#The Deepest Lake

[jolieeason]

WWW Wednesday: May 8th, 2024

WWW Wednesday is a weekly meme Sam hosts at Taking on a World of Words. The Three Ws are: What are you currently reading? What did you recently finish reading? What do you think you’ll read next? Here is what I am currently reading, recently finished, and plan to read from Thursday to Wednesday. Let me know if you have read or are planning on reading any of these books!! Happy…

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 349

(So Dredge has new DLC, which means my Merfolk & Eldritch Ghosts has gained new inspiration) 

Now, if one were to ask what happened to Amity Park, many people would ask what you were even talking about. The city was rather out of sight, out of mind, to say the least- even without the government coverup. 

It was well known, to those that even knew of the town in the first place, that it was a ghost town, abandoned from sinkhole problems, roads diverted and fences put up to prevent people from entering. Of course, if one made it past that first fence, and then the overgrown wall, and then another electrified net, and through the invisible barrier not meant to keep them out but something else in, they’d know that wasn’t true. 

Oh sure, one could claim some sort of sinkhole, what with how the only building not half destroyed was some mimicry of a floating rig, standing strong in the dark waters that now covered everything else. But even a sinkhole should not go so deep, waters turning from pitch darkness to a heavy green… several hundred miles deeper than the deepest trenches. 

And the denizens of the water didn’t appreciate the rig protected by its tower, or the boats of white protected by buzzing barriers that tried to heave them from the waters for study. Yes, what happened to Amity Park was far more a mystery than it should be, unless you were one of those once-humans in the depths. 

But well, it wasn’t the GIW who would be asking them. 

[janeshadoww]

I heard we're remembering our roots, huh?

Let me tell you the idea that my brain refuses to let go (accompanied by bad illustrations because it's 5am rn) because I think it's a good closure for c!Tommy character, and I also find making more lore after the lore has ended funny. Inspired by the latest video from Tommy, but especially the part where he visits the saved version of the server's map.

So, this is his limbo.

The area of dsmp, recreated from his memory, is where he will spend the rest of eternity not being able to interact with anything. He can't even see his own reflection. Just wander around, reliving his interpretations of events and how he remembers them. Just what he wanted: spending time with his friends. Doesn't matter that it's the same thing again and again and again and again.

Invisible, but not because he is. But because there's no one else.

The areas that he did not see while being alive are just a white void. Places he can't remember well are unstable and always changing. Events and people suppressed in his memory being less than passing feelings and visions.

Is being trapped in the place that you called home for the rest of eternity a blessing or a curse?

[humongouscasheaglebagel]

[thepastisalreadywritten]

Sound of frozen lake Baikal. 🔊

Lake Baikal's frozen surface creates distinct sounds, such as booming and popping noises, resulting from the contraction and expansion of the ice sheet due to changes in temperature.

See more: ©️ instagram.com/lake.baikal

—

Lake Baikal is situated in south-east Siberia, the 3.15-million-ha Lake Baikal is the oldest (25 million years) and deepest (1,700 m) lake in the world.

It contains 20% of the world's total unfrozen freshwater reserve.

Known as the 'Galapagos of Russia', its age and isolation have produced one of the world's richest and most unusual freshwater faunas, which is of exceptional value to evolutionary science.

Credit: UNESCO

[dovedrangeas]

the mariana snailfish is. an alternate form of the axolotl

[dankovskaya]

The clone wars style is still so hideous though they literally invented sexual dimorphism for human beings

[elspethdixon]

Angbang Week Day 3 - Ice | Snow

If the world should perish twice I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.

[wuxian-vs-wangji]

Is diving hard to learn?

Well... .... ... hard to say?

There is a classroom portion to getting a license that is mainly safety procedures and protocol. There are a lot of things to pay attention to safety-wise, how to communicate with your partner, what to do in various emergencies. Some examples would be like-

What to do if someone has a medical emergency when diving (there is also a separate first aid diving course, this one is more passes out or get bitten by something or has a panic attack).

What to do if you need to throw up when diving (surge underwater can make even iron stomachs go soft if the seas are rough).

How fast can you surface or go down.

How soon after diving can you get on an airplane without dying.

What to do if your oxygen is shut off or runs out.

How to monitor your instruments (I have a smart computer built into my regulator hoses that also times my dives and measures how fast I'm surfacing, chirping loudly enough for me to hear underwater if I surface too quickly or when I need to take breaks and maintain my position).

How to track your dives in a dive log (my computer tracks mine for me and I can just copy it by hand, but you also need to know how to dive "analogue", don't rely on smart gear for everything- inevitably everything breaks, and if that happens during a dive you have to know how to monitor yourself.).

Stuff like that, all the auxiliary kind of stuff. That part is fairly simple, but it's what the tests focus on.

The part that killed (figuratively) the most people in my dive class was actually practical skills.

First, you have to pass a swimming test. And I don't mean just like, show you can swim. You have to tread water for 10 minutes, then swim 4 full laps (we had to alternate between front and back stroke, but not everyone makes you do that, as long as you can swim somehow).

Second, and honestly this eliminated more people than the swim test, is just BREATHING. It was like a 6 week class, we'd spend 4 hours in the classroom, then 4 at a high school swimming pool.

The first session with gear was literally just stand in 2 foot deep water, put the regulator (breathing piece) in your mouth, and sink until just your mouth is underwater, then inhale.

That eliminated over half our group and triggered 3 people to have full panic attacks. It never really stops being the hardest part of diving? Just getting past that mental block of "I'm underwater, I shouldn't breathe".

And I don't mean that it's HARD to go through every time. I mean diving is dead simple, once you make the safety and procedures second nature. But every time I have just the slightest wiggle of nerves the very very first breath.

[greyrain23]

I want a nostalgic summer this year..

[quokkabite]

for uuuu

yes, yes. very good. this video makes some very good points.

if you look closely at the evidence i collected

here:

and here:

you’ll see that jisung can do whatever he wants always and forever

[koko-mochi]

Do y’all ever think about how absolutely bananas Lake Baikal is? It’s the world’s largest lake by volume. It’s the world’s deepest lake. It’s the world’s oldest lake. It contains nearly a quarter of the planet’s surface freshwater. It’s a rift lake, caused by the earth’s crust literally coming apart at the seams. It would be deeper than the Mariana Trench except the bottom is covered in a sediment layer that is miles deep. There are trains that have sunk to the bottom because Russia tried to build a railroad over the ice. The entire lake surface freezes for half the year. The lake is a focal point of multiple indigenous cultures. The lake has its own species of seal, which is the only exclusively freshwater pinniped in the world. There are unique ice formations formed by convection from the depths of the lake. There are 330 inflowing rivers.

I dunno, Lake Baikal sure is a thing.

[reserve-polarity]

Some photos of the lake I live next from a while ago

[rostam-z]

#Torneträsk or Torne träsk, Saami: Duortnosjávri Finnish and Meänkieli: Tornio or Torniojärvi, is a lake in Kiruna Municipality, #Lapland, #Norrbotten County in #Sweden, in the #Scandinavian mountain range. Träsk is the local word for lake (in Standard Swedish it means "#swamp"). It is the sixth largest lake in Sweden, with a total area of 330 square kilometres (130 square miles) and a length of 70 kilometres (43 miles). The lake drains to the south-east through Torne älv. South-west of the lake lie the Abisko National Park and the #UNESCO World Heritage Site #Laponian area. Torneträsk originated from the remnant of a #glacier, which has given the lake its depth of 168 metres (551 feet), making it the second deepest lake in Sweden. It is usually ice-covered from December through June, with variations dependent on temperature variations. @swedishlapland #SwedishLapland @bjorkliden_fjallby @abisko.adventure @abiskomountainlodge @abiskonet @outbackabisko @stfabisko @lightsoverlapland #Abisko #Abiskonationalpark #VisitSweden #VisitLapland #Lappland #Laponia #SwedishLandscape #Landscape #SlowPhotography #landscapephotography #sunsets_captures #sunsetgram #raw_sweden #raw_nordic #naturephotography #djiglobal #mountainscape #mountains

[charliemwrites]

Part 7

Content: Injury and Recovery, Care, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Washing, Self-Blame/Self-Hatred, Codependency

Hell, Nikto thinks, is not punishment for sin. Not a lake of fire or eternal torture for earthly misconduct.

No.

Hell, he’s just discovered, is the absence of god. It’s the black, empty space where the divine used to shine.

It’s your blood soaking his gloves. The scent of your fear creeping past his mask. The single diamond tear that slipped down your scraped cheek when you told him you’d be okay. Your labored breathing and cracked voice. The scream that echoed, echoed, echoed through the stairwell and into his useless skull, rattling against bone walls and too-fresh memories.

Hell has become a hospital room with blank walls and shiny tile. How does that story go — that the deepest layer of hell is frigid? This hospital may not be dusted in frost, but it’s cold enough. You look small and chilly on the thin cot, entangled in wires.

Alive, despite everything.

You don’t feel alive to Nikto.

You’re too still, too washed out. Even when you nap with him, you tend to twitch, eyes flickering beneath your lids. Flushed with warmth in sleep and peaceful-looking. But you don’t move now; barely look better than you did fresh off the helo, unconscious and still bleeding, bleeding, bleeding—

It’s Nikto’s blood in your veins now. His unworthy, corrupted blood turned holy in the chambers of your heart. It wasn’t possession that made him offer his own arm for the transfusion, but rather atonement. The bare minimum he could repent for his utter failure. To offer up even a fraction of his own life in exchange for yours.

He’s been holding vigil by your side ever since, even if he doubts his place there. Waiting for your awakening to decide. Waiting for your judgment. Like a sinner at confessional, though he knows no Hail Mary will cleanse him.

He’s not even sure if you can this time. Not when it’s you he’s wronged.

The change in your breathing is what alerts him.

His eyes have hardly left you since they let him in. Even when his weak body surrendered to sleep, he would face you, so that you would always be the first thing he laid eyes on. Now, though, he searches your face with earnest, searching for any signs of consciousness.

The squeeze of your eyelids. A light furrow in your brow. Your mouth twists as you groan a bit, head drifting before you get control of your neck muscles.

Your eyes blink open slowly, flinchingly. He gives half a mind to breaking one of the overhead bulbs to ease the glare. But he would never risk the shattered glass over your head, or startling you with the noise. So he shifts and waits desperately for you to adjust.

Then you take a deep breath and focus on the ceiling. Seem to take stock for a moment, confusion smoothing into recognition, remembrance.

You tilt your head and meet his eyes.

“Nikto,” you breathe. The long, long hours of unconsciousness have taken a toll though, and even that causes you to cough. You wince a bit at the pain in your side while he reaches for the little plastic cup of water a nurse left. His name alone has brought you pain. It aches through his bones like condemnation.

You make a breathy noise, struggling to sit up. So he eases closer, supports your back to help you sip little doses from the full cup. It’s room temperature, but he knows from experience it’s better that way.

You don’t fuss when he regretfully has to pull it away, mindful of the instructions the nurses left him with. Lays you back as gently as he knows how as you sigh in relief.

He doesn’t feel worthy of touching you and tries to pull away. But you twitch, catch his wrist with the arm attached to an IV. He freezes.

“Nikto.”

There’s voice to the word this time, not just a dry puff of air. It takes Herculean effort to drag his eyes up to yours.

You look tired.

Tired, but all too aware, all too knowing. Sniper he may be, he knows better than to try to wait you out.

“I’m sorry.”

A thousand unspoken apologies crowd on his tongue. All the remorse he never felt compounded onto this one monumental failure.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Your brow furrows but you don’t interrupt. Don’t try to stop him. Just tug him in to huddle against your uninjured side. Let him prostrate himself over your bed, forehead pressed to your hip.

“I’m sorry,” he babbles, “I should have been better. I should have protected you. I almost— I almost…”

The words jam in his throat and then evaporate. No combination of syllables or sounds will be adequate.

Your nails draw gentle circles on his shoulder, then draw in towards his neck. Slip your hand under the collar of his shirt and jacket, just beneath the various trappings that hide his identity. You find skin. The vulnerable, damp nape of his neck. You lay your hand there, cool and dry.

“I forgive you, Nikto.”

“Y-you—”

“I do,” you affirm, giving him a little squeeze. “And it’s my choice to do so.”

He can barely pull himself away, but he has to see your face. Has to know what unconditional forgiveness looks like.

You’re half-lidded, soft. Eyes warm, blinking slow. You’re relaxed, understanding in every curve of your features. For all the world you could be divinity in repose instead of frightfully human, injured and frail.

“Punishing yourself from now on wouldn’t be noble,” you continue, tilting your head knowingly, “it would be martyrdom. And you are not my martyr, Nikto.”

He has not cried in… well. Long before his mind was torn apart and stitched back together wrong. Doubts he even knows how to, now. But his eyes burn as he presses his face into your hip again and shudders hard.

How foolish. To think he had any grasp of what forgiveness is. To think he understood what atonement was. When the only one who could set the bounds for damnation is you.

“I almost left you.”

“‘Almost’ and ‘would have’ are poison. You can’t convict on an almost. An almost is a warning, nothing to hang yourself for.”

You squeeze his neck again, unfailingly gentle. Unfalteringly steady.

“You stayed. I’m alive. Let’s focus on recovery now.”

He nods, hands clenched tight in the once-smooth fabric of the hospital sheets. It comes away wrinkled, but still clean.

—

You’re released from hospital two days later.

The wound, while dangerous in the moment, was a relatively easy fix once you had medical care. A clean shot, only just chipping off a bit of rib and grazing your large intestine. Everything is sewn and medicated and healing now. You’re uncomfortable, but KorTac isn’t as stingy with pain management as a normal military outfit — especially not with Nikto looming over your shoulder.

And you, his precious angel, are an absolute trooper.

You let the medical staff poke and prod and peal your bandages without fuss. Sit up with little more than a grimace and a hiss. In good spirits, all around.

Nikto carves your care instructions into the walls of his mind, a New Testament — temporary though it may be. The nurses send you in a wheelchair down to the ground floor, but after that, you’re allowed to walk.

Nikto doesn’t like it. He’d carry you to the edge of the Earth if necessary. But you just wave away his concern and grab onto his hovering arm for stability as you stand. A bit unsteady, terribly uncomfortable, but determined.

He gets you back to the barracks, you cursing with every movement that’s not a smooth step on even ground. Nikto lets you lean most of your weight into him and tries to keep his aching heart steady.

You sigh when you reach the barracks. Let him lay you down and get you comfortable before giving you another dose of pain meds. He busies himself collecting things and rearranging the room.

Making sure there’s not so much as a sock between you and the restroom. Getting your computer, phone, and respective chargers within easy reach. Filling a cup with water and arranging your soft blankets over your legs.

He’s just finished with that when there’s a knock at the door. Konig, delivering a meal. Not just any meal — takeout from your favorite little restaurant in town. Complete with sweets.

You call a thank you to the Austrian, who expresses his best wishes, and then Nikto shuts out the rest of the world again to let you rest. You don’t seem to mind, beckoning him back to your side.

Sharing the food, the blankets and pillows. Get him to set up your laptop with a movie — the meds kick in halfway through, leave you drooling a bit against his sleeve.

Nikto does not care. You may have forgiven him, and therefore it is not his place to repent for this anymore. But caring for you has never been atonement. It is his reward for putting his loyalty where it belongs.

—

The next day is worse. Your mood has dipped a bit, the soreness catching up. Not that you snap at Nikto or anything of the sort. But he knows you, and can tell from the tension in your body and wincing expressions when you think he isn’t looking.

You brighten a bit when he finally remembers to take his mask off. He even lets you babble when the meds make you fuzzy and overly-complimentary. Nearly falls asleep to you absently mapping the ugly scars that score deep into his hairline.

At some point though, the misery seems to catch up to you.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if I could just… wash up, I guess,” you grumble, looking ready to throw something.

The nurses did what they could, of course, but their focus had been on fixing you and then keeping your wounds clean. Enough hygiene to avoid infection. But you’re still grimy in uncomfortable places and you hate being in bed feeling “icky.”

Nikto instantly sets to work correcting that. He digs out one of his clean shirts, your favorite sweatpants, a soft pair of underwear. You watch him curiously as he takes it all into the restroom. The shower is standing room only, unfortunately — and besides, you can’t get your stitches wet for a while still. But he can at least help you freshen up.

“Come here.”

You take his arm, let him sit you up and then guide you to the restroom. When you see the cloth on the edge of the sink you get a bit misty-eyed. He lets you sniffle for a moment, patient while you wipe your eyes and mumble a “thank you.”

Then he helps you strip to your underwear and sits you on the towel he’s placed on the toilet lid. He kneels and starts from the top, a little dollop of soap on the facecloth and hot water.

You offer up an arm, careful not to overextend, palm up and fingers lax. Nikto works from your shoulder down to your fingertips. Smoothing over bruised muscle, stale sweat, scrubbing away dirt and crusted blood at the nail beds. Rinses the cloth, wipes away the excess soap, and repeats the process on the other arm.

The bathroom is silent save for the falling water and your shared breaths. You tilt your head to let him caress over your neck, down to your chest. He pauses, unsure of his welcome here, but you mumble that it’s fine either way. His touch is perfunctory but careful over your breasts, though he marvels privately at the plushness, the warmth. Politely ignores the way your nipples harden as the water cools in the air. Even if he’s so… so tempted to provide care in other ways.

You don’t so much as twitch; he can feel your gaze upon him from above. Yet he cannot force his eyes away from his work. Each gentle sweep of the cloth feels like restoring a temple, like holy work. Like paying his dues more directly than any church’s offering plate. You are such delicate work, his attention cannot afford to waver.

At your ribs, he starts on your uninjured side. Counts as his fingertips bump along them. You hum when he reaches the soft tissue of your stomach, a little shudder going through you.

“Ticklish,” you explain when his hand jerks back. “I’m alright.”

He feels one side of his mouth tug when he dips the cloth into your navel and you snort a bit. The other side of you is still bandaged, clean and white. No damning spots of red. He avoids the medical tape to get what he can and then continues down.

More bitten off giggles at your hips. He indulges in arching his bare thumb over the bone, just to feel the warmth and silk of your skin. Then continues his work.

He braces your foot on his thigh as he swipes the cloth over yours, minding the pressure on the sensitive inner skin. Over your knee, down to the ankle before switching to the other leg. You lean back and sigh, knock your knee gently into his ribs. When he glances up to see if you need anything, you just smile. Soft and a bit drowsy.

Only then does he scrub your feet, making you twitch and laugh a bit, complaining that he’s doing it on purpose. He’s not, but he likes the sound of your laughter; he thought he’d never hear it again.

He washes the cloth out one more time and helps you stand, lathering circles into your back while you press into him.

You take over when he’s finished. This time he does turn away, though he aches to do so. But your hand is still on his back, using him for support while you finish cleaning up intimate areas.

“Done,” you murmur. He unfolds a towel and turns, keeping his eyes above your head as he wraps it around you from behind.

You hold it up while he pats over you, soaking up any droplets that haven’t dried yet.

Warm and clean(er), your mood seems much improved. He kneels again to help you into a new pair of panties, realizes he’s an absolute fool to put himself so close when you smell only faintly like the shared soap. The rest is you, and you smell delicious.

He swallows thickly and eases you into your sweatpants, split between longing and relief when he stands to put you in the shirt. If you notice the bulge in his own lounge pants, you say nothing — though he doubts you do. You’re nearly asleep standing, almost stumbling as he takes you back to bed. You reach for him weakly and urge him in with you.

“Thank you, Nikto,” you murmur into his shoulder. “Love you.”

And you’ve forgiven him, despite everything. So he allows himself just this one thing — and presses his lips to your temple.

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Masterlist

[ahqkas]

Y’know how doe eyes are suppose to be cute and when you stare at someone with doe eyes they look so cute? But what mattheo had a partner who had those doe eyes but instead of cute aura and stare. It’s an actual unsettling stare like from an angle their stare look darken and it kinda gives Mattheo a shiver. A bad and good one

-🍕

HARRY POTTER MASTERLIST!

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

MATTHEO RIDDLE WASN’T EASILY UNNERVED. he thrived in the shadows, embraced the darker side of his family name, and found a strange comfort in the eerie silence of the dungeons. yet, there was one thing that could send a shiver down his spine — a single look from his partner's doe eyes.

your eyes were large and innocent, framed by long lashes that should have given you a sweet, almost naïve appearance. at first glance, you appeared harmless, radiating a charm that many found endearing. but mattheo had come to learn that your gaze held an unsettling power, something that lingered between the realms of innocence and something far darker.

it was during one of those late-night study sessions in the slytherin common room that he first noticed it. the firelight flickered, casting dancing shadows across the walls as you sat across from him, engrossed in your potions textbook. he had been watching you, a soft smile playing on his lips, when you suddenly looked up, your eyes locking with his.

for a moment, time seemed to freeze. the warmth of the room faded into the background, replaced by an inexplicable chill that ran down his spine. your eyes, wide and seemingly innocent, bore into his with an intensity that was almost predatory. it was as if you could see right through him, peeling back the layers of his soul to expose his deepest fears and desires to you.

a shiver, both good and bad, ran through him. it was a sensation he couldn't quite place — part fear, part fascination. your stare was magnetic, drawing him in even as it unsettled him. he found himself unable to look away, trapped in the depths of your gaze.

"mattheo, are you alright?" your voice broke the silence between the two of you, snapping him back to reality. the concern in your tone was genuine, yet there was a subtle undercurrent that kept him on edge.

he shook his head, trying to dispel the lingering unease. "yeah, i’m fine," he replied, his voice a bit strained. "just got lost in my thoughts for a moment."

you smiled, a small, gentle curve of your lips that did little to reassure him. "you should focus on your studies," you said softly, returning to your book.

as the weeks passed, mattheo became acutely aware of your unsettling stare. it haunted him during the day and lingered in his dreams at night. he found himself torn between the instinctual urge to flee and an irresistible pull that kept drawing him back to you.

one evening, as you both sat by the black lake, the moonlight casting a silvery glow over the water, you turned to him with those eyes again. this time, the darkness in your gaze seemed even more pronounced, sending another shiver through him. he reached out, almost without thinking, and cupped your face in his hands.

"your eyes," he whispered, his voice a mix of awe and trepidation. "they're . . . something else."

you leaned into his touch, your gaze never wavering. "do they frighten you, mattheo?" a hint of challenge was present in your voice.

the boy swallowed hard, feeling the weight of your stare. "they do," he admitted quietly. “but they also draw me in. i can't explain it."

"maybe that's because you see something in them that others don't. something that mirrors a part of you."

mattheo didn't respond, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. all he knew was that despite the unsettling nature of your gaze, he couldn't stay away. it was a paradox he was willing to embrace, even if it meant confronting the darker parts of himself reflected in your doe eyes.