#axe to grind

[tilbageidanmark]

The Woodcutter and the Trees

[thedailycounternews]

AXE TO GRIND- HAMLET, NC's HIDDEN SECRET

In a world of fast bars and fast drinks there is still hope. Hamlet, North Carolina holds a secret establishment that reminds one of the old style pubs. Family oriented and just plain fun. The atmosphere takes you back to a time when you felt comfortable to go out and just have a good time with friends and family. Saturday nights is their Kareoke night, which you can hear good voices from the…

[call-me-strega]

Dc x Dp Prompt #21: Petition to the King

I haven’t done one of these in a while so here we go:

AU where Thomas and Martha Wayne live in the Ghost Zone version of Gotham and have been collecting signatures from the other ghosts there for a few years now. Since the Ghost Prince Phantom has finally come of age and is now able to hold court/assemblies they approach him with their official petition and beseech him: Please allow them avenge their grandson and countless other souls, who’ve signed agreeing to the petition, to haunt and torment the Joker for the rest of his living days. May he never find peace even in sleep, even in death.

Danny being the gracious prince he is agrees. Even going as far as to take the names of literally everyone on the list and create a haunting rotation, for who gets to torment the Joker on which days, with Thomas and Martha having first dibs.

The grandson in question is a revenant and thus also eligible to be put on the haunting rotation so Danny decides to reach out and go to Gotham himself and ask if he wants to haunt the Joker with his grandparents. Thomas and Martha tag along bc they wanna visit their grand-babies, their son, and their partner who raised him.

Jason isn’t sure what to make of his doting ghostly grandparents, the beautiful interdimensional king, or the apparent laundry list of people ready to mess with the Joker’s mind, but hey! If he can’t kill the Joker, eternal torment isn’t a bad deal to swing!

[last-of-the-lot]

I tend to watch Vox Machina a few different times in different languages.

This has had the unintended side effect of causing me to laugh for a stupid amount of time at Cassandra swearing in the castle siege scene. Oh boy did it take me a minute to stop and double check that yes, miss prim and proper said that!

Honestly with everything she went through, girl deserved it

[frostyyart]

axe and grind

timelapse

x

[jup1tersparx]

rick rounds autistic and gets away with no one ever picking up on it via pretending all of the autism traits are 1) him being rude on purpose and 2) him just being a REALLY dedicated and stoic leader.

he never makes eye contact with anyone and seems to ignore to half of the things you say when talking to him? yeah he’s locked into that sigma grindset bro he doesnt have time for your bullshit. he refuses to let anyone touch him? oh is he also gonna cry and tell you about his feelings while you’re hugging 🥺🥺🥺? he barely makes any facial expressions, his voice is always monotone and he won’t react at all if you break down crying in front of him? yeah hes hardcore man completely unreadable. he gets really loud and angry and unpredictable when theres a lot of people and noise and lights? yeah hes a fucking wildcard bro you dont wanna mess around near him trust me. we need real men like this leading America forward thank god men are finally being masculine again 🙏🙏🙏 (/s)

[idknotgonnapost]

u guys remember when axe and grind aired and just the entire feed was just ‘caraJO i think u broke one of my rIIIBss’ and also the one handed belt removal (and leg removal) okay whatever it was just sooo iconic . Oh and he got his nails did

[stevesaxetogrind]

Truly those calling it “bad writing” that Robin and Vickie share similarities doesn’t make sense. She’s not been given enough time to be more than just a love interest, but we do have some info about her:

1. Molly Ringwald inspo, giving us shorthand about being kind of a quirky gal. Hat! Visually, she’s similar to Robin, but that’s not a bad thing because literally similar interests draw people together. She is also skirts vs Robin’s trousers. Femme/Soft Butch! You’re telling me Vickie would wear a tie? Lies.

2. Likes goofy jokes, namely Steve’s joke about Muppet Tammy. Which, Robin doesn’t laugh at Steve’s jokes that much- she dismisses them, but it means Vickie has a bit of a jocular sense of humour.

3. Vickie also likes Steve’s brand of movies, not Robin’s- which is pretty fucking funny. Again, this is not making Vickie similar to Robin, but to things shared with Robin’s Platonic Soulmate. Like, bro movies? Stupid lil jokes? I predict Steve and Vickie having a dad joke competition next season & torturing Robin with how corny they are. People like to talk about the similarities to Robin, but not the similarities to Steve! That’s kind of clever drawing Vickie closer to one of Robin’s favourite people, at least superficially.

4. Talks a lot when one on one, but Vickie wasn’t nervous/flustered in the band scene, so we can infer in more crowded spaces she acts differently/subdued - as like she was in the War Zone. This is unlike Robin who does actually ramble in group scenes, like freaking out over the thing in El’s leg, the rabies bit, or generally a lot of Season 4 where she looses her “cool girl” archetype from Season 3 in favour of chaos. Vickie seems more like she would quietly panic, as opposed to Eddie, Argyle, and Steve who all loudly go WHAT THE FUCK. Which is going to be interesting to see as the whole town is now thrown into an open gate downtown Hawkins probably releasing demogorgons every other hour like it’s Pacific Rim up in this bitch.

5. Meaningful look with Robin in the War Zone- not “oh hi band friend!” A scared/caught/dismayed look that she was there. So there is a connection, and she broke up with her boyfriend after that connection. Anything more is speculation, but the way she wasn’t looking at Robin when she gave the “he doesn’t like Fast Times” reason lets the audience draw points and maybe she felt trapped? Like it was just an excuse to pursue a different interest? Obviously because music is playing indicating a romantic relationship. We don’t have much to compare Robin with on this one, but around Keith she still had more confidence and bullshittery trying to convince him to hire Steve when Keith assumed they were a thing.

6. Vickie also doesn’t seem jealous. Robin is jealous. She was livid at Steve for being the object of Tammy’s affections, but Vickie hasn’t seemed to even look twice at Steve- even as Robin looked over at him while she and Vickie had her last scene.

For such a short amount of time in the season, I think that we have a good foundation for similarities and differences to Robin. Also, once again, it’s not a crime to avoid “opposites attract” tropes. Having similarities is good! Like, the amount of couples I know that are essentially the same archetype of queer person is not even close to zero. Especially when it comes to older queer couples who got together in the 80s/90s, they kind of morph into being one granola bar of a human being. Kind of similar with straight people when they genuinely like one another.

I hope they flesh Vickie out, but like, we’ve gotten a similar amount of screen time for Mr Clarke but no one is mad he is “one dimensional” when he is just, some exposition science guy. He’s a stock and standard teacher, has a girlfriend, and kind of goes along with explaining shit without questioning why a lot. But folks love Mr Clarke. Is it because Mr Clarke isn’t getting in the way of your ship?

I never thought I would see the day there were some true blue f/f ship wars, but bruh, Robin’s love life isn’t an A Plot so give the writers some slack. They’re human, not the devil. None of you were gleeks and it shows so fucking much. None of you lived through “angry lesbians on the internet don’t want me dating you”.

Personally I’m looking forward to Robin and Vickie getting together and maybe hopefully kicking monster butt together- or at least, Robin getting a nice little badass moment defending her gal.

[unholyhymns]

found this today so ill be having fun picking through it

[marzipanandminutiae]

hey nerd, you're a historical clothing person: whats the best fit for like genderqueer time traveler back on their bullshit?

I am, but you have to tell me more about what this genderqueer person likes to wear. I can't make any assumptions just from their gender identity.

Signed,

Someone who knows nonbinary folks who enjoy dressing like Marie Antoinette and nonbinary folks who enjoy dressing like stereotypical long-haul truckers, and everything in between.

PS- probably get a puffy white blouse though.

[anteroom-of-death]

Teacher's Pet part 10

Synopsis: Game is preserved by game. And what games can one play? What about rewards? Our two lovers share some special moments.

A/n: Hey bitches, guess who's back from mental health crisis! Meeee. I love you all and sorry for the inconvenience and lateness!!! Slammed this one out. Quickly. Before the madness leaves me. Yall the best. Thanks

Oh, that man, you thought as you trolled the shops. Furiously as you slid the hangers across. The sound of metal slightly shrieking put you on edge. If you had been not just a post-marriage thing, but the next in a long line of so-called ‘assistants’ or ‘companions’, then you’d be the best damn one he’d ever have.

He wanted to play like he was human, play house with you. Something he never did before, he told you. There was a comfort and a ring of truth in those words. A lie? You felt yourself question. Or was he actually just telling the truth?

Maybe alien men weren’t total pigs like human men…you reasoned with yourself.

So many thoughts were swimming in your mind.

You angrily scooped up a few dresses and made your way to the changing room.

You chose a black number, slightly strappy, mid-length and a lower square neckline. You brought a little cardigan and it would match perfectly. The way the skirt flared gently but still held some grip to your thighs was excellent at providing some semblance of elegance. It hit at your knee, classy.

Now onto shoes…

You got a message from your Doctor, you headed to a café.

It was all very nice. Trite, but felt authentic. His long fingers carding through your hair felt lovely. It felt like a return to what you had back in Bristol. Your mind was calm, placid and you felt a bit better about the whole damn thing.

Like your walls were removed.

Sooner or later, you had to get ready and then the ebb of dark thoughts came back in tiny waves. You got frustrated and just started patting on a thick layer of glitter, and maybe a tad bit too much highlighter cream on.

You caught your reflection in the mirror. You looked manic. Beautiful, but oh-so-fucking-crazy. You toned down things just a tad.

Just a tad, you still wanted to be breathtaking…

You went back and leaned on the bed and caught your breath. You did your breathing exercises and collected yourself and gave one final check in the reflection of the metal of the barrack wall.

Once joining him, the nerves subsided. You mentally wondered if he had some pheromones or something like that. It felt good, though, safe.

The evening began and you went out with nary a hitch.

He took you to see some contrived show about the nature of social media and the ephemeral nature of family. (And murder!) You tried to enjoy it, you really did, but in the dark of the theatre, his face pale enough to reflect the stage light and the fact you could feel an electric current running through the two of you as you leaned in or lightly touched, your mind went slightly south.

The man was too attractive for your own good. And your lack of attention span was driving you to look at his face most of the time.

Thankfully, the play ended.

Performers came out to bow, lights went up and you were ushered out.

He even treated you to a bit of a romantic dinner. Although, he did grumble about there not being a children’s menu.

Almost very human.

You let your entire guard down.

It was impossible to not.

This entire day was disarming. More disarming than yesterday!

Your conflicted feelings fell away more and more. Outside of little trips to London for this whole UNIT thing, you could go back to Bristol. Go back to being (y/n) and Professor Smith. Build something real. Build something tangible.

You loaded yourselves into a cab back to the UNIT head quarters. His hands were also distractions. They felt so cruelly good inside or on you. They were also emotive and caring. Creatures in their own rights.

Suddenly, you felt very brave and extra insane.

You wanted them inside you in this very cab. And damn it! You were going to get your way!

You grabbed one of his hands and placed it on your right thigh, and leaned in to his ear, your other hand lightly toying with his hair.

“Fuck me with your fingers. Here, now.” You whispered, your voice going slightly husky.

He looked at you, a severe look passed and faded before he let out a slight laugh. Soft, but with a hint of something behind it.

“Now, my fawn?” Slightly shocked, but a Cheshire grin came out.

“Right now.” You ordered gently, the whisper came out a more a huff of air than a spoken set of words.

“One moment.” He said, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket. He grabbed something and pressed a button on it. It let a little noise.

“What is that?”

“Screwdriver, it’ll give us privacy. More or less.”

You nodded, a slightly slack-jawed, “Ah.” Escaped your mouth. “Some screwdriver.”

“You don’t even understand the half of it.” He said, as he leaned in to kiss your jaw and placed on hand at the hollow of your throat.

When he finally worked his way to your pussy, he slid with a finger your panties over.

“Already so soaked? Good girl…” He cheesed.

It made your head roll back. In your moment of ballsy control, he somehow made himself the one in charge. A mental flip over…

And you didn’t particularly mind.

Damn him.

You felt that deft long middle finger find your clit. His index and ring finger found themselves in the middle of your folds. You rolled your hips over and your legs parted a little bit more against the fabric of your dress. The circular motions of the finger on your clit driving you a little bit crazy…

You braced yourself against the seat of the cab.

He scooped his fingers down deep into you, pressing deep onto the walls. He kissed you and bit gently at your chin.

You moaned into the top of his mouth.

His long hands had the benefit of him being able to continue his motions on your clit and he stroked the lowest part of your pussy with his pinky finger.

The other three worked you senseless.

“You’re so filthy.” He praised you. The ‘r’ in ‘you’re’ drilled inwards.

Your stomach fluttered and flipped around.

You let out a grunting heave. Your hands firmly around his body and gripping the back of the seat. He worked his way against your walls more. Penetrating deeper, still.

Unfortunately for you, the big stupid tower that UNIT had was approaching in the foreground.

He grazed your chest with his teeth and pulled out of you. He took out the screwdriver and it made that noise again.

He paid the driver and pulled you out.

“Now, you be good and quiet through the hallways and I’ll give you what you want.” He ordered you.

You nearly flailed out.

There were still staff and soldiers milling about, as you went towards the lift, some even approached him with questions.

You were still wet and dreadfully turned-on! And twitchy. It seemed painfully unfair, he wound you up just enough to make you literally insane!

You needed him to fuck you.

You could literally feel the absence of his fingers inside you. Like a gaping wound.

Cruel.

The seconds dragged on for what seemed like years. These underlings of his really could drag themselves on! It was wholly unfair. The several Cocktails with St Germaine and Vodka and the level of lust hazing your vision and your orders to be quiet. You wanted to beg him to finish fucking you.

Soon enough you were in the stupid barracks.

“Strip.” He ordered plainly, unbuckling his pants and pulling down his pants and his underwear. His cock already standing at full attention.

You shimmied out of your dress and underwear.

“Kneel.”

You kneeled.

“You’ll get my hands in you if you do good here. I know you will.” His tone was somewhere between an order and a negotiable thoughtfulness. With a tad bit of praise wrapped in.

You really needed him to get you off. It was up there in Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. ‘Get the Doctor’s fingers inside of you.’

So you obeyed.

You scooted forward and wrapped your hands around his ass and opened your mouth. You cracked your neck and inhaled. You pressed your tongue down on over your lower teeth and wrapped your upper lip over your top teeth. You slicked your tongue out just a bit more as you worked your way down his shaft.

He stabilized himself in your hair and the base of your neck, guiding you down deeper. He was fully inside your mouth. Gently, but still, he helped you go up and down as you continued to go down on him. A symbiotic, well-oiled machine. He guided you down and you licked and applied pressure.

All while you were still aching. All the need for him intensifying as you just kept clenching your thighs together. As if that’d stop the sensation of want…

This little trade-off was driving you mad!

You licked his entire shaft, swirling your tongue as you both continued the motions. Edging him with the hot breath coming out onto his tip, you clasped a tighter grip on his ass. You slipped down and went to purse your lips around the base…

He pulled himself out of your mouth.

��I’m going to finger you, as you want. Then…’ He said, pulling you up and shoving you onto the bed, flourishing his fingers…”I want to cum inside your mouth later.”

He pushed apart your legs and gave a deep lick to your cunt. Hard, quick, and lingering around.

He was insane! This was the most aggressive he’d ever been with you sexually. He braced himself on the bed frame and peered deep into your eyes as he maneuvered his other arm, and hand, down inside of you. You let out a giant tremble as he lay over you, dragging out the heavy petting and large sweeps inside you.

You gulped.

He somehow managed to get a few fingers inside you, probably because you were so soaked, and you were so nervous and eager to please. Or he was rather good with his fingers.

He played guitar.

Maybe that was why…

Your mind wandered gently away and you wanted to ask him to play for you…

You were so close. The waiting in the halls and him making you service him, really was a dangerous cocktail. A torture device, well fit for whatever this paramilitary organization had in their arsenals…

And here he was, fingers engulfed in your wet heat.

Suddenly you felt a shattering static, and the intoxicating waves of an orgasm and alcohol teamed up against you. You swore you could feel your vision somewhat fading around the edges. You felt rapidly breathless and were slow-blinking away from your orgasm waving through you.

The old man pulled his way up and gently pulled you down. You met halfway between the two.

“Open wide, sweetheart.” He cooed as he gripped his cock, jerking it. “Get that sharp tongue out. Don’t be shy, fawn.” It came out a velvet-wrapped order.

And yet again, you obeyed his orders to the mark!

Warm and salty, he came onto your tongue and tapped himself dry on your tongue.

You never liked the taste of cum, but you swallowed it, you figured that alien cum wasn’t as bad as human cum.

You tried to not gag…

He saw you balking at the taste and pet your hair.

“So good for me…you’re perfect, aren’t you?”

You nodded your head in affirmation.

He leaned down and kissed your forehead.

After a moment or two in just a lock up, you decided to shower. He joined you, simple, clean fun. Oddly sexless.

The morning came and you woke without a startle for the first time in what felt like your entire life. His one arm was wrapped around you, the feeling of his odd, two-hearted beating thrumming along. Like a white noise machine. His chest was pressed in earnest against your back.

It was the first time you’ve slept with a man, like truly, in the most simple description in years. It felt wonderful.

You didn’t know what time it was, your phone was still in your purse and the room lacked a clock, as far as you could tell. It was also windowless.

You managed to wriggle your way out to go to the bathroom and checked. It was half-eleven. He began to stir.

“Hey, go back to sleep.” You walked over and swooped a bit of his hair to the side. “I’ll go for a quick walk, I’ll be soon.” He rolled over and nodded.

You went out to check your phone, go outside and have a smoke, and prowl about. The hallways were milling with people and soldiers, busy.

You exited and lit up, Petronella was approaching the entrance.

“Hey, I know the perfect place for a brunch.” She exclaimed, clearly happy about the chance encounter.

You quickly dropped your cigarette and exhaled away from her face, remembering her asthma.

After a quick exchange you made your way back up to the barrack. He was fiddling around with some device. You’d like to think he changed his focus the minute he noticed that you entered, but it was a few seconds and he kept running his fingers and a real screwdriver on some screws as he went to look at you.

“So I was thinking that you and I could go to brunch.” You launched the idea. “Could be fun. Way better than a trip to Starbucks.” You added on.

“I could eat.” He announced.

The process to get you both out the door was a bit tough. As you kept find yourselves simply unable to keep your hands to yourselves. He was incorrigible!

But you did it anyway.

It was nice, Petronella came in clutch for you. It wasn’t a place catering to the yummy mummy crowd, nor the drunk hipster crowd. Very cozy. The seats were lush and you got a cozy, semi-cramped corner booth. All coiled up together…

You downed your first Bellini and your dishes were coming out.

You kept yourself from blurting out something.

The second Bellini pried it out.

“So tell me about these past companions…” You finally dropped as you sopped up a bit of oil with a piece of bread, you didn’t need to be completely sloshed yet.

He let out of derisive snort.

“I ran away with my granddaughter from my home planet. She encouraged me to pick up traveling companions when she married an Earthling. It’s been a cycle ever since. Although. I did give up after the last one. Especially after all my memories of her returned…no more companions. No more travel. Rehabilitate my ex-partner from my school days until she’s sane and no longer wants to take over the cosmos and kill off anyone. Catch and release. Teach on Earth until the planet meets it’s fire-y end.” He explained it all so nonchalantly. Boiled down. Reductive.

You nodded along and took a sip of his coffee.

“Never expected you, but, you’re my jealous little secret.” A dark, yet warm grim blazed across his face.

“And….how many….have you slept with?” You circled your pinky around the top of his glass.

“A few, rarely. I’m rather…adverse to sexuality usually. Sometimes it’s the right body and right time. Last one was this woman named Clara, we rubbed off on each other so poorly. She became too like me and I her, she died and I lost my mind, finally in the position I’ve left so many in. Four point five billion years inside of a hell of my creation to try to save her. In the end, my memory was wiped. It was brought back thanks to the ex-partner. You should meet her. One day. Missy is…Missy.” It seemed like his honesty had some subversion but still rang true.

“It’s a huge catalyst for why I’m retired from my endeavors. I’ll help UNIT out, but I need to find some peace. I’m an old man. I deserve a bit of rest.”

“Four point five billion years old.” You nodded, eyes bugged out of your head. “How’d that even work?”

“Oh, my ship is a time machine. She’s the big thing that’s covered in cloth in my office near my windows. She’s a Type-40 TARDIS. But because Clara rejected her resurrection, so to speak, the years snapped back. I’m only two thousand, as I said the other night!”

And here you were feeling slightly insane over thinking him in his sixties previously in the last week…

You scooped your hair put of your own face.

“Can’t fault you for wanting a break. I’m exhausted and I’m virtually just starting out in life. Can’t imagine living that long…” You gave a long hard stare into the distance…

You definitely couldn’t fault him there, having lovers. Or being too jealous. He was so...old…there was no way around it.

You especially couldn’t be worked up over his body count. You probably matched each other in some ways.

That was a lot of unpacking and decentering you had to do.

Your learning was never really done.

After all, you stop learning, you stop living…

“Any more inquiries?” He seemed to be jokingly prodding.

“Just don’t take me…off planet or back in time. Especially back in time.” You pointed to your face as if it were the obvious reason why that wouldn’t work.

“I never intend to.” He promised.

“Good.”

You finished up and made you way out, you took a walk around a park for a while, arms joined together.

It was nice. Like something in your life had finally clicked into place. Safety, potentially love, awareness…all that trite shit.

You couldn’t shake some feelings nor the sensation in your brain that something may be up.

But that was for future (y/n) to deal with. Today was just about relaxing with your man. Being normal. Finally getting something normal.

Maybe you both were being rewarded here.

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Part Nine: Drownings

Chapter Directory: Here

Current Installment: You are here!

Author's note: Inspired by the 1950s short story "The Man Who Came Early" by Poul Anderson. I rewrote this seven times and had an unrelated mental breakdown. I'm still not happy with it but at least everything that was in the outline is in this version. No major trigger warnings for this chapter. Also on ao3 here.

Burial Mound, Cumbria

Matthew slid beneath the water, practically consumed by the dark concentric circles flowing out and lapping gently at the stone. They had built the spring like an inverted broch, no mortar, all perfectly fitted stone.

“No!” Arthur was whipping off his coat. The wool would only become waterlogged and drown him. His body was a spring, energy coiling from shin to shoulder, arms thrown up over his head to break the surface tension, anything to give him an extra boost to get and clasp his son to him. Toes off the ground, arms snatched him back.

“No!” Rhys was slamming him to the ground like he was a boy, and Mother was a corpse upon a driftwood throne. There’s scuffling. He flipped himself over, white-hot rage replacing whatever desperation was before.

“Let me go!” It was always English when they argued, a force of speech as effective as a spear point since the Angles.

Rhys drove down, rolled him over, face in the moss and clover of the Cumbrian soil beneath his face, the heart of him a thousand years ago and forbid him in a dead language. More loss. He wouldn’t take more loss. But his arm would snap if he struggled anymore.

“Rhys.” Brighid was pulling him off. “Rhys, let him go.”

“No!” He shot back at her. “Absolutely not—”

“You have too.” She looked gentle now, not fearsome. Herself, St. Brighid, not the warrior goddess mother left her to inherit. Soft clover, her prized cattle roamed rather than the wine-dark seas that thrashed her shores. Her hand released him.

Rhys was protesting, but he wasn’t fighting or wrestling. Arthur couldn’t hear him or Brighid now. Their voices were silent; Alasdair was on the ground, shed of his clothes, bleeding from a cut on his hairline. He almost snorted. Brighid would have had to strike him as hard as she could to stop him. Alasdair was saying something, mouth open to the French that was so familiar, calling after his favourite nephew. But his attention was gone now. The water spoke to him with Alfred’s laugh.

He dove.

—

Sometimes, when Matthew hasn’t slept, the ice starts whispering at home. Singing or whispering, luring him with cracks in the seracs as serpentine as a woman’s hips. It whispers about how much of him is already frozen. He can rest as much as he wants if he lays down and slips into blue-black waters. It sighs and tells him he can close his eyes, and everything will be all right. Tempts him. He’ll be so numb, but for a good reason. Everything would slide away, and he would be as empty as he felt. Sometimes, the ice sings.

And sometimes, he answers. He’s laid himself down into a gap in the pack ice for a nap so casually that the frigid water rushing over him feels gentle, not cold and cutting. Matthew has closed his eyes and let himself float away. He could emerge in a few months with the spring melt, float up, and return refreshed and rebuilt. Any absence unconsidered, and anyone who might have eventually noticed usually yet unbothered. 

The spring sings like that, in a gentle burble instead of staccato groans but promising nonetheless. His brother’s laugh has gone quieter, disappearing under the water. The dry stone edge of the spring is cold under his hands, but the lure is louder, and the water is not so cold. Words his aunt sang drop from sounds flesh might make to the deep metallic of something like bronze clacking on stone. Like wind forced through chimes or a horn. The water sings like that, a hymn for the missing or maybe the mad, urging him on as he let himself sink and then swam down, searching for a bottom as he kept one hand on the round stone wall. 

Then, the world was rotating. The light had gone so bright. Turning, he slammed against the stone, what air he had left bubbling out of his mouth and gurgling away. Fuck. He tried to twist and paddle up; he could swim like a fish, but something had snagged—no! Something had grabbed and hauled him up from behind. He must have been running out of air. His vision flashed red, even against his shut eyelids, and he broke the surface. Heaving, he groped for stone but found green and freshly cut wood boards. A woman looked down at him, a bucket fitted together of wood in her hand. Her hair was pulled out of her face in a crown of braids. The linen shift she wore draped off her shoulders and dipped below the neckline of her bodice, a style that had been popular when he was a child, but it was her eyes he’d locked on.

“Katya?” She looked a bit healthier than he’d ever known her to be, but her eyes were the same sky blue. Hope and harvest blue. He would have recognized her if he didn’t have eyes, though, because that part of him that was hers sang louder than the water or the shout coming from behind him. Something was pulling at his shoulder. He didn’t care. Matt pulled himself closer. He could smell summer wafting off her.

Her surprise turned to something tender, and her hand lifted to his face and beckoned behind him. Someone else was saying his name from his shoulder. He didn’t care.

“I’m not what you’re looking for yet.”

“Yes, you are.” He said. “I’ll always look for you.”

“But not yet.” She insisted. Pushing his soaking wet hair off his face. “Return to my dreams, wraith.”

“Katy—” He was being dragged away then. She didn’t look sad but hopeful.

“Swim.”

“What the fuck— DAD?”

“My sons and their cocks, I swear to God.” Arthur was griping, and Matt was spinning, looking for a handhold to climb the wall of the… was it a well he was inside of? It was not a spring; the water was too cold and too dark. He was shivering. Katya was there, happier than he’d ever seen her, and he was stuck here, pushed away, banished.

“Matthew!” Two hands on his face, making him look. His father was soaked but deathly serious. “Focus.”

“What?”

“Focus on your brother and swim.”

His father’s voice cut the panicked babble of thoughts, and he heard the laugh again. He sucked in the air and dove. If it was one thing he was, it was a good swimmer, reaching out and down, striving forward. He has never seen such darkness. Only the odd, purposeful tap on his calf keeps him in contact with his father. They don’t have much time before Arthur begins to freeze, or they burst for air. His lungs are straining, individual bronchioles tracing branches of pain through his chest when light shines. Harvest gathering greens, mostly, then woad blues and sparks of red like fruit. If only stained glass could flow and distort light like tide pools, it would look like this. He can’t tell which way is up then. He can’t breathe. He’s blacking out, hand reaching for his father’s tumbling form next to him as they fell rather than swam. The colours drained from the world, and rushing water froze, black and fractal.

Then he’s on his back, and his father is slapping him across the face. He jackknifes into consciousness. Dad’s there, dripping like a drowned rat. But his body is normal. No blood showed, no bones were broken, and strength flooded back into his extremities as his body staved off hypothermia in the much warmer air.

“What the fuck was that?” He gasped.

“Breathe.” Arthur is a bit frantic. They’re both shivering. “Focus.”

“Where are we?” Matt was so confused. He recognized stones, the well. But there were so many trees. The trunks were as tall as any he had at home, taller than anything that had been replanted after they’d been hacked from him to build the empire. The rainbow of smeared colour still danced in his eyes and his vision smeared.

“Not where.” Arthur was pale. “When. I haven’t had this many oak trees since before your brother was born.”

“When?” Matt practically gagged on a shiver and laid back down. “Was that—Was that the rainbow bridge? Like the sagas?”

“The— Rainbow bridge? Really, lad? You gawking at Kateryna was the single most heterosexual thing I’ve ever seen you do.”

The less relevant his sense of humour, the more fucked they were. But the blood rushing back into his fingers and toes hurt ungodly amounts. He lost focus again, the trees blurring into the low clouds like brushes into well-used rinse water, only revealing the buttresses of his grandmother’s pre-Christian cathedral in the foliage. Better than stained glass.

He’s lying there, aware of Arthur having gotten to his feet, but not other people, until there are voices. He sits again. A small caravan of wagons heaped with goods stands at the edge of the clearing, and his father is speaking with them. He can only make out so many words. He almost thinks they’re speaking Dutch for a moment, those fluid, almost gurgly sounds Jan makes when he’s happy and well fucked. His body feels so normal now, warm and boneless, like he’s eaten and slept so much he needs to sleep more. He’s supposed to be alert but can’t understand what’s being said. He tried to learn Beowulf by heart once when he was a boy. Before Jack was born and no one cared enough to call a strange creature at the end of the frozen world kin, he’d poured over the pages of an ancient cracked book bound in even older leather. His father has no such issues, understanding or being understood.

“Hƿelċ tīd is hit nū?” He recognized the word for time, but the man laughed and replied in a way that took Matt the logic of forming half-forgotten grammar into a sentence that might not even be the same. That is something for the priests. 

More words. He only caught the last two. Ælfrēd Cyninġ.

He sat straight, lightning running down his back. Alfred. Ælfrēd. The pressure of normalcy pushed his consciousness from all sides, embracing that empty, silent despair of days and days. It filled him back with life, like warm water over the cold. Not so near, not so strong, but there. Alive. His brother was in existence.

[eraserheadadult]

crazy how almost always unless a het ship i like is already canon at the start it does not become canon i kinda cant believe straight people fuck up so badly and so consistently

[witsserviceablesubstitute]

The Seanchan are ImperialismTM, and especially American Imperialism in all its aggressive social conditioning and slave-owning ugliness. There's a reason the Seanchan culture is a mash up of China and America particularly. It's deliberate. It's also a wonky metaphor written by a well-meaning Southern white man in the 90s, so it's far from perfect. Ultimately the Seanchan are no more or less evil than Americans during most of the USA's colonial history. That is to say they are and they aren't. Some swallow their conditioning wholesale, others fight against it, some relish the power the system gives them over others, others are uneasy about the cruelty expected of them yet continue to comply regardless, some break away altogether in an exceedingly painful process. Any dissenting information is buried, any outward revolt is squashed brutally, but it does exist. Of course it exists.

Maybe it's because I'm not American but I find irony in Americans especially being absolutist about the Seanchan because it feels like they're either condemning themselves or blind to how the USA has operated globally and historically. That might be a poor way to see it though, idk.

[ghelgheli]

[via Reuters] Two explosions killed more than 100 people and wounded scores at a ceremony in Iran on Wednesday to commemorate top commander Qassem Soleimani who was killed by a U.S. drone in 2020, Iranian officials said, blaming unspecified "terrorists".

Iranian state television reported a first and then a second blast during a crowded anniversary event at the cemetery where Soleimani is buried in the southeastern city of Kerman.

An unnamed official told state news agency IRNA that "two explosive devices planted along the road leading to Kerman's Martyrs' Cemetery were detonated remotely by terrorists".

State television said that at least 103 people had been killed and 211 others injured, making it one of the worst such attacks in Iran, which has faced similar incidents in the past from various groups, including Islamic State.