#still water runs deep

[keirametzbrassknuckles]

Eskel and water imagery. The reliable and steady pull of the ocean tides, the placid beauty of a lake on a bright day, the way drowning sometimes looks like swimming.

[i12bent]

Anette Harboe Flensburg (b. Jan. 27, 1961) is a Danish artist, trained at the School of Design, Kolding, after which she studied philosophy at Copenhagen University. She paints rooms, always without people in them, but with abstract shapes and lots of light and color.

Above: Still Water Runs Deep II, exhibited in 2020 at Trapholt

[steadfastmockingbird]

Saw your reblog about still water runs deep from the writing share post!! I’m really interested, could you tell me more about the gods? 👀 I love created pantheons

Oh you had to ask XD Alrighty, this will get long! A lot of these have their roots in the old Slavic gods, but since that's a culture I'm only nominally attached to (I can't read old Polish, so have had my wife doing the reading and translation), rather than use them outright I've taken inspiration from them and created my own deities. They're all centered around one mountain and the hot springs there, which can heal injury and illness with the right invocation and ritual. There are six key gods that I've taken the time to solidify.

The first god we meet is the Forest. At initial glance he appears to be just a man carrying green branches and wearing bearskin clothing, with the skull of a stag perched on his head. Then, on second glance, those green branches are growing out of his skin, and under the bearskin wrap his chest is hollow, and home to an owl. That owl is his eyes, because the eyes on his head are... creepy. In winter, when first met, he has no eyes, only hollow black pits; in the spring, tiny saplings will appear in those pits, growing to miniature blossoming rowan trees in the summer, and then shedding their leaves in autumn. The stag skull on his head also gives the eerie sensation that it's somewhat alive, but I've not ever really quantified this. He doesn't talk much, and when he does it's the fewest words possible, and usually vague and ominous, while his voice puts the listener in mind of ice breaking beneath someone's feet, or branches snapping nearby. His territory is the wild parts of the mountain - he is the patron of hermits, foragers, foresters, criminals on the run, and lost souls. His symbol is an evergreen branch; poorer folk simply pluck a fresh sprig to pin to their clothing, whereas those with more wealth will cast a branch in whatever metal they can afford.

Then we meet the Weaver. When manifesting she's about eight feet tall and quite fat; broad shoulders, generous hips and thighs, thick arms, expansive bosom, and has golden hair in a jeweled braided crown that depending on the season is covered in spring flowers, ears of wheat, harvest fruits, or in winter when we meet her, dried herbs and braided bark. She has an infant that she wears in a sling across her back, and a white cat that is either good luck, or bad luck, depending on the context in which you see it. Her clothes are white and heavily embroidered in red and gold - geometric patterns, flowers, birds, fish - but every person sees a different pattern in the threads. Her voice is soft, but carries a long way, and she is known to generally be a benevolent and comforting presence. However, she also decides the fate of murderers and anyone else who would violate the bonds of community, because what has been woven can always be unpicked, and in those moments she is cold and unrelenting. She is the patron of crafters, midwives, innkeepers, new parents, infants, and gravediggers. Her symbol is a weaving shuttle; her followers wear miniature wooden replicas around their necks, and bone imitation weaving combs in their hair, to show their devotion.

Next met is the Mountain. He appears as a tall, lean man made of shifting rock formations, always freezing cold to the touch and naked except for moss and strategically placed snow. He carries a worn, ancient shepherds crook, and in his voice is the distant rumble of an avalanche but also the pipes of the goat herding girls and the trickle of snowmelt. His eyes are also empty pits, except that out of them bubbles boiling volcanic spring water, which flows down his face and forms the snow settled about his body. In winter it's barely a trickle, but in the warmer seasons it can be a torrent that human observers find quite distracting. He is wise and learned, and talks slowly and at great length over a great many subjects; people invoke him when needing to resolve philosophical or moral arguments, although he rarely takes a specific side and is more of a mediator than anything. His demeanor is fatherly and compassionate, and more than the other gods he seems inclined toward progress and change; where they resist the technological developments of the era and risk stagnation he understands that mountains are harder to destroy. He is the patron of herders, climbers, quarry folk, prospectors, some miners, and just before the story is set becomes the patron of the cable car engineers too. His symbol is not fixed; there is much debate among his followers as to whether a crystal of salt, an ordinary stone with one polished face, or a miniature carved goat horn are better symbols with which to invoke his protection.

Mentioned but not properly met is the Smith. They are fluid as molten metal, presenting as male, female, and many other things, though always broad shouldered and covered in soot. They oversee blacksmithing in whatever form it takes, and welcome apprentices of any gender as long as they can wield a hammer. They are a protector of homes and hearths too, and are often invoked to keep fires burning throughout the long winter nights. When visiting the healing pools, if a pilgrim wishes to change their gender it is the Smith they pray to, requesting that they re-forge them into a new shape. Known to have a love of bad jokes, a common pun when an outsider demands 'but what is the Smith's gender?' is for their followers to reply 'forgery!' because that's the pinnacle of humor as far as they're concerned. Their symbol is, perhaps predictably, a hammer, although their followers have also been known to wear polished coals or tiny horseshoes too. They are the patron of blacksmiths, some miners, artists, watchmakers, farriers, and distillers - that last one because the Smith is known to enjoy a drink or two. Or three.

The Scribe is also mentioned but not met. They are the patron of intellectuals and thinkers, including scribes, poets, writers, printers, librarians, teachers and students. Their symbol is a quill, either a real one worn like jewelry or a bronze cast of one folded into a bracelet. Preferring to eschew physicality, the Scribe manifests as a vague sensation and a voice that might be masculine or feminine depending on the bias of the listener. They're known for trying to see all sides of an argument, and encourage empathy and understanding, which works well when trying to settle a dispute between neighbors about land, and not always as well when the problem is an outside force. The Scribe is very resistant to change, but does at least demand absolute accuracy in recording.

The Huntress is usually gendered as female, although there are those that swear they've seen her in masculine forms too. She's mentioned several times, but not met. She is the patron of hunters, but also slaughterers and butchers, the fishermen that work the mountain lakes and rivers, and traders and merchants who 'hunt' for coin in the markets and their businesses. It's speculated that she's also the patron of thieves and pickpockets for this reason, but she hasn't confirmed this. She's tall and slender, and wears a bow and quiver of arrows at all times. Her hair is cropped short and her feet are always bare, although depending on the season the rest of her is clad in traditional hunters clothing - loose linens or doeskin, all the way up to a bearskin greatcoat.

There are more. There are so many more. Most of the townsfolk though, they only see their patron once or twice in their lifetime, and to see any god other than their patron is a Very Big Deal. Invoking the gods usually brings about signs - a whisper in the ear, an arrow appearing in freshly swept dirt, a quick vision in a mirror or puddle that definitely wasn't someone's own reflection - rather than direct contact.

[madame-fear]

*ೃ༄ 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐑𝐔𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏 .ೃ࿐

[ one | two ]

ೀ amira speaks! : Based on this plot. Okay,, I know I said I would write it all in one part, but splitting it in two helps me stay motivated to keep writing. 🙈 Smut will be in part two. This chapter only contains Luke being a bit possesive with you. Enjoy! 💕 ˗ˏˋ ꒰ summary : Prince Lucerys had his eyes set on you ever since you were children, and his affection for you grew stronger when you comforted him after losing his eye at the hands of his Uncle Aemond. But when your time of marrying another Lord comes in your early 20s, the now young Lord of Driftmark isn’t happy at all — though, he plans on making you his, as you were always supposed to be. ˗ˏˋ ꒰ word count : 2.1k

˗ˏˋ ꒰ genre : AU, smut, friends to lovers, a bit of an obsessive Lucerys. ˗ˏˋ ꒰ pairing : One Eyed!Lord!Lucerys x (childhood best friend)!Reader

Lucerys Velaryon, your childhood best friend, had grown to be known as the “One Eyed Prince”; or the “One Eyed Bastard”, as many referred to him.

The loss of his eye had been greatly significant in his early life, having lost it after trying to defend his older brother Jace and his cousins from his uncle Aemond. If anything, it had helped to encourage and fuel the resentment their families felt for one another. And you had been there to witness the tense aftermath of the situation.

Your mere presence was enough to comfort Lucerys when you were just young children; you had a shoulder for him to cry on if he wished to grieve his eye, until he became used to living with it. “The loss of your eye is a symbol of the courage you had to confront your uncle, and defend your loved ones,” you constantly reminded him, embracing him tightly whenever he needed you. And the comfort he so desperately sought for, was always found in you.

You had always been there for the Velaryon prince, before and after the incident with his eye. But, there was something in that constant warming comfort you provided for him, that made Lucerys feel as if he could melt right under your love and attention. Perhaps, it was something he had been feeling deep down inside of him without even admitting it to himself, you were supposed to be just a good friend — but during the aftermath of his eye loss, nothing else mattered to you except his well-being.

You made sure to spend as much time as needed with him, offering comfort and love; which made Luke realise, just how perfect you were in every sense. Hardly any other woman could possibly compare to the inner and outer perfection you so gracefully carried.

The years passed by, and his personality simply grew to be more of a cold, and reserved one; compared to the timid, innocent boy Lucerys used to be. You couldn’t complain — his personality around you remained as endearing and gentle as it always used to be, though a bit more overprotective. You had grown to be as delicate as glass, precious as the petal of a flower; how could Luke not be protective over you? Especially since he was particularly fond of you... In more than just a friendly way.

Every boy, Prince, and Lord had their eyes fixed on you whenever you passed by, occasionally getting to flirt with you and making you laugh. Lucerys was never exactly proud of this, especially when another man tried to flirt with you in front of his face. He always kept a close eye on you, and made sure to advert your attention away from those men with any excuse that came to him. Jealousy ran on his blood like a fiery venom, and it was impossible for him to hide it — yet, you never realised the obvious intentions he had of keeping you away from anyone who wanted to compete against him for your affection.

Lucerys’ efforts where never in vain, they worked just the way he wanted. You always gossiped with Lucerys about whatever man tried to woo you, laughing to yourselves at your own remarks — and it never seemed as if you were interested in anyone else, except Lucerys when his presence was near your own. Compared to him, you weren’t exactly discreet when your gaze was fixed on his features, and to him, that was something to hold great pride for.

As you had always done since childhood, you sat under a large tree that you both considered your secret spot. The weight of his head rested peacefully on your lap, with his eye closed. One of your hands held a book, which you were reading outloud to him, and your other free hand mindlessly played with his dark curly hair. Both of you had managed to find a free space between your duties, deciding to spend some quality time together after quite some time of not having seen each other.

He now might be the Lord of Driftmark, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t visit you, and do the same things you had done since children. After all, the responsabilities that came with being a Lord were exhausting — could he not calmly rest with you, the woman that practically owned his heart, feeling your fingers mess with his hair and your soothing voice reading to him?

Pausing in between your lecture, you softly tilted your head towards him, admiring how peaceful he seemed with his head weighing on your lap. Teasingly, your fingers moved from playing with strands of his hair, and they moved to slowly caress the skin on his cheeks. “Have you fallen asleep already?” you inquired, with an amused voice tone and a growing smile at the corner of your lips.

Like your own, Lucerys couldn’t help but immediatly smile, softly chuckling as he opened his eye. “I am very well awake, love, and attentively listening to you.” his green eye stared at you admiringly, appreciating how the sunlight reflected gracefully on your features. The cold, reserved personality he had grown into, fortunately never affected your relationship.

Yes, Luke might have grown quieter and more kept to himself, but whenever you were near him all of that faded away — being the sweet, gentle boy Lucerys had always been with you. Except that, he might be quite a bit possesive around you; with no other Lord or Prince being allowed to flirt with you, just a mere cold glare with his eye as he stood by your side was enough to frighten them away.

A soft chuckle spurred from you as your fingernails playfully scraped on his skin to caress him. His eye felt heavy, feeling as if he could fall asleep right there at the mere sensation of your warm touch. “I have greatly missed you, Luke.” you began speaking, as his grin grew wider. “I’m quite content having been able to sneak away from our duties to be together. Your duties as the Lord of Driftmark are taking your attention away from me.”

Part of you said that as a jest, with both of you laughing softly at it, and another part of you was being wholeheartedly genuine. And having known you since childhood, he immediatly noticed that. Which left him quietly surprised, to hear suh confession — but Luke wasn’t going to deny the fact that he enjoyed having you clinging to him for his attention and care.

“I could say the same to you, byka jorraelagon.” lazily, he raised his hand. His fingertip lovingly caressed you under your chin, fixing his stare on your delicate features. “But don’t worry too much about it. None of my duties as Lord ever take you off from my mind, I can assure you.” a rosy hue smeared across your cheeks, nearly melting as his digit traced your skin under your chin. It seemed as if he knew exactly what to say, and how to touch you. It was satisfying enough for him to see your reaction, which was just the one he wanted.

Softly, you sighed, allowing him to keep stroking your skin. You had always longed for these private moments between the two of you, where you could do or say anything without caring for anything else. The smile that had grown at the corner of your lips dropped faintly, becoming a grimace as you frowned. Your expressions slowly turned into a despondent one, to which Lucerys immediatly noticed as his eye stared attentively at you.

Your own thoughts about enjoying solitude with him, escaping from your own responsibilities just to feel the warmth of each ofher’s presences, reminded you of your betrothal — and you were afraid such compromise would stand in the way of your meetings with Lucerys, in one way or another.

“What’s the matter?” he cooed calmly, noticing the change in your demeanor. You offered him a frowny smile. “Nothing, Luke. Everything is alright. Why?” as quick as you were in dismissing his concern for you, he wouldn’t leave it just there. “I know you. Your face says otherwise, something happened.” slowly, he stopped caressing you under your chin with his fingertip, just to rest his hands on his chest as Lucerys stared at you attentively.

“What happened? I need to know, (y/n).” Lucerys kept insisting, and you knew he wouldn’t give up so easily — not when he noticed something was troubling you. You huffed at the mere thought of it, beginning to shake your head in disappointment. “It’s just...” the words trailed off, hesitating for a moment before continuing. Your gaze lingered elsewhere, feeling how his eye was fixed on you.

“I have been betrothed— And... I’m afraid our moments together will not be as often as they currently are.” you managed to spill out. The words spurred mumbled, but they escaped from your lips, finally.

Moving your stare back to him, his expression was cold — yet, mixed with other emotions. Luke seemed confused, blankless, and yet... So impotent. Betrothals were a duty that no noble could ever from, it was a fate expected for you. But you should be betrothed to him. He could treat you so much better than any other mediocre, arrogant Lord. No one knew you better, than Lord Lucerys himself.

His head weightened further on your head, before he rapidly moved to sit by your side, instead of resting on your lap. His eyebrows knitted in confusion. “Betrothed?” he inquired in a low tone. “Betrothed to whom, exactly?” both your hands now laid on your lap, fidgeting anxiously with your own fingers. Bewilder was expressed all across his young features. Your eyes stared down at your fingers, nibbling on your lower lip discreetly.

“I have been betrothed into House Lannister.” you mumbled, “Specifically to Loren Lannister.” deciding to stare at him, you noticed his jaw clenched slightly. His hazel eye lowered it’s sight to the vividly green grass, thinking quietly to himself. You stared at him nervously, noticing the silence looming between of you, amidst the faint sounds of the birds chirping.

House Lannister. The Lannisters had quite a reputation of their own — he always thought of them as arrogant, petty, and proud of themselves. Out of all the noble Houses that there were, you had to be betrothed into House Lannister? “Velaryon” suits you better, anyways — the young Lord knew he would eventually get away with what was his. You were not getting married to some cheap Lannister, not under his watch. A pretty little thing such as yourself will not go to waste with the One Eyed Lord.

“I see.” Luke coldly retorted. Despite his clear bemuse at the abrupt news, he felt satisfied with himself — he knew how he would find his way to get you out of that dreadful betrothal of yours. And that way, you’d be entirely free for him once again. Offering a warm smile, the One Eyed Velaryon took your delicate hand lovingly, caressing your skin with his thumb. He felt invitingly soothing, making you mindlessly grin and become flustered at the touch of his digit on your flesh. “But don’t worry, my love. I’m certain your betrothal will not affect our frequent meetings.” His hand raised your own towards his rosy lips, pressing them gently against your knuckles to give them a loving kiss. The rosy hue tainted on your cheeks leisurely became a reddish tone, offering him a sheepish smile to hide away your shyness whenever Luke demonstrated tender affection towards you — an endearing type of affection that he never thought of giving to someone else. Doubt overwhelmed you at hearing his confident statement.

“Are you...” the warmth of his lips on your knuckles lingered, as he pulled away, staring at you with his only eye. Gods, how pretty you were when it was obvious you were melting for him. “Are you quite certain about it? What if... What if my betrothed dislikes the idea of us–” the young Lord shook his head, using his other free hand to place it on your cheek comfortingly. You immediatly gave into it, allowing your head to fall against the palm of his hand.

“Your betrothed will say nothing, because I will find a way of being together— as I always do.”

You meekly smiled at him, softly allowing some chuckles to spur from those beauteous lips of yours; clearly content at his determination.

You were endearingly sweet— so innocent. Of course the One Eyed Lord had everything mapped out to find his way to you, as he had always done ever since you were children. Your lame excuse of a betrothed was no challenge to him, as he had exactly planned out how to get rid of him; having you all for himself, without anyone to possibly disturb your relationship.

You didn’t belong in House Lannister, and much less in Casterly Rock. You beloged in House Velaryon — you belonged in Driftmark. And Lucerys wouldn’t have it any other way.

♡ taglist : ♡

@jacesvelaryons @jjamieberry @anemicroyalcore @countsmoon @beeebo234 @manuholland6 @capellaadara @kyuupidwrites @tchatso @phantasyy @tasty-nutella @mstxdes @valeriecash @cookielovesbook-akie @zzz000eee @bellarkeselection @feliuuuksks @visenya-reigned @maria699669 @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @sweethoneyblossom1 @jamiemydeer @snowprincesa1 @leannathespacewerewolf

[m-kyunie]

"The supposedly sealed memories of a miniature garden"

[youroselion]

STILL WATERS RUN DEEP

[ Part 50/50 ] Конец первой части. Послесловие. После этого разговора состаялся обряд, в ходе которого Мэттью был убит и похоронен. Его сердце было помещено в филактерию, а тело принялось гнить в земле. И пока оно не превратится в голый скелет, его судьба такова — ждать своего часа и не иметь ничего общего с этим миром. Фитц, как и обещала Аслауг, стал фамильяром Мэттью. Но открыл глаза уже на следующий день. Эмметт с Элизой допустили такое развитие событий, при условии, что Элиза будет рядом, чтобы украсть филактерию и не допустить манипуляций Аслауг. Эмметт до последнего не соглашался с Элизой, потому что обряд может разрушить жизнь Мэттью. Всё может произойти не так, как запланированно, или Мэттью может заиметь желание пользоваться своей силой во зло. Однако, если же таких несчастий не приключится — Мэттью сможет жить лучшей для него жизнью. Лич бессмертен (за исключением уничтожения его филактерии), ему не требуется кровь или еда, ему не страшен огонь, он - дух. Сильный и могущественный маг без тела.

*Вот и закончилась первая часть. Буду ждать ваших комментариев, потому что это самая объемная моя история, думаю. По крайней мере я очень уставала над её созданием и обдумыванием сюжета. Надеюсь, что вам понравилось, ну или по крайней мере, было интересно. История действительно мрачновата, но таков уж для меня мир оккультов в ts4.

[chalkrevelations]

Note to self:

Vegas may have got his fingers in the cracks and pulled Pete open, but Pete was primed for it because there were already hairline cracks in his little tailorbird perfect bodyguard armor from Porsche. Any look at the Pete-Porsche relationship has GOT to be informed by the monumental fact that Porsche was probably the first person - in how long? - to make Pete actually feel anything (other than useless), and that’s why Pete was willing to walk into the lion’s den for him. The very act of infiltrating the minor family compound for info that would not only help the main family but also exonerate Porsche was a way for Pete to be actively useful and therefore alive in a way he hadn’t felt in who knows how long. (And I think he would have done it for Porsche anyway, but I also think his mindset wasn’t helped by the fact that he was coming off a series of spying missions that he tried to tell Kinn he wasn’t good at and that he kept failing at, which probably didn’t help with the issue of feeling useless, nor of needing to find something he could be useful at before he went out doing what he’d been trained to do - offering himself up as a sacrifice for the main family.)

That’s also why the probability of being captured and tortured and killed was something Pete seemed to be fine with - once Porsche was exonerated, Pete’s usefulness was done, so why not die and escape the meaningless useless nothingness his life would just go back to? In the meantime, he was already looking forward to capture and torture because it made him feel something, because it was for Porsche before it ever became about Vegas and about Pete’s response to Vegas, back at the point when Vegas was still a means to an end, for Pete. At the point when Vegas was still nothing more than a tool of violence, the way he was for everyone else in the main or minor families - just one that Pete was going to turn on himself, for a little bit of pain to feel alive one last time before committing suicide-by-Vegas.

And Vegas plays his role, because that’s what he does, that’s what he’s been trained to do, that’s what been beaten into him (lit. and fig.) his entire life, that’s what everyone - including he, himself, at that point - thinks he is. The torturer, the monster, the beast. The tool of violence. God, no wonder Vegas was so angry at the beginning. It’s a feedback loop of dehumanization. What Vegas does to Pete at the beginning of their arc is so obvious and in your face, it almost obscures what Pete’s doing to Vegas.

“Everyone is a monster to someone. Since you are so convinced that I am yours, I will be it.”

I need to think about all of this some more.

[vully-andthegoose]

roots run deep vs still waters sakura

same girl, same age, very different origin story…

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 25: you're not delivering a perfect body to the grave

Buried Alive + Storm (metaphorically)

3387 Words; River Runs Deep

TW for discussions of memory alteration, death mention, burying someone alive

AO3 ver

“What did you say in that letter?” Raz asks.

“Nothing important, really.” The reflection of Mail Ford responds.

“Just that I loved her.” Agent Cruller continues. “She just wanted to help, but they pushed her too far.”

“How should we have known?” Mail Ford asks. “It’s not like she was marked ‘Fragile!’” The typewriter passes from his hands to Agent Cruller’s.

“But I thought I knew her, and everything she held inside herself.” Agent Cruller laments. “Ahh, I had so much to learn.”

“Ah,” Mail Ford says, “I guess some packages are better left… unopened.”

And with that remark, Raz is left standing once again in the messy treehouse. He looks at the final piece of the mirror in his hands.

“Ford and Nona…” Raz has learned so much, just from poking around in Ford’s brain. His Nona’s memories of her past have been shrouded in mystery. The Aquatos feared the Psychonauts as much as they feared the Deluginists because of this fact—surely, if the Psychonauts ever learned that Nona used to be Maligula, they would prosecute her.

But Raz has learned so much. His Nona used to be a part of the Psychic Seven! She’s one of them! She and Ford were lovers! And oh, some part of Raz’ mind is almost giddy at the realization, that Ford Cruller could have become his great-uncle—but he pushes that part of himself to the side. Now isn’t the time to be fanboying. Raz has a mission to complete!

Still, the fact that Nona and the Psychonauts are more closely linked than Raz ever thought…

Maybe hiding from them is pointless. Maybe they won’t prosecute her. Maybe they can help.

Raz sighs, and puts the last piece of the mirror back in place. He has a mission to focus on. He pulls out the typewriter, and sets it on the shelf.

The silence stretches on, for a moment.

“Razputin.” Ford’s voice cuts across the space.

Raz turns to the mirror clasped in the body’s hand. “Agent Cruller!” He grins. “How do you feel?”

The reflection frowns. “I’ve done a terrible thing.” He shakes his head. “And so have you.”

“What?” Raz’ voice comes out smaller than he wants it to. “I just wanted to help!” And to see if Ford knows anything about whoever took his Father’s and Nona’s memories—though Raz doesn’t voice that bit aloud. “I don’t know who shattered your mind,” Raz steps forwards, “But now we can find out!”

“I already know who did this to me.” Ford admits. “That’s the first thing I’ve learned in here.” The mindscape begins to tilt, slightly, the sky above Raz starting to twist. “The rest you’re gonna have to see for yourself…”

And suddenly Raz is standing in a dark forest, Ford standing next to him. In Ford’s hands is a shovel, and on his face is a grim expression. He’s no longer dressed in a Psychonauts uniform, instead wearing a shirt and jacket.

“Ford,” Raz turns to him, “What is it?” Who shattered your mind? What are you trying to show me?

Ford points with his shovel. “See for yourself.” He utters, as Raz follows the end of the shovel to a stone archway.

Raz swallows. When he looks to his side again, Ford is gone.

Guess I gotta keep going. Raz walks through the archway, and finds himself in what looks like a cemetery. All of the tombstones are blank.

Slowly, carefully, Raz continues forwards, cool mist curling around his ankles. He picks up figments as he goes, looking this way and that for the answers Ford indicated would be here. The ground starts to curve sharply downwards before him.

Raz turns around at the sound of something scraping. His eyes widen—a massive comb is slowly advancing behind him, already past the cemetery’s entrance.

“Uh oh.” Raz hops on his levball and runs, rolling along the ground and collecting figments along the way. The sky darkens as he progresses, the comb advancing behind him at a steady pace, until the only light is that of Raz’ levball, and two lanterns hanging up ahead.

The lanterns are standing to either side of a deep hole. Raz hops down into it. The comb passes harmlessly overhead.

“Agent Cruller,” Raz calls up, “I’m getting less sure I want to see this!”

And Ford is there, at the edge of the hole, pushing his shovel into the dirt. “Oh no,” he mutters, lifting up a shovelful of dirt, “I don’t think you’ll want to see this at all.” He dumps the dirt into the hole—into the grave, Raz realizes, his eyes widening. Within moments, the grave is full, and Raz is struggling to escape the dirt surrounding him. Air! He needs air!

The dirt doesn’t give, pressing in all around Raz as he struggles. He needs to get out of here! But it’s heavy, and dark, and Raz can’t breathe—

Raz’ hand bursts through the dirt, and he scrabbles for purchase on the ground. His head emerges from the dirt with a gasp, his lungs sucking in all the air they can get. Even though he’s only a mental projection and would merely be dementestrated if he failed to make it out, Raz’ chest heaves and he struggles to regain his breath.

Well, now he’s even more sure that he doesn’t want to see this.

But he has to. So he picks himself up all the way, hauling his legs out of the dirt. He pops free, but instead of landing back on the ground he floats upwards.

No, Raz realizes, looking up above him—or rather, looking below—he’s not floating, he’s falling.

“What?” Raz reaches back towards the dirt, yelping as he falls—

Very slowly.

Okay. Okay. It’s okay. He’s fine. Raz looks back down, at the shapes floating in the gloom below him. He’s not going to go splat. He’s going to be fine. He’s going to be fine.

Sharklike-shapes swim circles in the gloom. Raz angles for a figment, grabbing it as he falls towards a candle-lit ledge. He lands, and runs over to the door, pushing it open.

A bowling alley stretches out into the darkness before him. A single light illuminates the beginning of the lane—and illuminates Bowling Ford, who’s lying supine on the wood, a bowling ball resting in his hands on his stomach. Raz walks up to him.

“Hey Ford,” Raz starts, “What’s the deal with the deep six treatment?” Couldn’t he just drop a memory vault or something? Points for the presentation, but Raz is tired. He has been running around all day trying to fix this, and he would appreciate a break.

“I did what I had to do.” Ford states miserably. “I loved her, after all.”

All of Raz’ annoyance comes to a halt. “Wait, what?” Okay, now he’s wondering if he actually managed to put Ford back together, because that makes no sense. It’s like he isn’t even responding to Raz at all—what does loving Raz’ Nona have to do with burying Raz alive?

Ford lifts his head up. “Someday, when you fall in love, you’ll understand.” He closes his eyes, puts his head back down, and, without any further comment, slides along the lane. A light that wasn’t there before sits at the end of it, backlighting a set of pins that Ford knocks over in his exit.

Oookay then. Raz tries to follow, but he can’t get any further than the edge of the light. Fine. He turns around, walks out the door, and makes his way to the edge of the ledge. There’s two more like it, further down, lit with the warm glow of so many candles. Raz jumps.

He floats down just as slowly as before, but it isn’t long before he comes to a landing on the next ledge, having grabbed two more figments on the way. The window above the door is yellow, this time, instead of the pink of the ledge above. Raz grabs a third figment, and enters the door.

Raz is in the hair salon, now, a single light illuminating a patch of green and yellow tile. Barber Ford sits towards the back, atop a massive jar of Hydrocide™. Raz walks into the center of the light.

“Ford, what’s going on here? What did you want me to see?” Raz is so, so tired of having to jump through hoops. It’s all he’s been doing, today, all he’s been doing since Truman asked him to put Ford back together. Raz would really like some answers now!

“I couldn’t let her go free, she was a danger to the world!” And once again, Ford’s talking like Raz isn’t really there at all. Raz huffs in annoyance. Ford continues, “Even though it was the world that made her dangerous.”

Okay, that’s not helpful. Raz already knows all of this—for all that Nona’s memories of her life before the Deluge are gone, she can still remember bits and pieces of her time as Maligula, for all that she refuses to share those bits. Besides, Raz saw all of this when he was running around in the hair-filled mindscape of Barber Ford!

Still, Raz persists. “I know this! But who took your memories?”

“Safe. She’s safe.” Ford says, like Raz isn’t there at all. “Well, she was.” He frowns. “We all were. Huh.” Ford shrugs, “Not anymore.” He plugs his nose, and falls backwards into the Hydrocide™. Raz reaches out, but Ford’s already gone.

Just like before, Raz can’t go much further beyond the edges of the light—not that there really is anywhere to go. So Raz turns around and leaves the room, standing on the edge of the ledge outside the door.

One more ledge to go. Raz already has a good idea of what’ll be on it.

He floats down through the twisted ground making up the chasm, collecting figments as he goes. The window above the final door is blue. Raz pushes the door open, and walks out onto a wooden floor. A typewriter dominates the space, and Mail Ford sits atop it.

Raz pushes up his goggles. “Look, Ford, whatever I’m supposed to know—just spit it out!” He’s so tired. Is it so much to ask that even just one thing comes easy today? Must everything be a struggle?

“I had to hide her from the world, because they’d never forgive her.” Ford rambles. “And I had to hide her from me, because I’d never forget her.”

Raz’ heart starts to sink. Ford isn’t saying… no. No, he must be confused, or talking about something else. “Where?” Raz asks, “Where did you hide her?” He has a sneaking suspicion as to who she is. He hopes it isn’t true.

Ford shuts his eyes. “She’s with family.” He falls backwards over the bar, sinking down into the slot for paper.

Annoyance and dread fill Raz in equal measure. He was hoping for answers about his Nona, about the Memory Man who took her and Dad’s memories, made them think they were mother and son instead of aunt and nephew, left them with nothing but broken pieces when the illusion finally shattered—

Now, Raz isn’t sure what he’ll find, and instead of being excited by the prospect, he only feels a growing dread. He grabs the Half-a-Mind dancing to the side of the door, and makes his way back out. One of the shark-shaped coffins floats by, a tag dancing on its back. As tired as he is, Raz slows it down with time bubble to grab the tag, then leaps off to float down further.

He tumbles slowly, starting to fall faster and faster—

Raz hits the ground with a thud. He picks himself up, and finds next to a tombstone marked “Maligula.” More importantly, though, he’s in a coffin, and despite his protests it slams shut on him, trapping him inside.

The world around him blurs. Raz finds himself still in the velvet-lined coffin, but now it’s big enough for him to stand in, like some weirdly-shaped hall.

What is it with Ford’s mind and Raz getting buried alive? Is it Bury Raz day? Can Raz catch a break?

Probably not. Raz continues on, the velvet hall expanding around him as he goes until it’s almost the same size as a regular hallway. Clusters of candles sit in the corners of the room he finds himself in, cobwebs hanging from the walls and ceiling. Before Raz is a bed, with two skeletons lying on it.

“Ah!” Raz jolts back. “Who’s that?”

Ford’s voice comes in from all directions, even as Ford himself is nowhere to be found. “That’s your grandparents, Lazlo and Marona. They drowned in the Valermo Dam disaster, remember?”

“I already know this…” Raz mutters. Though it is kind of weird for Ford to know it, he thinks. No wonder the Memory Man shattered Ford’s mind—they must have been protecting their own identity. Which means that Ford definitely knows who they were!

(There is another possibility, sitting at the edge of Raz’s brain. He ignores it.)

“You—what?” Ford sounds genuinely caught off-guard.

“Er—” Raz backtracks. “I mean, Grandpa Lazlo died, but my grandma made it out and came to live with my father.” He tries. It doesn’t sound very convincing.

“No, Raz. She didn’t.” Raz can’t tell if Ford believes him or not. Then again, Ford apparently already knows that Raz’ Nona isn’t really his grandmother.

Something clicks behind Raz. When he turns around, the wall is gone, revealing a long hall. Raz sighs, hops on his levball, and continues forward.

Ford’s voiceover continues. “Razputin, after the fight with Lucy, she was defeated, but alive. I snuck her away from the others and brought her back to the Gulch.”

But… wasn’t Ford’s mind shattered in the fight with Maligula? How could he have brought her back to America? Could he still teleport that far with a shattered mind?

(Unless Ford’s mind wasn’t shattered at all, Raz realizes. He shoves that thought down.)

“I put her in the Astralathe—one of Otto’s inventions.” Ford continues.

Raz comes to a screeching halt at the end of the hall. The room before him has wooden flooring mixed with the velvet, a stained glass window, and a strange machine that Raz has never seen before. His heart sinks. No, no, no.

“Created to make permanent alterations to the psyche.” Ford continues, ignorant to the rising panic filling Raz’ throat. No. No no no. Can Raz go back to being buried alive? Please?

Raz spots the purse behind the machine—the Astralathe?—and darts towards it, needing the distraction. He pulls out the purse tag and attaches it. Ford’s voiceover pauses, waiting until Raz is done to continue. After a long moment, Raz continues on past the machine, towards a blue door at the very end of the room.

“But I knew the world would never forgive her,” Ford says, as all of Raz’ hopes fall apart. “So I had to hide her somewhere safe.”

Tentatively, Raz opens the door. “Oh no.” Oh no, indeed—Raz is standing in the doorway of his family’s caravan, looking out over an empty and darkened version of their campgrounds.

“I hid her among her family, Razputin.” Ford says, “Among your family.”

Raz can’t deny it any longer. “You’re—” he gasps, his throat starting to tighten. “You’re the Memory Man!” He exclaims, “You’re the one who took Nona and Dad’s memories!” Raz’ chest tightens, the weight of the world crashing in all around him. No, no—this can’t be right. No.

All at once, the scenery playing out in Ford’s mind stops. “You… knew?” He appears next to Raz in the mindscape, surprise coloring his face.

Raz can’t be in here for a minute longer. He scrambles for his smelling salts and whips them out, popping them open in front of his face. He needs to get out of here. He needs to get out—

“Razputin—” Ford reaches for him—

+=+=+=+=+

Raz snaps back into his body on the mailroom floor. He looks at Ford, once, his chest starting to heave. No—he can’t do this. He never should have done this.

Ford comes back to himself, whirling around to face him. “Razputin—” He tries, but Raz is already running. He needs to get out of here! He needs space!

Raz runs, using his levball to go faster. He runs, all the way through the atrium into the lobby, outside the Motherlobe entirely, across the floating platforms—

(The water feels his agitation, and trembles in shared rage-hurt. It reaches out to Raz as he passes over it, whispering offers to play and wash his cares away.)

Raz reaches the tunnel to the Questionable Area, and keeps going. He bursts out the other end, his chest and legs burning, and he does not stop—

He can see the fairy lights of his family’s camp strung up, bright against the darkened sky. Raz dashes, intent on getting to his parents so they can all leave this place, or something—

Ford crashes into Raz from the side, stopping him from reaching the campgrounds. They tumble across the ground, Raz’ panic hitting a peak—

“Let me go!” he shouts, squirming in Ford’s hold.

“Listen, Raz!” Ford begins, “I know you’re mad—”

“Of course I’m mad!” Raz shrieks. “You’re the reason my Dad can’t remember his mother’s face! You’re the one who put my whole family into this mess, who forced us to hide Nona without any help!” Tears are bubbling out of Raz’ eyes like steam from a kettle. He finds he doesn’t care. “My family’s had to keep Nona’s past hidden all on our own just because you felt the need to shatter your own mind and run from your problems!” He can’t believe this. All his life, he’s looked up to Ford—wanted to be a hero, just like him.

But Ford isn’t a hero at all.

“You’re right to be mad, Razputin.” Ford sighs. “I was young, and I made a terrible mistake.”

“You could have stuck around!” Raz yells. “Did it never occur to you that they might remember?”

“I had hoped they wouldn’t.” Ford admits.

Raz yells. “Well they did! Except they still don’t remember before the Deluge!” He glares at Ford with every inch of anger in his body, “Nona remembers Maligula, but she doesn’t remember you!” And maybe Ford deserved that, to be forgotten by the woman he loved. But Nona didn’t deserve to have all her memories wrenched away like that. The Aquatos didn’t deserve the fear of not knowing, of always looking over their shoulders for fear of what lurked in their shadows.

“Razputin—” Ford raises his hands in a placating gesture.

“DON’T ‘RAZPUTIN’ ME!” Raz is tired. Raz is so, so tired.

“What’s all this?” Augustus’ voice breaks through the tension, and all of the anger leaves Raz’ body at once. He’s tired. He’s so, so tired.

Ford freezes like a deer in headlights. He opens his mouth—

Raz points at him. “He did it!” He shouts. “He’s the one who messed with your memories!”

Augustus’ eyes snap onto Ford. “What.” He sounds so much smaller than Raz’ father should ever sound.

Distantly, Raz notices his mother and siblings wandering over, Queepie held in his mother’s arms, Mirtala holding Frazie’s hand and rubbing at her eyes. He shoves down the part of him that doesn’t want his family to see him crying—Raz doesn’t have it in him to care.

He’s so tired.

“Why?” Augustus asks, clutching at his chest. “You—why would you—”

“Because I loved her.” Ford laments, “And I thought it was the only way to keep her safe.”

“So you took her memories?” Raz doesn’t know how he has the energy to continue yelling. Anger’s just like that, he guesses.

His mother passes Queepie over to Dion, wrapping an arm around Augustus’ shoulders. She glares at Ford. “You.”

Somehow, Ford manages to look even more rigid. “Me.” He admits.

“You have some nerve!” All of his mother’s ire turns to Ford, and Raz can’t find it in himself to defend the man. “What is wrong with you? Do you have any idea the damage you’ve done to this family?”

Ford opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

“Wait.” Frazie pipes up, bringing everything to a screeching halt. They all turn to look at her.

“Where’s Nona?”

[samstree]

any fic that mentions anakin liking the rain is just 👌👌👌

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Fanfiction writer Eskel who started writing as a way to process his desire to get absolutely wrecked by the muscular, sweaty men around him, but grew into a Literal Bear Man Mountain himself and believed he could never have what he wanted because of Internalised Bullshittery, so kept filling up whole journals and hiding them in a lockbox by the lake to deal with the "sordid nature" of his desires.

Fast forward forty-ish years, a whole gods-damned sacking and depression-induced writer's block that has left it untouched, the secret smut stash is discovered by Lambert while he's cutting down trees for his latest boat. He spends a pleasant afternoon on the shore with his dick in one hand and a bottle of Sansretour Pinot Noir or a journal in the other, before returning with his discovery to gloat at the others.

The words, "You reprobates will never guess what I dug up," have barely left Lambert's mouth before he sees all the colour drain from Eskel's face.

Oh. Oh-ho.

[xadoheandterra]

Series: still waters run deep Title: Transitive Existence Fandom: The Sandman (Netflix + Comics semi-fusion), Danny Phantom Chapters: I Enablers: @demigodorion @azthedragon @kbobrian (because you three litereally went “do it” soooooo....) Characters: Death of the Endless | Teleute, Time, Clockwork, Danny Fenton (as a baby) Pairings: Night/Time (historical) Tags: How Not To Talk To Your Children, Time is an A+ Parent (sarcasm), Death is a good Big Sister, Baby Danny is Love, The Observants Are Assholes (with the occasional exception), Fucking With Canon For Fun, Fandom Fusion Summary: A New Endless is born, a new sibling of the Seven, a new child of Night and Time. This, predictably, has consequences. Not that Danny really cares. He’s just here to live his life and maybe make friends with these people who’ve been at this whole ‘Endless’ thing longer than he has. And okay maybe the idea of older siblings that aren’t Jazz is an interesting prospect and maybe being accepted by someone who understands is on that list somewhere.

Oh, and there might be something about rescuing a cosmic entity in there but whose counting?

...

Teleute was not sure what she expected when she felt the new-birth bloom in the back of her mind, but it certainly was not this. Baffled, silent, she stared down at the blue eyed dark haired babe that stared back up at her from his crib--his human crib, with his human parents, in this oh-so-human world--although the babe himself did not stay silent. He cooed instead, reached up to grasp at the strands of her hair that drifted free and left Teleute wondering. This boy was incomplete, a half-thought, half-finished little idea unsure of its own nature, own designation, and yet somehow so utterly human and whole in the same moment. She could feel the edges of her father and mother that hovered there, the shape of form that was to come--but at the same time she couldn't parse it. She was not Destiny; Potmos had always been the better at them in reading souls, even the 'souls' that comprised of them and their siblings. Death was merely the comforting sight, the friend at their side all their lives until their ends--and the psychopomp who guided them thereafter.

Quietly, reservedly, Teleute reached out her hand to the babe and watched as pale fingers grasped at her tight. Already so strong, already beyond the human ability and yet only hours old...she sighed, heavy and quiet in the air. Softly, gently, Death whispered to the infant, "Do not call for me unless you area ready, little one, and even then...even then, hesitate." Carefully she pulled her finger back, watched as the babe stared at her as she backed away--as his eyes scrunched up with tears, as he began to bawl. She said as she faded from all human sight, "I will watch you, little brother to be," before she left in a flutter of wings.

For the longest moment Teleute settled herself into her role of Death and guided soul after soul to the Sunless Lands. For a moment she put out of mind the little new-birth that heralded a new brother and focused on her work and role and Function. She did not need to, Teleute knew this. She could honestly say fuck it just like the Prodigal and step away from her position and let the souls guide themselves. It is not like the world would devolve into senseless, unending, undying life if she had. Teleute was not fool enough to believe that without her life, and death, would not find a way. Once, a long, long time ago she had even debated it, back in that moment when she realized the dichotomy of her existence meant even without her direct interference it would not end. Now she worked and guided and walked among the living with passion and purpose in her role to provide some measure of comfort to those lost. She could choose to be where she wanted, after all, and she knew every soul as well as she knew herself.

When the last soul that needed a friendly face had found their way, Death settled herself down on a park bench to stare up at the stars in the sky. She did not tell her siblings that often she slipped away after a day of work to just relax and enjoy herself. She had human friends and human interactions aplenty; she took time to herself, breaks to recenter, to resettle before she went back to work. In those hours sometimes she would try to see if she could unearth her brother's whereabouts, where the Prodigal had gone and vanished off to in an effort to drop him the latest invite to dinner. Sometimes she thought back on the petty squabbles she and her siblings got into, other time she would think of those long early days when Time and Night were there and tried to act as parents to new-found concepts. They had never been good at it, but Death considered that they were the first parents to any newfound thing, really, and long decided that since they had no one else to set the bar or to learn from, perhaps they did alright in the end.

This, though--and her mind drifted back to her newest little brother--was the first time that Death had felt the touch of Time and Night since they left long before Delight became Delirium. Mania, after the remaking, had not met their parents. She did not know them the way her siblings did despite remembering them, and a part of Death hurt with the thought. Neither their mother nor father had deigned to appear when the youngest of them had been broken, twisted, and left to rot until the newest aspect of herself had reformed from the ashes. To be fair, neither did Death or her siblings either. None of them had known. Somehow, in some way, Delirium-that-was-no-longer-Delight had kept the truth of it not just from Death who should have felt it, should ha r been there, but also from Destiny, and that realization burned.

It burned with the same intensity of the Prodigal's absence, with now Dream's absence from the family dinners. Now this, a new baby brother and the fresh feel of parents that Teleute had not felt in an age. For a long moment she tilted her head back and stared at that starless expanse of a sky and wondered what this meant--should she seek out her older brother and beg him for portents? Would he even bother to tell her? Destiny had grown more and more distant in the years, and even this past dinner he did not even bother to speak as his siblings bickered around him. He sat there, nose in his book, eyes unseeing as he ate the meal that Teleute and Mania had created. She could feel Potmos draw away from them, like Dream drew away from them, like the Prodigal--like Destruction, Olethros. Their family of Endless breaking apart at the seams--or already broken. Teleute, Death, clasped her fingers tight and closed her eyes against the pain of it; she breathed.

Time settled beside her, the world held still in a moment. She didn't speak as he rested hand upon her knee. She didn't look to him, look upon him, or even move as her father grasped tight. She felt that hand upon her knee shift from impossibly ancient and thin-boned, to barely able to cover the entirety of her with his palm.

"I ask that you keep this to yourself, my little death," Time said, and Death swallowed heavily at the epithet. "He is young, right now. Too young for the machinations of your siblings."

Death's hands didn't shake, but she wished they would. Her voice remained steady as she said, soft and perhaps on the edge of bitter, "We have not seen you in an age, and this is what you ask of me?"

"Teleute...."

"Does Destiny know?" Death raised her head and stared at their father's infant-ancient face, wrapped tight in hooded cloak of the deepest shades of the night sky--rich purple hues that bordered upon black, with nebulae in their folds. A gift, he once said, from Night in the early days of their courtship.

Time stared back at her, hair aged white instead of the bright red of his youth. He said a soft, "No."

Death searched his face, lips pressed thin. She asked, "Were you even going to tell me, if I had not felt him?"

"...no," Time acquiesced, and it felt like Despair's ring had hooked into her navel to spill all that she was upon the ground. Death closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. "Teleute...."

"I do not want to hear it, father," Teleute said, and pulled her knee out of his grasp as she stood. "You will have my silence," she added, then breathed slow and measured. "I have work to do." Her wings beat at her back, and Death readied herself back to work when Time spoke up again with soft and heavy words.

"I had not meant to bring another into this life after what happened to your sister," Time said with slow words, "to my daughter. I had no intentions of ever seeing your mother again after that."

"You weren't there," Teleute said shortly.

"I am always there," Time countered softly. "I was there as Delight shattered, and there as she rebuilt herself alone. Just as I am there for Olethros, and my little Morpheus." Death stilled.

"You know where Dream is?" she asked, and her voice broke. "Has he..." she shook herself, the question burned, but then she decided she did not want to know. She was not certain she could handle the thought that Dream had decided to go the way of Destruction. With a push of her wings, Death vanished.

...

Time frowned as Teleute ran from their conversation. He felt that tightness in his chest that had been ever-present since the youngest of his seven children had such a shattering and reforming that had echoed across all time. It had driven even him to his knees, he who kept his distance in the realms between. For a long, long moment Time stayed upon the bench that Teleute had seated herself and stared out into the park just outside the hospital that housed the small form of his youngest-oldest, the eighth that his children had never known of and yet always knew--or so Time had thought, once. Perhaps that paradoxical nature of this child of his had affected more than he thought.

With a whisper-sigh Time got to his feet, and with a twist of his cloak he vanished from the park entirely. It took only a breath, a twist of the hands of a clock to appear in the room with the babe in question. He leaned against his staff, heavy hearted as he stared down into the crib to the slumbering babe. He reached with one hand and gently stroked his finger down the child's cheek, a small, bittersweet smile on his face. He could remember his other children when they were like this--small, half-formed concepts of the universe. None of them remembered the age, so assured that they had come into this world fully formed from Night's loins. Time felt no reason to disabuse them of the thought; it was amusing, and always a fond memory to look upon. He may present himself as aloof and uncaring in the way he kept from them these eons, but Time loved each of his children uniquely. He always did, even if it baffled him sometimes.

The room was filled with the smell of ozone as a tear ripped its way through Reality. Time withheld the grimace, in part thankful that Morpheus currently was incapable of feeling such a thing, even if he rarely paid attention to what he called 'the Waking' so focused on his Dreamers when they slept. It was the smallest of blessings, his third eldest child's current predicament--a blessing, in that he would be kept from this knowledge for some time yet, but also a curse. Time glanced to the side, eyes alight on Morpheus' curled up and naked form in a place far from here but here all the same. He watched the way his chest twitched with a breath it could not take given stagnant air even as Time stroked a finger down the cheek of the babe in the crib in front of him.

It was long practice that allowed him to split his attention in two ways, technically three given the sound of booted feet behind him that held just as much important as his children if only because it kept his children safe.

"Your time is up."

Time pulled his gaze from Morpheus, and then from the infant before him to glance to the figure at his back. The hood of his cloak tumbled into his eyes as he did so, narrowed as they were on the familiar and apologetic form of the creature that stood there.

"I know," Time said and slowly closed his eyes.

"I am sorry," they said back, words soft, and Time hummed a response. "Come."

For a moment Time dithered, hand pressed to the child's cheek. Then, he said almost as a whisper, "Our arrangement?"

There was no response, and Time felt something in him stutter. He had hoped he had chosen right with this one; that given they were not born to the rest, but acquired in ancient times past. He had hoped to cultivate something to aide him in the years to come--someone who would listen instead of order--

"I will not tell the Council of the child." The voice of the one-eyed, pale-skinned creature cut through Time's racing thoughts enough to calm him. "They will not hear of him, or his Endless nature, from me." There was just the slightest edge of impatience to the other, enough to pull Time away from his child with a soft breath. "We need to leave now, or else I cannot guarantee they won't discover the news as it is...."

Time bowed his head, murmured a soft, "Yes." He looked for the last time at his youngest-oldest, the child that had always been there, yet was only just-born. Heavy was the crown that would settle upon his head if all went well, and yet--and yet. Time leaned over, pressed a kiss to the baby's forehead, and whispered softly, "Rest well, Daniel. We will see each other again one day."

"Clockwork."

"I am coming, Grias," Time--Clockwork--uttered and turned to follow his Observant-attendant through the portal back to the Infinite Realms. Back in the vast emptiness of a realm just-born and as old as Clockwork himself he rolled his shoulders and looked over to Grias who scrubbed clawed hands through a head of hair with a huff. For a moment Clockwork watched them, watched how they stood there and muttered to themself for half a moment, and then sighed in relief.

Grias straightened; their silver hair fluffed up as they turned to regard the 'Master of Time' and one of the few 'Neverborne' -- cosmic entities that had long taken residence in the vastness that was the Realm Between. "We made it back just in time. They are not aware of our trip."

Clockwork nodded his head. He did not say thanks, although he felt thankful all the same. To be given that chance to see his child, to speak with another of his children he had not seen in eons--it meant more than Grias possibly knew. He let the other being settle into themself and the energies of this place and busied his attention with the clocks upon his wrist. He twisted them each so that he could return his gloves to his fingers, and then so that they were properly placed for him to see--seven, in total. He let his fingers linger upon the third of the watches before he moved on.

"Lady Nocturne is also not aware of our trip, so I will count that as a success," Grias spoke up into the silent after a moment. They glanced over to Clockwork with their single good eye, the one not hidden behind the black cloth wrap meant to hide its mangled nature.

Clockwork raised his head, lips pressed together as he stared with fathomless red eyes. "Grias, your help...."

Grias shook their head. He said a short, "You have had that child for as long as I have known you. It is...if this was to happen now of all times, then so be it."

"You did not have to agree to keep it from Nocturne," Clockwork countered softly, just the slightest bit hesitant as he stared at the other.

With a snort Grias shook their head and muttered a short, "I am not getting in the middle of whatever it is going on between you. You want to keep it secret? Fine." Clockwork inclined his head a moment later in understanding and acceptance of the words and Grias let off a heavy breath before he clasped his hands together. "Now, enough dallying, Clockwork. The Council has convened and demands your presence. Something about the Physical that needs attending. Come."

Clockwork grasped his staff and drifted off after Grias who turned and stared in the direction of the Tower. He said a soft, near placid, "As you say."

[hebrewbyinbal]

Have you ever met someone who seems quiet and reserved, but you just *know* there's a universe of thoughts and emotions below the surface?

That's what this saying captures, and knowing how to express it in Hebrew allows you to connect on a soul-deep level with locals and native speakers.

This is not just about learning words; it's about understanding the human condition, the deep wisdom rooted in everyday sayings.

With this phrase in your conversational toolkit, you're not just speaking Hebrew—you're living it, loving it, and lighting up lives with it.

[steadfastmockingbird]

Feast or fucking famine over here

Why is it that I either write ten gigajillion words in one hour and they're all solid gold until I get some actual fucking sleep and look at them properly at which point they're all just absolute nonsense, or I hunt-and-peck type maybe three sentences in an entire week and they're all so torturous I get tempted to just break my own fingers and swear off it forever instead but y'know, at least they actually advance the plot and there's some fun turns of phrase.

Can I have just a little consistency? A middle ground? Some of the quality of pitch-drop-speed week dropped into the typing frenzy hour?

In other news I shouldn't really be bitching because I managed FOUR sentences today. Four! And I'm pretty sure they've resolved a problem I was wrestling with.

Might even have a finished draft by the time I'm 80 if I keep this up.

[starlooove]

“There is no fanfic on Stephs treatment I have checked” that’s like the whole point.

[rumikoremembrances]