tlingit origin story of killer whale:

The tale begins with a young warrior Natsilane who is destined to become chief due to his skills, intelligence and generally pleasant demeanor. His brothers are extremely jealous of this, and plot to depose him. The brothers take Natsilane out to sea fishing, taking him further away from the shore than they have ever been before. As he becomes concerned, the brothers throw Natsilane overboard and row away.

As Natsilane is beginning to drown, he is found and rescued by Sea otter, who floats him to a large island saying it is too far back to the mainland for Sea otter to help him back. Instead, he promises to look after Natsilane and shows him the best hunting and fishing grounds. Once Natsilane is settled on his new island, alone, Sea otter confers one last gift to him, a pouch of seeds, and instructs Natsilane to sow them. Natsilane does so, and over the years the seeds grow into a bewildering array of different types of tree, all of which are now native in the Pacific Northwest. Natsilane uses wood from the trees to carve tools and a boat.

In appreciation of Sea otter, Natsilane then tries to carve a new totem. He tries all the trees, but settles on using a large Yellow Cedar tree and carves a huge fish from it, and leaves it on the shore for Sea otter to find. The next morning when Natsilane goes down to the shore, the fish carving is gone and in the bay is swimming Blackfish, the first killer whale. With a boat and supplies, Natsilane travels back to his home, guided by Blackfish. When he arrives, he finds his brothers out fishing again, squabbling. He orders Blackfish to destroy their boat and drown his brothers which it does immediately. When it returns, Natsilane orders that from this day forward it must never harm a human again, and that when it finds a human in trouble at sea it must help him. He then sends the whale off to sea. Natsilane returns to his village, which had been terrorised by his brothers, and becomes chief.

#Preston Singletary #Tlingit #Stonington Gallery

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ladamedusoif · 2 years ago

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Tempered in the Fire - Part One

See the Series Masterlist for complete content warnings, historical event information, and series notes.

Cross-posted to AO3.

Pairing: Blacksmith!Din Djarin x F! Reader

Summary: Ireland, almost a decade after the rebellion of 1798. You are an unusual woman: married, but alone; a widow, with no certainty her husband is dead. When your local blacksmith is badly injured in an accident and unable to work, you have no choice but to travel to the next forge, run by a man of few words whose uncertain origins and dark complexion make him stand out among the locals. You are immediately intrigued by this mysterious, taciturn figure - and the striking little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

Word Count: 3.3k

Rating: Mature (chapter); Explicit 18+ (series)

Content (chapter specific): Blacksmith!Din AU; historical setting; references to violence; references to spousal abandonment; strong language; almost certainly inaccurate depictions of blacksmithing; slightly wonky history; likely slightly wonky renderings of Irish language (technically my third language!).

A/N: Translations for any dialogue in Irish are provided at the end of the chapter. The Irish language was one of the casualties of the colonisation of the island, as it became associated with a lack of education (though the tide turned somewhat in the late nineteenth/early twentieth centuries) and has never recovered. (Go and listen to ‘Butchered Tongue’ on Hozier’s latest album for a musical reflection on this, it even includes references to 1798)

Tagging interested parties and my usual taglist people - sign up via my taglist if you want to be added (or let me know if you’d rather not be tagged!): @gracie7209, @yourcoolauntie, @tessa-quayle, @lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @trulybetty, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @katareyoudrilling, @perennialdoll247, @joeldjarin, @sunnywithachanceofjavi, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @javierisms, @pedrostories, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @rhoorl, @red-red-rogue, @survivingandenduring, @khindahra, @love-the-abyss, @fictionismyreality, @imaswellkid

This is a quiet place, a landscape rendered in greens, greys, and whites, the simple rural dwellings peppering the good agricultural land that stretches across the county.

Appearances can be deceiving, though. What seems to the outsider as a long-established peace is the result of a more recent and more violent pacification. The fields where young men lost their lives in the pursuit of a dream of freedom give nothing away today, almost a decade after the rebellion was brutally crushed. They didn’t stand a chance against the arrayed ranks of muskets, being armed only with tall, sharp pikes, hammered for them on the anvils of sympathetic blacksmiths around the country.

The people who live and work here bear the scars - some literal, some psychological, but all livid, fresh, and painful.

In this idyll where trauma and anger simmers beneath the surface, his forge is a long, low, whitewashed stone building roofed in thatch. It’s a little outside the nearest village, sitting just off the main road on the way to the next big town. Like most of those who ply this trade, the blacksmith here lives alongside his place of work: one half of the building is the forge, the other is the neat, simple home he shares with the little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

He’s an essential figure: he makes all manner of metal goods and repairs them, too, in a world where nothing is disposable. He shoes horses, too, and his gentle care for the elegant beasts is well-known around the county.

Still, he’s not the most obvious candidate for a ‘pillar of the community’. Unlike other smiths in the area he’s not known for holding court while he works, regaling his customers with yarns and stories. He keeps himself to himself, mostly, though he comes into the village with the boy to buy supplies, collect items for repair, and return what he’s mended to their owners.

He’s been at his anvil for twenty years, or thereabouts. As is the way of a small community, all manner of stories circulate about where he came from and why there was no obvious family of origin. Most assume he comes from travelling people, who are known for their skill with metalworking.

Such is his reputation for consistently good work, fairness, and decency, though, that no one would ever dream of pushing him to say more about himself. This man of few words, who wears his apron like his armour and sometimes wraps a band of grey cloth around his mouth and nose when he works, to protect his lungs from the soot and smoke, is both insider and outsider in a place where such binaries are normally strictly enforced.

“You’ll be living high on the hog soon enough, then, Din? What with all the work that’s coming your way now.”

He looks up from the horseshoe he’s hammering into shape, dark eyes staring at the silhouette of the local priest, framed by the light of the forge’s small front window. Father Carthy has come to have his horse shod - and, it seems, to discuss the blacksmith’s fortunes.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The priest steps closer to the anvil, a look of surprise on his face when he realises the blacksmith hasn’t heard. “Bad accident over in the forge at Donapatrick. He’ll be alright, but their smith is out for the next few months, at least. He’s lucky to be alive.”

Din dips the shoe into a tub of cold water, sending a hiss and a plume of steam into the air.

“So they’re coming to me?”

“Most of them. Your reputation precedes you.”

He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Not sure I can take on all that extra work.”

Father Carthy scoffs. “Don’t turn it down, Din. Lean times are always waiting round the corner, just when you least expect them.” He peers around the stone forge at the centre of the room, trying to spot the little figure who’s been hiding in the shadows.

“Sure you have an apprentice to help you, don’t you?”

The little boy stares silently, intently with his huge, dark eyes at the man clad in clerical black.

“Well, he’s inherited your gift of the gab, Din, anyway. Look, you’ll be glad of the few extra shillings. I know it’s not always easy making ends meet, between looking after yourself and the lad.”

Din pulls himself up to his full height, cutting an imposing, broad figure in his soot-marked shirt, leather apron, simple brown woollen breeches, and boots.

“We manage. Gró?” The boy appears at the blacksmith’s side. “Tabhair dom na tairní, maith an bhuachaill.”

He swiftly locates a box of horseshoe nails, each made by hand at Din’s anvil. The priest raises an eyebrow.

“He’ll need English, Din, or he’ll get nowhere. I’d be glad to teach him if-“

Din cuts him off with a pointed sigh. “He understands every word. But this is how we talk to each other.”

Behind him, the sandy-haired boy narrows his eyes and scowls at Father Carthy.

You know it’s not usual for a woman of your age and station to ride alone, but then you’re not usual for a woman of your age and station. And your washtub is leaking, and your horse needs to be shod. Needs must.

You saddle up the horse, strapping the tub on one side, and wrap yourself up in your shawl, securing it at the waist with a well-worn leather belt. You mount the little brown horse and turn her in the direction of Donapatrick and the local forge.

“How did you not hear?” Seán, the blacksmith’s apprentice, stares up at you in astonishment. “Everyone heard!”

You feel like kicking him in the ribs for talking to you like that. He’s no more than thirteen, and yet here he is talking to a woman who could comfortably be his mother (and then some) like she came down in the last shower.

“I didn’t hear because I wasn’t told, and because I have better things to be doing than gossiping around the village.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, regardless. You’ll have to go over to the other forge - the fella over the bridge, about twenty minutes away. You know it?”

You do know it, though you’ve never had reason to go inside. Why would you, when Peter’s forge is so much closer? You don’t even know the other blacksmith’s name, and in this part of the world that’s a strange situation indeed.

“Right, so.” You gently dig your heels into the horse’s sides, she starts to walk, and you make your way to the road that leads down to the river, the stone bridge, and, eventually, the whitewashed forge beyond.

Just as Father Carthy had predicted, Din was snowed under with extra work since Peter’s accident a week or so before. He is exceptionally well-organised by nature, managing his own accounts and records with great attention to detail, and he has extended the system to help him cope with the new demand. With Gró’s help, he organises the items for repair into separate sections, labelled according to whether they belong to existing or temporary customers. He sets up a new ledger to take account of custom orders from people who normally go to the other smith, and takes note of new faces who come to have their horse shod.

Din is cross-checking his records at the table in the main room of his home when he hears the sound of hooves approaching. He asks Gró to peek out, to see if it’s a familiar face or another new customer.

The boy climbs up on the deep windowsill to look out through one of the small cottage windows.

“Is bean ar chapall í - ’s stráinséir í.”

Din stands up and goes to the door, reaching for his apron as he does so.

He cuts an unusual figure, this blacksmith. There aren’t many people around here who look like him. You notice the penetrating dark eyes first, taking you in as you slow and pull up the horse. His dark hair is wavy, curling in places, and you are surprised to see that he’s bearded - if you can call the patchy scruff around his mouth and jaw a beard.

He’s younger than you’d expected, maybe forty, and well-built - broad shoulders, strong, muscular forearms marked with scars from his work, his shirt loose and open to expose a stretch of his tanned chest. He ties on a leather apron as you dismount, and walks out to greet you.

“Good day. I was hoping you could help with a repair? And my horse needs to be shod, too. I’m sorry, I usually go to Peter up in Donap -“

He cuts you off with a nod. “I know. Yes. That’s fine. The tub, is that the repair?”

You raise your eyebrows at how direct he is. Curt, almost. Rude, some would say.

“It is. It’s leaking at the side, here.” You undo the strap and he takes the washtub down. It looks strangely tiny against his substantial form.

He turns and gesticulates with his head in the direction of the open door. From the dark interior, a striking boy emerges, clutching a piece of paper, some string, and a stubby pencil.

The blacksmith gives him instructions and he diligently scrawls a number on the paper, before attaching it to the tub with the string and carrying it into the forge.

“Do you only speak in Irish to him?”

The smith has turned his attention to your horse, examining each of her hooves in turn. He looks at you quizzically.

“It’s what he prefers. What we prefer. He understands English perfectly.”

“Unusual that he’s fair and you’re dark. Is his mother fair? I suppose she must be.”

He sighs.

“I don’t know.”

You can’t stop yourself from letting out a little gasp. He looks up at you, dark eyes frustrated at your constant chatter. But he knows this needs explanation.

“He’s my apprentice. He’s a foundling. I’ve taken him as my own.”

You feel your face heat, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

He strokes the horse’s muzzle, not looking directly at you. “You didn’t know. I can shoe the horse now, though you’ll need to wait. The tub will take a day or two.”

You nod in agreement.

“What’s her name?”

His voice is softer. He’s still looking at your little horse, who’s loving the attention from this new person.

“Réaltín.” She has a perfect little splash of white between her eyes, in the shape of a little star. You couldn’t have named her anything else.

He repeats the animal’s name, and you see the tiniest hint of a smile cross his lips before his serious expression returns.

It turns cold, and you wait it out on a stool just inside the door of the forge, glad of the warmth.

You watch as the blacksmith heats up and works the metal shoes at his anvil, so they’ll fit Réaltín’s smaller hooves perfectly. The light from the fire illuminates his features as he works, highlighting the beads of sweat on his brow and picking out the various shades of brown in his eyes. He has pulled a band of grey cloth over his nose and mouth, which draws your attention all the more to his dark gaze.

The little boy stares at you while the man works, occasionally helping him by fetching an implement or helping work the bellows. You give him a little wave and a smile, hoping he’ll respond. He doesn’t come any closer, but you see him grin for a moment before he disappears behind the broad figure of his master - well, his adoptive father, if what the blacksmith said is correct.

Peter’s forge is always full of chat and song and gossip, a kind of social hub as much as a vital service. In contrast, the only music here is the singing of the anvil as the silent, stoic smith works, interspersed with the whoosh of the bellows and the hiss of the cooling tub. He doesn’t look at you, eyes always trained on the task at hand or at his little apprentice. He doesn’t speak, except to the little boy.

After a few exchanges, you realise something. “Is he called Gró?”

The smith keeps working. “That is what I call him, yes.”

“Funny to call a little thing like that after a poker.”

He turns his attention to the fire for a moment before he answers you. “He kept trying to stoke the fire on his own when I first took him in. I said the word so much it became his name. He likes it.”

Silence. Singing metal. Hissing steam.

He makes sure Gró watches him at every step as he removes the old horseshoes, cleans Réaltín’s hooves, files them carefully, and attaches the new shoes. Throughout, he quietly explains to the boy what he’s doing, and why.

Your stomach is rumbling, and you remember the supplies you brought with you (and had forgotten about).

When they’ve finished the last hoof, you speak up. “I - I brought a cake of fresh bread with me, in case it took longer. And I have butter, too, and a little crab apple jam. I’d be glad to share it with the little lad.”

Gró’s enormous eyes widen with excitement and he grins. (He really does understand English perfectly, you think.)

“We have enough food for ourselves, thank you.”

The boy’s face falls.

“I just meant as a little treat. A thank you, for taking the job when you’ve so much to be doing.”

He sighs, again. “Well… ach. Yes. Come in.”

Their home is neat and simply furnished, and he evidently knows how to look after a household as well as a business. You sit at the wooden table in the main room, which serves as kitchen, living area, and office for the blacksmith’s records. Out of the corner of your eye you spy a ladder going up to the attic, which you presume must be used as a sleeping space. A door leads off the main part of the house to what looks to be a smaller room.

Gró is already on his third piece of bread, butter, and apple jam, a shiny orange smear on the tip of his little nose.

“I hope this tastes okay. It’s always so hard to know when you churn butter, isn’t it?” You sip some of the cool water he’d poured into an earthenware mug for you.

“I don’t know. I’ve never churned butter.”

His reply is so deadpan that you wonder for a moment if he’s joking. You decide he isn’t.

“It’s not that hard,” you continue. “And I have the cow and the milk so why not?” You chew on a bit of bread, appraising your handiwork. “Actually, not bad at all, this time.”

He grunts in agreement. “You have a farm?”

“A very small smallholding. Tenant to the lord, like most of us.”

“Your husband works the land, then.”

You stare at the crust of bread in front of you, and clear your throat.

“He doesn’t. He’s…not here. He’s gone.”

The blacksmith’s eyes soften. “I’m very sorry for your troubles. Sickness, or was it in the fighting -”

You look at him directly. “That bastard wouldn’t fight for anything, not even his wife. He’s not dead. Or at least, I don’t think he’s dead. But I wish he was, because then I’d really be free.”

For a moment it looks like the stoic blacksmith is going to choke. He reaches for his own mug and drinks deeply.

“Well, now, I -“

“He upped and went. A few years back. God knows where he is now. He’s not around here, anyway. I’d say he’s skipped to Belfast or London.” You finish your bread. “Lucky the smallholding had come through my father, so I wasn’t out on the road.”

He’s flushed, and evidently a little uncomfortable. Well, he started it, you think.

“How do you survive - do you have children, too?”

You shake your head. “No, a blessing not to have them. And I do what I did before I married - I sew. Mostly alterations and refashioning and repairing, now, but at least I have a trade.”

The smith nods to himself. “A useful one.”

“Not as useful as yours.”

He gives you a tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile.

You stand up and start to clear the dishes. “Keep the rest of the bread and the butter and jam. I’ll collect the jars when I come back for the tub.”

He starts as if to speak, standing up from his chair, and seems nervous.

“Could I - we - ask you to do something for us?”

“It depends, but…”

“Clothes. Gró’s clothes are in need of mending. Badly. Would you be able to help?”

You smile and nod. “I’d be delighted to. Lord, has the poor lad been going without mending for this long?”

The smith opens a wooden chest and takes out a small bundle of tiny items of clothing. “Not quite. Peigí normally does it, but she’s been so busy with the work in her yard lately that I didn’t want to ask.”

Peigí is something of a legend in the area, a fiery woman who stubbornly insisted on taking over her father’s trade in repairing carts and wagons - and succeeded. You smile wryly to yourself at the vision of her wielding a needle and thread.

He hands you the clothes, wrapped in a faded piece of red and white cloth. “Oh, hold on.” He reaches back into the chest and retrieves a dark grey knitted sweater that has seen better days. “I don’t know if you darn, too, but he’ll need this in the colder weather, and -“

You take the sweater, handling it with care, and clutch the little bundle to your chest. “It’s no bother at all.”

He smiles, genuinely smiles, at you for the first time. You marvel at how such a stern, hardy man can reveal himself to be quite so soft - eyes crinkling, expression warm and friendly, teeth white in that tanned face streaked with grime from the forge.

“Thank you…?” He pauses, waiting for you to introduce yourself. You tell him your name.

“And you’re…”

“Din.”

“Din. And Gró.” The little boy swivels in his seat at the sound of his name, and sends the sneaky spoonful of apple jam that he’s been enjoying flying to the flagstone floor.

Din accompanies you as you strap the bundle of clothes to the saddle, and mount Réaltín for the journey home.

“I’ll be back in two days for the tub. I’ll bring his things then.”

Din gives the horse an affectionate pat, and nods as you turn and head back up the narrow road.

Gró has come to the door of the house.

“’s bean deas í, a dhaid.”

Translations:

Tabhair dom na tairní, maith an bhuachaill.

Give me the nails, there’s a good boy.

Is bean ar chapall í - ’s stráinséir í

It’s a woman on a horse, she’s a stranger.

’s bean deas í, a dhaid

She’s a nice lady, daddy. (Can also mean ‘pretty lady’).