#backwoods emergency

[ravynfyre]

So, story time, chilluns.

Helmets will save your life. I don't care what you are doing, if the safety gear includes a helmet, FUCKING WEAR ONE. I mean, things like being a motorcycle cop or a construction worker are pretty simple. It's part of the uniform. You don't use the helmet? You don't get to work.

But let's talk about other things. Like skateboarding. Or bike riding. Or *riding a fucking horse*. Rock climbing. Motorcycling period. Or *riding a fucking horse*.

I do not give one fucking shit if it is "not cool". Wear the fucking helmet.

This past ten days, I was away at a camp in the bowels of hell in the midwest, literally sleeping in a tent and riding equines all day. Rather, I *should* have been riding equines all day... But on day 2 of this 10 day trip, the mule I was riding (not mine, but a reliable mule borrowed from a friend) tripped while trying to climb out of an 18 inch deep creek. She went down to both front knees, then began to scramble to get her feet back under herself, and somewhere in that scramble, around about 3 seconds in, and 30 feet of rodeo bullshit, I came off her back.

I hit the ground *hard*. My entire right side, starting with my bad shoulder, then rolling to my *head*, and then my hip and knee slammed into the earth. Granted, it was only a fall from roughly six feet in the air, but it was at speed with velocity, and I have mass. I am not kidding when I say I hit *hard*. I genuinely was not certain if I had died for a few seconds, and that was fucking scary. And then for another *minute*, I had to try and remember hot to breathe again.

See, I'm not sure if I have ever come right out and explained this here before, but I *used* to be a firefighter. I did the job for 12 years, and was set to do another 12 years before I retired. But while on duty one day, I was injured severely enough that I could no longer safely do the job anymore, and that was all she wrote. Severe nerve damage to my cervical spine, right shoulder, right elbow, and all the way down into my right wrist and hand. (Yes, I am right handed. I used to draw and sketch and paint and carve, and losing the dexterity I lost really. fucking. *sucked*.)

Hitting the ground in the ass end of literally nowhere, I landed on that shoulder *first*. I didn't break anything, but I feel pretty confident in saying that I at least partially dislocated it. I sprained or tore muscles in my hip, and I am honestly not sure what all I did to my knee.

The one part I'm not worried about, however, is my head. Because, yes, I hit my head just as hard as I hit my shoulder. (pretty sure I bounced off a tree or two while I was still in the saddle, too. at least, that's what the bruises and scrapes seem to indicate. I honestly do not remember.) See, I was wearing a helmet. A dorky, english style, ugly, stupid looking riding helmet, instead of my usual baseball cap with my "Queer and Angry" pin on it, or my crushed up cowboy hat with the rainbow ribbons as a hatband. It was honestly the first time I had ever worn a *helmet* while riding, even though I had bought one a couple years ago. They're stupid looking. It's not *cowboy*. I'd look like an idiot... or a coward.

But the person I was riding with wore theirs (although, unfairly, their helmet actually looked like a cowboy hat, so I was feeling all sorts of put out about that) but since they wore theirs, I sucked it up and decided that this wasn't MY mule, and, what the fuck. who would even see me out in the ass end of nowhere wearing a brain bucket anyway? I wore the damn helmet.

The helmet that I now have to replace, because it took that hard of a hit that I would not consider it safe to count on, really, anymore. The helmet that probably saved me from a massive concussion last week. Maybe worse.

All I know is that when that bitch of a mule came trotting back after a couple minutes, I was able to slowly climb back into the saddle and ride my way out of a place where there was literally *nowhere* emergency services could have landed or driven to retrieve me. It took another 30 minutes of riding to even GET to a place that would have been accessible to anyone NOT on horseback. I was able to climb on, hold on, and ride out safely, if in excruciating amounts of pain, because that helmet saved my life. If the mule hadn't returned, if I hadn't decided that fashion wasn't as important as safety for the first fucking time... at the very least, they would have had to send a literal horseback posse into the backwoods of a river valley in a national forest, with no access for even so much as a four wheeler, and *hope* that I hadn't hurt myself enough that I would bleed out in my head during the HOURS LONG ORDEAL retrieving me would have been.

You know, AFTER my friend would have had to leave me there and ride for help, since there was also literally NO phone coverage either.

So, here I am today, everything along the right side of my body is stiff as shit and feels like it's been through a meat grinder. I haven't had more than two consecutive hours of sleep (maximum of four a night) in a week because of pain, but I am here to tell you all:

Wear. The fucking. Helmet.

#stupid firefighter tricks #stupid cowboy tricks #good mule #wear the damn helmet #backwoods emergency #yeeeeehaw!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Farmer's Daughter 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You stand on your tiptoes, a dangerous choice as you stand on a wooden stool, reaching to clip pegs around the folded edge of the linen sheet. You clasp it over the cord in three places and reel along the length, bending to pull a wet pillowcase from the basket.

“You’re grinding on the clutch,” Walter’s voice carries through the barn door before he emerges, “you need another driving lesson.”

“I know how to drive stick,” your brother, Timothy, argues with the larger man. “It’s not the clutch.”

“Ermph,” the other man grunts in return.

“Thanks for having a look though,” Timothy slaps his arm lightly.

He gets another grumble from the chronically grumpy man. Walter is older than your brother, by quite a bit; and you too. He’s tall and burly and his brow never truly loses its furrow. He’s fonder of your father than Timothy; you’re sure if he didn’t feel some kinship with your father, he’d never venture this far.

Walter is a big, burly man. He has a lumbering gait you can recognise even as he’s at the property’s edge, and his curly hair falls messily around his chiseled face. There’s a touch of silver in one curl but his age doesn’t show otherwise.

You refocus on hanging the laundry. You stand on your toes and strain to clip the beg on the line. The stool wobbles and you put your feet flat, steadying it. You suck in your lower lip and look around. Timothy’s gone, you hear him back in the barn clattering through the toolbox, but Walter remains. He narrows his eyes at you as you give a sheepish smile.

“Hi, Mr. Marshall,” you say.

“Hey,” he returns in his way.

You don’t expect much more so you wind the line further and once more bend to take another piece of clothing. You quickly forget his presence and go back to your precarious game. Back on your toes, the stool tips and you gasp, a scream catching in your throat as you brace yourself for the violent tumble.

You don’t hit the ground though. You barely even tip as you're caught under the arms. You open your eyes as Walter holds you well over the ground. He does so effortlessly. 

“I… Mr. Marshall, thank you,” you breathe.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he grits.

“Um, I know,” you wiggle your feet and look at the ground, “um, can you put me down.” He does just that and you laugh at yourself, “thanks.”

“Hm,” he sidles down to the basket. 

To your surprise he takes out the next sheet and easily throws it over the line. He holds out a hand but you just stare at his calloused palm. What is he doing?”

“Pin,” he demands gruffly.

“Oh, uh, sure,” you step up and place a pin in his hand. His fingers brush around yours as he closes them. You retract your reach as he clasps it over the linen. He puts his hand out for the next and again, you hand one over.

“Don’t do it again,” he says as he grabs the next piece of laundry.

“Mr. Marshall, I won’t, but you don’t need to–”

“It’s fine,” he carries on, set on his mission of putting out the drying. “Your father wouldn’t be happy if I let you hurt yourself.”

“Erm, I guess,” you give him another pin.

He’s silent as his blue gray eyes fixate on his chore. He bends to grab more, drapes the cloth over, and takes a pin to secure it in place. You work in wordless rhythm until the basket is empty and the line is full.

“How is he?” He asks.

You put your hands behind you and wring them, “better. Ma says he’ll be home next week.”

He nods and looks at you. He crosses his arms, straining the fabric of his long-sleeved tee. It’s warm out, enough to dampen his shirt with sweat. Still, he doesn't seem to mind.

“If you need anything,” he peers around the fields, “big place for just you and the other one.”

“Oh, Tim? Yeah, we manage.”

He scratches the scruff on his chin and shifts his stance. You’ve never seen him flinch before, never hesitate or doubt, but in that moment, he seems unsure. He clears his throat and drops his hand.

“Well, have a good day,” he bows his head slightly. “Have your brother take down the laundry.”

You look away guiltily, staring at the stool, “you, too, Mr. Marshall.”

He backs away a few steps and you cautiously glance at his boots as he does. He stops and you hold your breath.

“I don’t mind Walt,” he says.

“Right,” your voice flutters, “Walt.”

He twists on his heel and continues across the grass to the trodden road. He follows it down towards the fence. You tear your gaze away and gather up the basket and the stool. You leave them on the porch and sit in the shade as sweat speckles on your forehead.

Your heart is still racing, likely from your near disastrous slip. You think you will have Timothy take down the sheets. You may even convince him to help your fold.

#walter marshall #dark walter marshall #dark!walter marshall #walter marshall x reader #drabble #au #series #the farmer's daughter #backwoods au #night hunter

[kittypup12]

CW: flashing lights

“You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.”

After wondering through backwoods and vacant roads for what felt like days, our wonderer finally comes upon a lonely motel. He snags some keys to one of the rooms and slips out before the clerk can even look up from his… small screen? Tv? He doesn’t know and for now doesn’t care. All he cares about is finally getting some goddamn rest.

The room is a bit dated, but still far above his usual standard of living to say the least. Without even flipping a switch, the bed lamps turn on. He plops himself onto the firm mattress and takes off his tattered outer clothing to give some much needed attention to his old bandaging. He looks at the old suitcase laying on the floor, it’s contents few careless strewn about the cheap shag carpeting. This suitcase ‘for emergencies’ has sat hidden away for so long, most the clothing and supplies are now slightly too small or expired. Suppose that’s what happens when you leave it untouched for almost a literal century. It’s become more of depressing time capsule than of any actual use, considering he was still a boy when he threw this all together.

Finally, he takes a much needed hot shower. God, when is the last time he took an actual shower instead of his usual quick rinse? He opens the lid to a small bottle that he assumes is shampoo and gives his wiry hair a much needed lather. Next he scrubs away the dried blood, ash and rubble. He watches the filth make it’s way down the drain and let the hot water run down his back until it’s ice cold.

He steps out of the shower, wraps a towel around his waist and looks into the mirror. There is so much running through his mind and yet nothing at all. What he feels can’t quite be pinpointed. Exhaustion? Relief? Heaviness? Weightless? Free? Suffocating? He couldn’t tell. “God I look like shit.. no, I look like the shit someone dragged in under their boot,” he thinks to himself. His mind begins to wonder as he looks just past himself in the mirror when he sees it. A flicker of the light and there it was. Her. For a fraction of a second he could have sworn she was there. And then gone in a blink of an eye.

No, it’s just his mind playing tricks on him. He saw her crumble into dust and the ceremony grounds blown to bits. No, its just the weariness setting.

It’s the years, decades, century finally catching up to him. All at once.

Fuck, he’s tired.

#resident evil village #karl heisenberg #re8 #resident evil #fanart #resident evil 8 #karl heisenberg x reader #comic #my art #god this took forever #eyestrian

[lewmagoo]

before the devil comes for you | robert “bob” floyd

chapter two previous chapter | next chapter

summary: the year is 1975. robert floyd is a young reverend haunted by demons from his past. fresh out of seminary, he is led to take up a backwoods church in a small mining town. there, he meets a woman who is in the midst of questioning the very foundation of her faith. as their worlds collide, robert soon finds himself tangled in a web of temptation and lies. with the past he’s spent so long trying to outrun quickly closing in, he is faced with a decision, in which he must either condemn the woman he loves, or turn his back on his faith.

listen to the playlist here

pairing: robert "bob" floyd x oc (fairlight mackall)

warnings: 18+ ONLY, heavy religious themes, slight sexual innuendos, mentions of death, some misogynistic idealism, mentions of parental abuse, gunshot injury (not described in great detail but it's still a a significant part of this chapter), mentions of gun violence, medical emergency. i think that's all? let me know if i missed anything!

Morning dawned upon the mountains of Backforty Gap. And in an old farmhouse on a bountiful plot of land, a young woman was just waking to prepare for the day. 

Fairlight had risen with the sun, and when her eyes opened, a smile graced her features. This was no ordinary day. Her mundane life, the life she was so desperate to escape, had suddenly become very, very interesting. 

And it was all thanks to the young preacher currently residing on her property. 

When her father had informed her of a new reverend by the name of Robert Floyd taking on the church, she hadn’t been all that thrilled, only because she imagined a carbon copy of their previous reverend. 

But then a fresh-faced man who couldn’t have been any older than thirty appeared, eyes hopeful, hands trembling with his eagerness to help this community, and Fairlight’s world was turned in its axis. 

She didn’t know what it was about him that drew her in. He was just magnetizing. A little shy, very clean cut, in both appearance and the way he carried himself, and shrouded in mystery. 

She wanted to know more about him. Where he came from, who he was before he became a man of the cloth. Fairlight had always been particularly skilled at reading people, and when she looked into the pale blue eyes of the preacher, she saw a man running from something. But what it was, she had yet to figure out. 

He was the first thing on her mind as she got up that morning, readying herself for the day. She found herself wanting to impress him. To show him what a good host she was, even here, in the backwoods of a God-forsaken town in the middle of the mountains. 

Surely he was used to city comforts. Coming to a place like this was probably a culture shock. She could only imagine such a thing. She’d lived in Backforty Gap her entire life. It was a place that was frozen in time. While things had certainly changed over the course of her twenty-one years of life, it was still the same impoverished community it always had been. 

She’d been to the city, with her father. She knew how much life differed from the village. The people of this area were incredibly poor. If she had to guess, she might even say it was one of the poorest communities in the entire state. And no one cared. Why would they, after all? A group of backwoods hillbillies were better left out of sight, out of mind. 

The children were hungry. The parents worked their hands to the bone to provide for those children. Many of them lived in squalor. Illness was often prevalent, especially because many of these families had a surplus of children, who spread illness back and forth. 

That was why an outbreak of scarlet fever the year before had deeply affected the community. And before that, many eldest sons had left to fight in Vietnam. It seemed that the community kept dwindling, growing smaller and smaller. Fairlight feared that it would soon cease to exist. And that was part of why she wanted to escape. 

She felt like the walls were closing in on her. Like she was going to be trapped here, destined to be someone’s housewife, to stare into the hungry faces of her children and grapple with the reality that she could not provide for them. She would be forced to depend on her husband for that. And life in these mountains was hard. It could be beautiful, but it could also be cruel and unforgiving. 

She didn’t desire a life in which her husband lost his to the mines. She refused to be a young widow with little ones to care for. 

The first chance she got, she was going to leave this place behind. She would remove herself from the control of her father, and start her own life. 

Montgomery Mackall kept his daughter on a short leash. As the deacon of the church, he expected much from her. She had to attend every church service. She had to participate in ministering to the community. She had to take care of the household. Tend to the cooking, cleaning, sewing. Everything her mother was supposed to be responsible for. 

Opal Mackall had left when Fairlight was only six-years-old. By default, “woman’s work”, as Montgomery called it, fell upon his daughter, even though she was but a small girl. She’d been forced to grow up fast. 

She had forced herself to grin and bear it, doing everything the right way in front of her father. If she disobeyed or committed a grievous sin, she would be in a world of trouble, and would often suffer an onslaught of lashes from his heavy belt. 

However, instead of walking the straight and narrow, she learned to hide things from him, to sneak around behind his back so he would be none the wiser. But it was only a matter of time before she stopped caring. Stopped hiding, stopped playing the part of the good little church mouse. And when that time came, she would leave her father and his iron rule behind, and become the person she’d always dreamed of being. 

Until then, she was trapped in a never-ending limbo, just waiting to take that leap of faith. 

But now, while she waited, she at least had someone interesting to observe. And observe him, she did. While she strolled out to the chicken coop to gather the eggs for the day, she caught sight of the reverend making his way back to his quarters. 

It appeared that he had just bathed in the river nearby. His shirt hung over his body, the front open to expose a flash of milky white skin. His hair was still damp, and curling around the edges, just against his forehead. 

Fairlight found herself staring, unable to take her eyes off his ethereal countenance. But she quickly averted her gaze, burning with shame when she realized what she was doing. It was one thing to lust after a boy from the community. But the preacher? Surely God would curse her to eternal damnation.

But the holy fire she was sure she was going to be struck with never fell, and when she looked up again, he was gone, having slipped into his cabin and shut the door behind him. The flaxen-haired girl let out a soft breath, shaking her head at her own foolishness.

Even still, as she gathered the eggs from the hens, Reverend Floyd remained at the edges of her mind. But she would quickly find that he would take up permanent residence there very soon.

Inside his quarters, Bob had a sneaking suspicion that he was being watched, but he refused to acknowledge it. Refused to look at the beautiful woman whose storm-gray eyes he could not get off his mind. Instead of letting his mind wander, he stepped over to his bed and retrieved his beloved Bible. 

Get thee behind me, Satan.

He read a passage of Proverbs as he got ready for the day, quoting each verse out loud. Then, as he stood in the middle of the room, fully clothed, hair combed, he breathed a prayer to the Almighty, and then, he stepped back outside, ready to join the world.

He checked the time on the pocket watch he always kept on his person. One that had belonged to his grandfather. Six fifty-nine on the dot. Once he made it to the main house, he would be right on time for breakfast. 

He hummed the tune of Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing as he walked. It was one of his favorite hymns, one which he planned to sing with the congregation of Backforty Church when he met with them for the first time on Sunday morning.

Inside the house, Fairlight was just finishing breakfast preparations for the morning, and she couldn’t help but take pause when she heard the sound of melodic humming carrying in through the open window. 

Moments later, a knock could be heard at the door. “It’s open!” She called out as she set a basket of homemade bread down on the table.

Reverend Floyd stepped into the house, offering her a kind smile. “Mornin’, Miss Mackall,” he greeted her.

She mirrored his smile. “It’s Fairlight, remember?”

He nodded, eyes twinkling with something she couldn’t quite place. Before another word could be exchanged between the pair, the screen door squeaked open again, and in walked Mont. Fairlight faded into the background as her father walked into the room, his boots scraping against the unfinished wooden flooring. 

“Reverend,” he greeted Bob, reaching out to shake his hand.

Bob nodded. “Morning.”

The older man motioned toward the table, and Bob moved to step toward an open chair, allowing Fairlight to take a seat first before he sat down. Then, he caught Mont looking at him expectantly. “Mind sayin’ grace?”

Bob bowed his head and evenly spoke, “Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord. Amen.”

“Amen,” both Mont and his daughter echoed.

Breakfast was served, and Bob couldn’t help but feel a bit like he was intruding. This was their home, after all. And he was but a stranger in it. But Mont soon pulled him into a conversation, and he didn’t have a chance to dwell on it much longer. 

“So, Reverend. Now that you’re settled ‘n all, I wanted to ask ya. Most of my livelihood comes from the woodworking I do. Haven’t had time to get any orders done because I’ve been so busy running the church. Now that you’re here, I was wondering. You any good with carpentry?”

Bob got the sense as to where this was going. “I’ve worked in carpentry, yes. Why?”

“Would you be obliged to help with some of the projects? When you aren’t busy ministering and studying sermons, and all.”

Bob could see a weariness in the man’s eyes, manifesting itself in the deepening lines on his face. He couldn’t have been much older than fifty, but years of hard work and the stressors of life had aged him. The young preacher nodded, figuring Mont desperately needed the help. “I’d be happy to help. I wanna earn my keep, after all. Just let me know what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.”

That seemed to satisfy the man, and the conversation shifted to other things. As they spoke, Bob couldn’t help but notice the way Fairlight remained quiet as a mouse, hardly contributing anything but a smile or nod here and there. He got the sense that she felt left out, so he made a move to include her.

“So, have you lived in Backforty Gap your entire life, Fairlight?” He asked, voice gentle.

Her eyes flickered to his, and she found him looking at her with such kindness and interest that it took her breath away. She only person who was ever that interested in what she had to say was her best friend, Zinnia Allen.

But just as the pale-haired girl opened her mouth to speak, her father interjected. “She was born and raised here,” he said. 

Bob tried to hide the frown that creased his brow. Before he could attempt to redirect the conversation to her, so she could answer for herself, Mont continued. 

“She was born in this very house, actually.” The man’s face grew serious, and he leaned over the table, elbows resting against the wood. “Her momma died givin’ birth to her, so it’s just been me and Fairlight all these years.”

Bob jumped slightly at the sudden sound of metal clattering loudly against a plate. When he glanced at Fairlight, her gray eyes had gone dark as an approaching summer storm. She was looking directly at her father, fury clear on her features, but she said nothing. Instead, she pushed her chair away from the table and rushed out of the room, the screen door slamming behind her.

Montgomery sighed, shaking his head. “It’s a sore subject for her. We don’t talk about it much.”

But the preacher got the sense that there was much more than met the eye. He let his eyes settle on Mont, regarding him silently. He was lying about something, that much was certain. But it wasn’t Bob’s business to stick his nose into. So he simply left it as it was, and let Mont change the subject.

During the rest of breakfast, they spoke of the church, and Mont warned him that the congregation might be difficult to minister to. But the entire time, Bob’s mind drifted to the girl that had stormed out of the house, and he wondered why she’d done so. The venom in her eyes had not been something he’d been expecting from someone as kind as her.

When breakfast was finally over, he eagerly stood, making his way back out into the sun-warmed morning. When he stepped onto the porch, he was surprised to find Fairlight sitting on an old, wooden rocking chair that stood in the corner of the porch.

He hesitated, unsure if he should say anything. Finally, he settled on, “are you alright?”

She managed a smile despite herself. “I’ll be fine,” she replied, waving her hand dismissively. 

Bob opened his mouth again, wanting to say more. But what could he say? He took a tentative step forward, hoping to offer comforting words from the Good Book. However, he was barely able to take the breath needed to utter those words before a desperate shout ripped across the property.

His head whipped in the direction of the sound, and beside him, Fairlight quickly rose from her seat. A young boy was sprinting up the Mackall property, waving his arms and screaming at the top of his lungs. 

“That’s Will Allen,” Fairlight gasped. She hurriedly pushed past Bob, shouting for her father as she went. “Daddy! Something’s wrong!” 

She was already scrambling down the porch steps, and Bob followed at her heels, unsure of what was taking place, but willing to help in any way. Fairlight ran like the wind, hair flying behind her as she caught up to the boy.

The young one, who couldn’t have been more than eight years old, threw himself into her arms, wailing uncontrollably, hyperventilating as he fought to catch his breath. Fairlight stepped back, holding him at arm’s length.

She bent forward so she was at eye level with the boy. “Will, I’m right here, honey. Slow deep breaths, in and out. Come on, just like that.”

Bob watched as she miraculously settled the boy down enough to speak coherent words. His heaving gasps calmed, and his sobs slowed. Her gentle hands cupped his cheeks, thumbs wiping at his tear tracks.

“What happened?” She asked.

“My daddy! He’s hurt real bad! Gun went off an’ he’s bleedin’!”

At that moment, Mont caught up to them. His daughter whirled around to face him. “Jed’s been shot,” was all she had to say. 

He nodded firmly. “Get to the truck.” 

Fairlight grabbed Will’s hand, motioning for Bob to follow as she ran after her father to the rickety pickup sitting in the front yard. The reverend was reeling, his body buzzing with a sudden rush of adrenaline. Before he even realized what was happening, he was seated in the bed of the truck beside Fairlight, while young Will sat up front with Mont, describing to him where Jed was. 

“Jed is my best friend’s father,” Bob heard Fairlight speak beside him, her voice wavering.

“Did someone shoot him?” 

“I-it’s hard to say. Jed is a hunter, it could’ve just been an accident.” But, it also could have been intentional. She didn’t add that, however. She wouldn’t jump to conclusions until she knew what had happened. There were certain members of the community who were prone to violence, and she wouldn’t be surprised if one of them, namely Hawk Neiman, had been the one to shoot Jeb.

Russell “Hawk” Neiman was well known in Backforty Gap for being the best shot in the area. It was where he got the nickname Hawk. His eyes never missed a shot. He usually kept his gun use limited to hunting, but pair his alcoholic tendencies with a loaded gun, and there was no telling what he’d do.

But now was no time for pointing fingers. Jed needed help, and he needed it now. The nearest hospital was forty minutes out, and most of the people in the community didn’t trust hospitals as it was, so trying to get him there would be fighting a losing battle. It was best to get him to the doctor’s house instead.

The entire ride, all Fairlight could think about was Zinnia, Jed’s daughter. The two girls had been friends since they could remember. Although their friendship had dwindled as they grew into adulthood, and now with Zinnia engaged to be married, Fairlight still cared about her well-being, and she could only imagine how upset the girl would be about her father. Jed and Zinnia had a close bond. One that Fairlight had always envied.

Beside her, as the old truck rattled down the unkempt country roads, Robert Floyd’s own mind was spinning. He’d been in Backforty Gap all of one day, and he’d already been thrust into a life-or-death situation. What had he gotten himself into? And what more awaited him?

He had no time to dwell on it, for all too soon, the truck skidded to a halt. As Mont climbed out of the truck, Bob scrambled to jump out of the truck bed, turning without thinking to reach up and catch Fairlight, gently lowering her to the ground.

Young Will ran up ahead, and the trio followed, until they came to the riverbank, where Jed Allen lay at the water’s edge, the water around him tinged red from the blood that had soaked through his clothes.

“How’d this happen, boy?” Mont asked Will as he knelt beside Jed.

Will’s bottom lip quivered, his bright green eyes filling with tears. “I tripped on the…the gun. It went off and it hit him.” 

So it had been an accident. 

“It’s okay, honey. It was an accident,” Fairlight assured the boy, pulling him into her side. He immediately began to sob, burying his face against the fabric of her dress.

“Help me out, Preacher,” Mont spoke up, and Bob sprang into action, stepping forward to help Mont lift the man off the ground.

Grunting laboriously, both of them managed to carry the man back to the truck, lifting him into the bed with much effort. Once again, Mont jumped into the driver’s seat, with Will climbing into the truck bed this time, pressing himself against Fairlight as he cried, terrified of what would become of his father. 

The girl held him tightly, soothing his cries as she watched Bob, who desperately pressed his hands against the man’s wound, trying to slow the bleeding. The shot had hit him in the lower abdomen, and there was no telling how deep it was. 

Pale blue met stormy gray, and the pair held each other’s gaze. Bob’s full of uncertainty, and Fairlight’s full of fear. What would become of this man? Bob spoke a silent prayer to the Lord that he would pull through, if only for the sake of the young boy weeping across from him.

Suddenly, the truck jerked to a halt. Bob looked up

to find that they’d stopped outside a modestly sized cabin, nestled in a grove of trees. Mont jumped out of the truck, boots crunching against gravel as he ran around to open the bed. 

Wordlessly, Bob helped him drag Jed out, and he followed the older man’s lead as he moved toward the cabin. 

“Doc!” Mont shouted. “Doc, we need help!”

Moments later, the door swung open and out stepped an older, blonde-haired man. Doctor Quinton McHone, to be exact. When he saw what was taking place, he sprung into action without a moment of hesitation. 

“Talk to me, Mont!” He instructed as he reached the men. 

“Gun went off, shot him in the belly,” Mont grunted. 

“Alright, get ‘im inside and up on the table.”

Bob followed the two men’s lead, managing to get Jed into the cabin. There was a large, empty table in the middle of the room, and they heaved him up onto the surface. 

Bob stumbled back, gasping heavily for breath, realizing just how exerted he was from the ordeal. His chest heaved beneath the cotton of his shirt, and he reached up, running the back of his hand over his damp brow. 

“Livy and the kids know about this?” Doc McHone asked, already moving to roll his shirt sleeves up his brawny arms. 

“Will knows, he’s the one who came and got us. I’ll take the truck over and pick up Livy and the rest of ‘em,” Mont quickly responded, already clambering toward the door. 

Bob watched him leave, and just outside the door, he noticed Fairlight, who kept Will on the porch, soothing him gently as he sniffled and cried. But the reverend was soon interrupted by the gruff voice of Quinton McHone.

“You the new preacher?” He asked.

Bob met his sharp gaze. “I am.”

“Your God still perform miracles?”

The young man nodded. “He is.”

“Good, ‘cause this man’s gonna need one.” Then, he motioned Bob closer as he moved to unbutton Jed’s shirt. “Help me with him.”

Bob sprang forward to assist with whatever the doctor needed. He could scarcely believe that this was actually happening before his very eyes. His hands shook with a tremor he could not control, and he fought to remain calm. In the city, this would be an easy fix. But out here, in this seemingly Godforsaken cove? This was life or death. If the doctor didn’t act fast, Jed Allen would die.

Before his mind had a chance to spiral, the sound of Mont’s truck approaching caught his attention, and moments later, the sound of rushed footsteps. A woman burst into the cabin, dark hair wild around her head. When her gaze fell upon the man sprawled out on the table, a sob ripped from her throat, and she rushed to his side.

“Jed! Oh, Jed!” She wailed. 

“I’m going to do everythin’ I can, Livy,” Quinton assured her, stepping around the table to gently pull her away from her husband.

The frightened faces of four other children, and a young woman, remained in the doorway. The youngest child couldn’t have been much older than five. The young woman stepped into the cabin, her eyes hard set on the doctor.

“You can save him, right? Please tell me you can,” she said, as she reached out and guided her mother out of the man’s arms. 

“Like I told your momma, I’m gonna do what I can. I need you to keep her calm, and keep her out of the way so I can work. Can you do that f’ me, Zinnia?”

She nodded, holding her mother close as the woman sobbed. “I can. But you better save him. We…we can’t get on without him.”

In an instant, Livy Allen pulled away from her daughter, suddenly realizing the presence of a stranger in the room. She pointed her finger at the reverend, her hazel eyes wide with a wildness he’d only seen in the eyes of a caged animal.

“You. Yo-you’re him, ain’t you? The preacher?!”

Bob took a cautious step toward her, reaching a hand out, prepared to offer her comfort. She grabbed his arm in a death grip, her nails digging into his skin, even through the fabric of his shirt. “Say a prayer for him. You have to! I can’t lose my husband! I already lost my boy to the war! I can’t lose Jed, too!”

“Momma, let go,” Zinnia gently coaxed, trying to pry her away from the reverend. But Bob held his free hand up, signaling for her to wait, before he placed that same hand over Livy’s. He looked into the woman’s eyes, and at that moment, he fully realized the weight of responsibility that sat upon his shoulders.

What he said and did in these next few moments would shape the way these people saw him. It could either make or break his chance to have an impact on this community. He needed to garner the people’s trust if he was going to be any good to them at all.

He took a deep breath, nodding his head. “I will, dear sister. I will.”

Then he pulled the woman into his chest, holding her close, and he bowed his head. He prayed over her, asking the Almighty to bring her husband out of the valley of the shadow of death, to guide the doctor’s hands as he worked, and to give peace to her and her children.

When he breathed Amen, Livy had calmed considerably, and she pulled back to look up at the young preacher. “Thank you,” she whispered. 

The spell was broken by Doctor McHone, who began barking orders as he prepared to tend to Jed. “If you can’t be of any help, clear the room!” He called. Then, he pointed a thick finger toward Bob and Mont. “You two, I need you both to hold him down.”

Bob hesitated, realizing that this was actually happening. It wasn’t an action scene from a film, or a tense chapter from a book. This was happening in real-time, and he had a decision to make. 

His legs were moving before he even realized they were. He took his position at the top of the table, near Jed’s head, while Mont held onto his legs. 

Bob watched the doctor intently, gaze following his every move. Everything else faded into the background. Jeb’s crying wife. His whimpering children. 

Quinton set to work immediately, and as he prepared the area to extract the bullet, an all too familiar sensation came to life in Bob’s shoulder. An uncomfortable burning, a bone-deep ache. A pain he had not felt in a long time. 

His mind drifted back to a time of his life that he’d tried so hard to forget. A moment in which his own foolishness had resulted in a bullet to the shoulder. A bullet that had been meant for his chest. Meant to take his life.

A strange sensation came over him then. A tightening in his chest. A residual tingle in his outer extremities. And as Doctor McHone began the process of extracting the bullet, and as Bob held down a thrashing, groaning man, he thought he was going to pass out. 

Not from the sight of blood, nor from the intensity of the situation. But from a memory that he’d tried to keep buried in the depths of his mind. 

He almost allowed himself to succumb to it, but managed to pull himself back into the moment. He’d be of no help if he was passed out cold on the floor. And it certainly wouldn’t do to have the reverend fainting during a moment when he was meant to be a pillar of strength and hope. 

Much to his relief, Bob remained steady while the doctor worked, and the very second the procedure was finished, he stumbled back, not even waiting to hear the verdict of whether or not Jed would be okay. Instead, he turned to rush out of the cabin for a breath of much needed fresh air. 

He made it out to the porch, taking in ragged lungfuls of mountain air as he went. His hands rested upon the porch banister. His eyes remained closed. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t cut out for this. Coming here was a mistake. 

Stop. Take a deep breath. Don’t let yourself panic. One breath in. Hold. One breath out. One breath in. Hold. One breath out. 

He repeated this a few times, until he finally allowed himself to open his eyes and come back to the present. As he did so, he heard the sound of voices beside him. Or, namely, a singular voice, clear and sweet. 

He turned, only to find Fairlight seated on the floor of the porch, surrounded by Jed’s children. As Bob began to calm down, he watched her comfort each and every one of those children. One arm was wrapped around young Will. The other around Zinnia, the eldest. The rest of the children were huddled close, listening as she softly sang a mountain melody to them, providing a welcome distraction from the sounds of distress and pain their father made. 

“The cuckoo, she’s pretty,

She sings as she flies;

She bringeth good tidings,

She telleth no lies.

She sucketh white flowers

For to keep her voice clear.

And although she sings ‘cuckoo’, 

The summer draws near…”

Bob stood there on that porch, in the middle of Appalachia, surrounded by trees and mountains and unfamiliar terrain, and he watched this young woman, who he’d only just met, calm an entire group of frightened children with just her voice. 

He marveled at such a thing. But he also found that it had calmed him, too. His spiraling thoughts had been reduced to a quiet hum in his mind. That tightness in his chest was gone. The burning in his shoulder had ceased. 

A moment of peace in an otherwise grim and uncertain situation. A sign from the Almighty  that life wasn’t all bad. There was beauty to be found even in the ugliest of moments. 

And somehow, he knew, as he gazed upon the flaxen-haired girl, that it was all going to be okay. He was cut out for this job. No matter how difficult or gruesome it was. He’d been placed here for a purpose. And he was going to fulfill that purpose. 

Reverend Floyd had been called to care for the people of Backforty Gap. And that was exactly what he was going to do.

previous chapter | next chapter

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taglist:

@rhettabbotts @roostersrooster @buckymcu12 @dissonannce @bigassnocash @bxbygvrllll @vintagemulti @nobody7102 @whisperofsong @benhardysdrumstick @burnerbitchh @callsignunsung @topgunmaddie @cherrycola27 @hangmandruigandmav @angelbabyange @moonyscardigans @wh0re4ficti0nalm3n @opalthebae @petlaufeyson @pr3ttyboysmakemecry @poisonjinkxmay @bimbeeno @beyondthesefourwalls

@magentamistress @eighthwvnder @edensbuttercups @lenafromthenordiccoven @dojacatmarryme @breezy14fan @bradshawseresinbabe @paigewinchester67 @lunamooncole @citrusrising @flashyourgreeneyesatme @lenaandcalliope @withahappyrefrain @h0neyfire @shantellescrivener @itsmemy-dudes @phoenixssugarbaby @morgang-the-mage @bradshawsbitch @thedroneranger @glodessa @milesmillergf @notyoursbutlewis @hangmanapologist

#bob floyd x oc #bob floyd fanfiction #robert floyd fanfiction #robert floyd x oc #before the devil comes for you

[moonlightdistractions]

Seeing photos of abandoned motels in the USA made me have a what if moment. What if Sam and Dean inherited a motel instead of the bunker. Maybe it was Bobby's or even a long lost inheritance from the Winchesters, called something like the Hunter's Cabins Motel.

Anyways, so instead of the whole "men of letters" legacy, theirs is a motel. Of course this motel holds secrets, maybe even a secret underground bunker but a normal sized one that's not magicked. There's lots of lore to be found here, books, weapons, history. So the boys figure hey why not fix this joint up and put the word out. Slowly but surely it becomes a hybrid of The Roadhouse and Bobby's, but with rooms to rent to the Hunter community (or rooms to use as emergency medical services).

The domesticity would be off the rails! Obviously Sam and Dean would have a wee apartment attached to the motel that they live in. Maybe only one bedroom because it's usually run by couples. That's okay, they're used to it. Dean takes over decorating, he likes to make the space homey but with added touches of guns and swords and a beer fridge. Sam creates a tiny library nook in the corner of the living room, which Dean likes to make fun of but Sam knows Dean watches him with a look of something soft.

They obviously end up expanding, opening a small breakfast cafe and it ends up being another form of refuge for Hunters and the marginalized monsters (those that are not inherently evil, just stuck with being a supernatural being). I figure Sam and Dean would grow into gray and thinning hair, being bespectacled, having arthritis, but otherwise sharp and fit. They'd retire quietly, letting the next generation they've been teaching to take over. They'd end up away from civilization, away from Hunting, and just grow older together knowing some semblance of peace before either they die of natural causes or probably fighting a possessed bear in the backwoods. They die together.

#i mean there's a whole lot that can be put into this au including attenpts at relationships with women that fail miserably #because codependent brothers who are soulmates are not easy to date independently #(one woman is smart enough to date both together but realizes three really is a crowd with them) #sam and dean #i didn't check for grammar - wrote this on the fly hope it makes sense #domestic brothers #samdean #motel au #my words #my writing

[spahhzy]

Breakout-Roman

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Even a master thief can slip up. Luckily, he's got a right hand and a 'Do-Gooder' to help him out.

-

Jaune: (exhales) Sheesh, that was quite the workout Pyr.

Pyrrha giggles.

Pyrrha: Well, you don't get to be good by babying it.

Jaune chuckled: I'll say.

Pyrrha blushed as she bit her lip.

Pyrrha: Jaune, uh...if you're not doing anything this weekend, maybe we could-

The sudden buzzing of Jaune's scroll came stopping Pyrrha from what she wanted to say.

Jaune grabbed his scroll and looked at it.

Gremlin: Emergency! Come to Juniors!

Jaune: Sorry, Pyr, let me take this text for one second okay?

Jaune: What's going on, Neo? What's the emergency?

Gremlin(Neo): Roman got caught, and is in jail.

Jaune: What!? Where!?

Gremlin: Some backwoods County jail, they haven't run any names yet, but if they do...

Jaune: Vale will come swooping down like a bat outta hell.

Gremlin(Neo): Yeah... I have a plan to bust him out...

Jaune: Does this plan include murder?

Gremlin(Neo): ...nooooo.

Jaune: Baaaaaabe, no murder. Look, if it's a small backwoods place, I have an idea.

Gremlin(Neo): Fine...let's hurry up!

Jaune: Be their in 30mins.

Disassociate himself from his scroll he looked at Pyrrha, who raised an eyebrow.

Jaune: Sorry, Pyrrha, something just came up, and I gotta step out for awhile, tell the gang I'll be back in awhile.

With that, Jaune bolted away, much to Pyrrha dismay.

~

'Backwoods County Jail'

Roman:

Roman: Of all the times to get caught...and over some liquor no less.

Guard: Hey, buddy? Why do you wear all that makeup?

Roman kept silent.

Gaurd: What were you going to do with all that liquor any how?

Roman remained silent.

Guard: You city folk are all so stuck up, and thinking your above the law and such. Well, look at ya now. Once we figure out who you are, we can begin trial.

Roman remained quiet, looking rather bored.

Guard: Alright, Larry, I'm about to head out for the night, Keep watch of the prisoner until the next guard comes.

Guard two nodded as Guard one nodded his head and opened the door only to see a thin blade pointed at his throat with the wielder clad in a black ski mask and black attire.

Guard two jumped up alarmed and tried to reach for his gun, but was stopped when another taller person all dressed in black had already pointed a gun at guard two.

Roman smirked, already knowing who was here.

Neo and Jaune.

Jaune: Now, if you would kindly?

Jaune motioned to the locked cell door, scared for his life guard two, took out the keys, and unlocked Roman's cell door.

Roman: Thank you fine, gentleman.

Roman said as he knocked out Gaurd 2, as Neo knocked out guard 1.

The trio quickly leaves out the main door where a black car and motorcycle waited for them.

Jaune: losing your edge, Old man.

Roman: I allowed it to happen. I wanted to see what you'd do.

Jaune: Suuuuuuuuure.

Jaune got on the bike.

Jaune: Best you and Neo go one way I'll go another.

Roman nodded, but Neo had other plans.

Neo mounted on the back of Jaune,s motorcycle, much to Jaune's surprise.

Jaune: Neo?

Roman smirked: Thanks you two, food on me tonight, but go on get outta here.

The car drove away, and Neo put on the spare helmet before hugging Jaune's back tighter,

Jaune blushed but was happy nonetheless as he started the bike and left before anymore cops could arrive.

#jaune arc #neopolitian (rwby) #rwby silent knight #roman torchwick #rwby pyrrha

[tllgrrl]

Ain’t Misbehavin’ by @btwxsixesandsevens

James “Bucky” Barnes/Sarah Wilson, Original Character | Rating: SFW

Summary: It is Back-to-School season! Dad!Bucky is working on making a friend, which Sarah fully supports. But who is his new friend Perry? And what do these two get up to on a Tuesday night after work?

* * * * * * *

The only thing other than rain that brightened this Monday morning was rereading this favorite story where Sarah encourages Bucky to make a new friend, and an emergency phone call turns wings & beers with a vet (former soldier, now animal doctor ) into a nighttime backwoods adventure in the Louisiana backwoods swamps.

🦾🐊

#bucky barnes #sarah wilson #original characters #cass & aj wilson #sarah wilson x bucky barnes #sarahbucky fanfiction #with original character #monday reblogging is a thing

[boscoebros]

The Charm of Northern Exposure, Summed Up in 10 Episodes

Plucking out individual best episodes of Northern Exposure is like ranking individual cups pulled from the same expertly spiked punch. It’s not impossible to do, it just feels not in the spirit of the gift you’ve been given or the eccentrically twinkling host who’s presented it to you.

Of course, Northern Exposure, the tale of petulant young New York Jewish doctor Joel Fleischman (Rob Morrow) sent against his will to the beyond-tiny town of Cicely, Alaska as payment for his med school debts, has its odd sour draught or two during its six-seasons.

Quirk can turn twee with just a single wrong step. From the start, the series, created by St. Elsewhere vets Joshua Brand and John Falsey (with executive production help by future Sopranos don David Chase) presented unsuspecting CBS viewers with a much headier and more ambitious formula than its fish-out-of-water premise suggested. That degree of difficulty, which only increased in each of the series’s six seasons, meant taking big creative swings.

The town of Cicely was quickly established as a haven for eccentrics of all stripes, from frostbitten locals with colorful backwoods backstories to transplants in various stages of flight; from old lives too fraught or too comfortably suburban for their liking, to the region’s Native population, whose culture and individuality were allowed far more complexity than on any American TV show at the time.

Installed in a crumbling storefront office with a largely monosyllabic Native receptionist named Marilyn Whirlwind (stealth series MVP Elaine Miles), the constantly kvetching Joel immediately began sparring with Maggie O’Connell (Janine Turner), the equally combative bush pilot (and Joel’s unimpressed landlord) in the sort of will-they/won’t-they relationship that, like Joel’s predicament, gradually receded in favor of fleshing out the series’s roster of singular figures.

Roaring over the town was Barry Corbin’s barrel-chested Maurice Minnifield, a former Oklahoma astronaut, millionaire, and bona fide American man’s man drawn to the untamed tundra as blank slate for his singular vision of an “Alaskan Riviera” hewn in his own stubborn image. Greeting the irascible Joel were everyone from a legendary sexagenarian animal trapper turned (mostly) pacifist barkeep, Holling Vincoeur (John Cullum) and his spacey but worldly 18-year-old former beauty pageant girlfriend Shelley (Cynthia Geary); aged and resolutely sensible town shopkeep, postmistress, and all-purpose town official Ruth-Anne (Peg Phillips); philosophizing ex-con turned all-day radio DJ Chris (John Corbett); and perpetually amiable half-Indian teen and aspiring filmmaker Ed Chigliak (Darren E. Burrows).

As the series progressed, Joel’s predicament persisted (he’d essentially been dragooned into Cicely by Maurice over his expected post in an Anchorage hospital) but sank back into ensemble status, with each character in turn bobbing up to take the show’s delightfully unpredictable center stage. (Whether due to his diminished role or contract disputes, Morrow chafed in his first series lead, eventually leaving partway through the sixth and final season.)

New oddballs emerged to fill out Cicely’s ranks: Adam Arkin’s mysteriously obnoxious master chef/mountain man Adam and his heiress hypochondriac wife Eve (Valerie Mahaffey), Anthony Edward’s bubble-bound lawyer Mike Monroe, fled to Alaska ahead of encroaching environmental allergies, Graham Greene’s Native medicine man and artist Leonard, Richard Cummings’ Bernard, revealed as Chris’ long lost Black half brother, and sharing the pair’s preternatural psychic bond.

Throughout it all, Falsey and Brand steered Northern Exposure according to their own set of wide-open, anything goes constellations. Dream sequences, strange local traditions and superstitions (Maggie’s old lovers have all died in unusual circumstances), singular personal obsessions and quests — anything could happen in Cicely. And, with astounding reliability, the results were as warm, weird, and welcoming as the people of Cicely themselves.

With the series at long last available to stream (all six seasons are on Prime Video), we’ve put together a list of 10 favorite episodes drawn from Northern Exposure’s heady brew of comedy, drama, and enduring whimsy, in broadcast order. Drink up.

"Aurora Borealis: A Fairy Tale for Big People" (Season 1, Episode 8)

By the time this first season finale aired, it was already crystal clear that Cicely didn’t need any outside help in the strangeness department. That doesn’t stop a massive full moon and the appearance of the shimmering-with-portent northern lights from putting a double-whammy on the town’s inhabitants. Some can’t sleep, others are drawn on mysterious walkabouts, and a confused, citified accountant from Portland shows up on a brand new Harley and immediately latches onto Chris’ barroom talk of the collective unconscious, with the mismatched pair gradually realizing that they share the same absent father.Northern Exposure tosses a lot into each episode’s hearty stew, and this was one of the first episodes to find the perfect balance of soulfulness, incident, and knockabout comedy.

"The Big Kiss" (Season 2, Episode 2)

Darren E. Burrows (son of perennial B-movie bad guy Billy Drago) is Cicely’s most endearing figure as Ed Chigliak, a patiently unassuming and guileless presence whose clouded backstory as a half-Native, half-white foundling the would-be Scorsese accepts from his tribal elders with typical resignation. At least until a 256-year-old Native spirit guide named One Who Waits (legendary character actor Floyd Red Crow Westerman) appears to no one but him and tells Ed he might just have a bead on the identities of Ed’s parents.

It’s to Northern Exposure’s credit that we can accept the reality of the delightfully deadpan One Who Waits, or not. But Ed’s ultimately fruitless journey is as resonant either way, his rapport with the old ghost registering in Burrows’ performance with aching sincerity and sweetness. One Who Waits would return in Season 4, and Westerman is always a gift, but that episode’s more concrete conclusion to Ed’s story pales next to the lovely ambiguity of his roadside encounter with a friendly older Native man in “The Big Kiss.”

"War and Peace" (Season 2, Episode 6)

While Northern Exposure would stretch its woozy reality in all manner of ways throughout its run, it never did so as straightforwardly or delightfully than in this tale of a famed Russian singer Nikolai Ivanovich Appollanov (Elya Baskin) whose intermittent appearances in Cicely are greeted with delight by everyone — except the Cold War patriotic Maurice. Challenged to renew their one-sided chess rivalry, perennial loser Maurice accuses the gentlemanly Russian of cheating, leading to a duel where the series’s typical spell of whimsical benevolence seems headed for inevitable, bloody disaster. Meanwhile, Ed’s first love with a randy preacher’s daughter sees the heartstruck teen turning to ladies man Chris for some Cyrano-style flowery prose, with similarly doomed results.

That both stories turn out unexpectedly more or less okay is a relief, although Ed’s heartbroken confrontation with the contrite and more worldly Chris is about as emotionally rough as Ed gets. The series decided not to spoil things, a decision that was as cheeky as it was refreshingly necessary to a viewing public mired in coverage of another needless overseas war.

"A-Hunting We Will Go" (Season 3, Episode 8)

Northern Exposure’s ostensible lead was one the series’ least successful elements, oddly. Joel’s incessant complaining about his plight might have been understandable, but Morrow struggled with the show’s often inconsistent treatment of the New Yorker’s wavering integration into Cicely’s mix. (The number of times Joel’s episode-ending epiphanies plop him right back into crabapple first position for the next are too numerous to list.) Still, when the show gets the ultra-rational Joel right, it really gets him right, as in this outing where the city boy feels duty-bound to test out his visceral revulsion against the locals’ offhand love of hunting.

Joel goes on the offensive about the “barbaric” bloodsport, only to accept Maggie’s challenge that, without experiencing the phenomenon himself, he’s just blowing hot air. Joining veteran hunters Holling and Chris on a grouse hunt brings Joel unexpected (and long-winded) elation—and then a huge comedown when he comes across the wounded bird he’d only managed to wing. Themes permeate the best Northern Exposure episodes in the slyest of ways. As Joel desperately tries to heal his victim, Ed becomes similarly protective of Ruth-Anne upon learning of her recent 75th birthday. IN the end, both men resign themselves to death’s looming and necessary presence in their own way, with Joel confiding to Maggie how death and killing are two very different things and Ed’s surprise gift to Ruth-Anne seeing the two literally dancing on her grave.

"Burning Down the House" (Season 3, Episode 14)

Opposing forces meet more often than Cicely’s benign exterior suggests, with this third-season installment proving that a community packed with dreamers will occasionally spit out some darker fancies.

When Chris builds a catapult in order to “fling” a live cow in order to create what he terms a “perfect moment,” only Joel objects, the rest of Cicely regarding the stunt with idle curiosity. (After all, as Marilyn states, they’re going to eat the cow.) Throughout the series, this undercurrent of eccentricity edging into rustic anarchy runs through Cicely—it’s like they’re one rough winter away from stuffing Joel into a wicker man. Here, the unfortunate cow is only saved via an artistic quandary, not a moral one, as Ed accidentally reveals how the whole cow-flinging concept has been done in one particular movie. Chris adjusts to a less-lethal concept, with the resulting fling filling the assembled townsfolk (and viewers) with suitably collective awe.

“Three Amigos” (Season 3, Episode 16)

The bond between former astronaut and American hero Maurice Minnifield and legendary game hunter Holling Vincoeur gets the rough and tumble outdoor adventure tale it deserves in this episode where the two old friends and romantic rivals strike out into the wilderness to fulfill the last wish of an old friend. Pros Barry Corbin and John Cullum had career-best roles on Northern Exposure, and they’re never better than here, as the two aging tough guys brave impossible weather and their own aging bodies to bury wild Bill Haney, their longtime drinking, hunting, and brawling buddy at the legendarily treacherous No-Name Point.

Portrayed often as two distinct but similar examples of a dying breed of masculinity, both men ultimately have to concede that dying for your word might not be all it's cracked up to be, especially for two old men with warm beds and, in Holling’s case, Shelly to return to. Willie Nelson on the soundtrack singing “Hands on the Wheel” over scenes the boys’ game attempts to honor an old promise signals an elegiac farewell to an old way of life.

"Cicely" (Season 3, Episode 23)

With its season order expanded after two short first go-rounds, Season 3 gave Northern Exposure even more territory to explore stylistically. A flashback episode might not sound groundbreaking, but this tale of the founding of Cicely reframes everything we thought we knew about Alaska’s most eccentric town, all while lending unexpected insight into its denizens, all of whom pop up in different roles in the reminiscences of a 108-year-old man (veteran actor Roberts Blossom) who Joel accidentally hits with his pickup.

Brought to Joel’s cabin for treatment, the old man spins a yarn about the town’s eventual founders, a pair of lesbian free-thinkers named Jo and Cicely (Jo Anderson and Yvonne Suhor) who fled polite Montana society to create a matriarchal utopia right in the dangerously lawless heart of untamed Alaska. The story of the rough-and-tumble Jo and the delicate Cicely plays out with the tragic heroism of two such forward-thinking (gay, female) dreamers. The town is turned around and only a stray bullet (and some “kill your gays” TV tradition) prevents a completely happy ending. Still, as Joel drops the old man at the graveyard where he’s come to honor Cicely’s 100th birthday, Cicely, Alaska comes that much further into focus.

"Thanksgiving" (Season 4, Episode 8)

The Native population of Northern Exposure is an integral part of the show’s melting pot of oddballs, but this eventful episode adds a needed dose of spice surrounding the outwardly ordinary Indian citizens’ existence in a colonized America. Walking to work, Joel is ambushed with a tomato hurled by the friendly Ed, introducing the yearly tradition by which Cicely’s native population takes out centuries of otherwise sublimated anger and resentment in a symbolically messy assault on the town’s white people.

While the rest of Cicely’s white folks uncomplainingly accept this once a year pelting, Joel complains to Marilyn that his status as a perpetually oppressed Jew should exempt him from the Native’s wrath. It’s when he sinks into an even more miserable than usual depression upon being informed that his intended four-year sentence as Cicely’s general practitioner has been (thanks to inflation) upped another year that Marilyn finally recognizes Joel’s kinship with the town’s Natives.

Listening to the bereft and unshaven doctor’s fetal position lament about his complete and utter lack of hope, Marilyn tells Joel he can now march in the Native’s day of the dead parade. “You’re not white anymore,” coming from the no-bullshit Marilyn, lands with unexpected force on Joel, and us. The people of Cicely, in their insularity, are free to process generations of racial and personal trauma in their own unique manner, and as the whole town, Indian and white, gathers at The Brick for a sumptuous post-parade Thanksgiving feast, Joel is free to complain to the face-painted Ed about his own misfortune in strangely liberating kinship.

"Mister Sandman" (Season 5, Episode 12)

The northern lights are back and everyone’s having each other’s dreams. What sounds like a high-concept lark turns typically thought-provoking and stubbornly resonant, as Maggie jumps into Holling’s revelatory dreams about his horrible, abusive father, Joel sleepwalks into Ruth-Anne’s store with a little boy’s thwarted dreams about bottomless candy, and Maurice becomes incensed when one of a pair of gay B&B proprietors (Doug Ballard’s Ron) discovers Maurice’s secret dreams involving women’s shoes.

There’s plenty to unpack, as with most dreams, and there are laughs aplenty around the margins. But it’s in the townsfolk’s variously grudging willingness to accept that their unpredictable home has yet another metaphysical trick up its sleeve that “Mister Sandman” achieves surprising depth. Holling has long decried his French-Canadian lineage’s legacy of awful behavior, here evincing a revulsion to food tied both to Shelly’s pregnancy and his repressed memories of his mother and father. And Maurice, whose bluff, all-purpose bigotry is never quite offset by his old school macho act, gets into a truly ugly poker table confrontation with Ron and his partner Erick (Don R. McManus) stemming from what he considers these “deviants’” insight into his private thoughts.It’s up to the sage Ruth-Anne to have some frank talk with Maurice about his bigotry, and Joel to overcome his usual skepticism when he sees that Maggie’s recounting of her dream actually assists in treating the despondent Holling.

"The Quest" (Season 6, Episode 15)

Rob Morrow’s desire to leave Northern Exposure (he’d already filmed Robert Redford’s Quiz Show during Season 5) is given a typically strange payoff in his final season fantasy/dream/who-knows final outing. After Joel and Maggie’s on-and-off romance sputtered one too many times, the perpetually disgruntled Joel had left Cicely some episodes earlier, going AWOL on his debts and setting himself up as the GP of an even more upriver Native village. Unexpectedly arriving in the middle of the night at Maggie’s house, the shaggy and wild-eyed doctor unfurls an ancient trapper’s map, claiming to have uncovered the location of the mythical lost city of Kiwa’ani and asking for Maggie to fly him the first leg of his trip to find this magical “jeweled city.”

As far as goodbyes to disgruntled stars go, “The Quest” is a confoundingly thorny metaphysical flight of fancy. With the skeptical Maggie in tow, the obsessed Joel first encounters one of those elderly Japanese soldiers still fighting WWII (and is repaid for his ensuing medical treatment with a bounty of sushi), almost gets sidetracked in an impossible, dreamlike spa in the middle of the Alaskan nowhere, and finally coming across an incongruously locked chain-link bridge fence and the abusive gatekeeper (who looks suspiciously identical to Adam) demanding the answer to an impossible riddle. Joel answers and spies the glittering skyline of his beloved Manhattan in the mists—and he walks into it, and out of Northern Exposure forever.

Is the episode something of a make-the-best-of-it exercise? Maybe. But it’s a great one, perfectly in keeping with the series’ spirit. As Marilyn sense Joel’s departure with a signature, unreadable “Good bye” back in Cicely and Maggie receives a days-later postcard of the Staten Island ferry from Joel reading “New York is a state of mind,” “The Quest” stretches Northern Exposure’s woozy reality to its breaking point while still slotting comfortably—and touchingly — into the show’s world in as satisfying a way as could be hoped.

~ Dennis Perkins || Primetimer

#Northern Exposure #Joel #Maggie #Maurice #Shelley #Holling #Adam #Eve #Marilyn #Leonard #Mike #Ruth Ann #Bernard #Chris

[onmytape]

Highlights from The Star: "Connor Bedard wasn’t raised to be a hockey phenom. He made that decision himself."

Bedard fell in love with the game with minimal help. His first skating lesson at four years old went badly — “I was crying when I got off the ice,” he says — but at the end of the second lesson there was a stick-and-puck session, and he asked his father Tom if he could try. “I mean, ever since I kind of first touched the puck it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do,” says Bedard. “And I mean, I’m 17 now and that hasn’t changed.” He learned to skate. He rollerbladed on their rare flat street in hilly North Vancouver, but with purpose: self-made drills. He rollerbladed in the house. And lord, he practised. To save the windows out front Tom built a shooting box in the backyard, and Connor still shoots there when he’s home. Tom heard there were open ice hours at North Shore Winter Club, which was relatively affordable: he joined, and took Connor. Unlike most places in Canada, there’s not much outdoor winter ice in North Vancouver. “He’d stay there eight hours at a time,” says Tom. “More, sometimes. He’d come off, eat, go back on. His feet would be literally bleeding. I would go on once in a while, but normally I would just let him do his thing.

He played some soccer and liked it, but not like hockey. His dad thinks Connor had a natural baseball swing — Tom was a pretty fair baseball player — and golf swing, too, but Connor was born with the same obsession that every great player has to have. The street was full of young families and Connor would spend days outside being a kid, playing tag and running through sprinklers, but working at hockey most of all. He has never owned a video game console.

Even now Connor gets on the ice on optional morning skates or off days, accompanied occasionally by teammates: he works from different areas, tries different shots, pantomimes celebrations. He sometimes sneaks out of the makeshift school classroom at the Brandt Arena in Regina — a room left over from the COVID emergency era, where the players would gather — and the teacher retrieves him by following the sound of a puck ringing off the bar, shot by a young man wearing flip-flops on the ice.

“I think he’s obsessed, possessed by it,” says John Paddock, the veteran hockey man who is the coach and general manager of the Pats. “He’s so meticulous in his daily routine, game day, other days. It’s just another part of his game.” Paddock does say he has tried to dial Bedard back. “I tell John I don’t believe in them, in days off,” says Bedard. “But he makes us, a little bit.”

But when he was very young, Connor told his parents, “I get along really well with all the kids on the team. But I don’t think their parents like me.” Melanie figured rink politics would become the topic at the dinner table every night if she and Tom both lived it, and they didn’t want that. So Tom would get up as early as 2:30 or 3 in the morning and drive up the mountain way past Whistler, back when the Sea to Sky highway was a truly treacherous road. He’d fell trees for six hours; six, six and a half was the maximum, because it’s not a job where you can afford to lose focus. Tom knows a lot of loggers who were killed on the job, has been at the site of one logging fatality; he once broke his collarbone and neck when hit by a falling tree. His partner drove him out with Tom lying down in the backseat of the truck, bumping down the road. It was all hard work. “Yeah, it was hard, but you know, struggle is not a bad thing, really,” says Tom, a solid man with blue eyes. “It makes you close. It makes things more important, it makes things real. You know, if you have it too easy, usually it doesn’t work out very well. So I don’t mind struggle.” He would drive back and stop at Madi’s gymnastics in full backwoods gear, take her home, and drive Connor wherever he needed to go, while Melanie would make healthy snacks and coordinate everything. For a long time Connor’s drive could be channeled into teams and open ice and backyard shooting, but eventually the Bedards did what every parent of a serious hockey kid has moved towards in the last 10 years or so: trainers, skating coaches, hockey academies. Tom has friends who have their own kids in hockey, and he tells them he wishes he could tell them they don’t have to spend the money to keep up, but that’s how it works now.

A couple days before Bedard had to apply for exceptional status to play in the WHL as a 15-year-old, Melanie was driving him to the gym. “I did not sleep the day before,” she says. “And I said Connor, I don’t think you should do this. And I know it’s what you really want. I know. But I feel like as your mom I’m going to be taking something away from you that’s so special; just the ability to make stupid mistakes that we make, and have regret.” She worried that under the spotlight, in the age of social media, people would root for him to fail, as they did when he was a young phenom. She said she’d still get mad at him if he did something stupid, went to a party he shouldn’t go to, whatever. But she would understand he was a kid, too. “And he said, ‘I don’t care if I go to a party,’” says Melanie. “‘This is something that I want. You can’t. As my mom you feel bad about that, but you don’t feel bad about taking away something that’s so important.’ “So we did decide to go ahead with it.”

Melanie moved to Regina to be Connor’s billet the past two seasons, because nobody knew what it would be like for a kid of his calibre, and as Paddock puts it, “His whole preparations are based around perfection, and she’s the only one that knows it.” (Another Bedard youth coach, Dan Cioffi of Burnaby Six Rinks, recalls Bedard would be the kid ordering chicken caesar salad and a mineral water at age 12, surrounded by kids enjoying burgers and pop.)

There are other moments, though. The mom who passes him her daughter’s phone number. The letter that purported to be from a boy who was paralyzed who asked for a jersey, but whose address pops up in other, vaguely similar, differently-named letters. The yahoos driving by the house at 3:30 a.m. yelling TOE DRAG AND RELEASE. The autograph hounds here and on the road, pros, everywhere they go, forcing the team to change some of its protocols. After one uncomfortable incident that Bedard laughed off in the moment, he came home and told his mom about it. “He said, ‘You know, I’m kind of realizing in some ways I have to be just a robot. Because you know that certain people are just wanting you to say this one thing that they can pass on,’” says Melanie. “And I said to him, I feel kind of upset, but I’m also proud that you’re mature enough to be aware of that. Because it’s so important.” “I think it’s a small sacrifice to make,” says Bedard. “I mean, I’m myself most of the day; I’m at the rink and home most of the time. If I’m walking to the car and someone wants a picture or something, that’s all good. And, you know, for me, I think if I had to change things, which I haven’t much, but just a few things to try to achieve my lifelong goal, I think I’d do that in a heartbeat.”

Coaches say that from a young age, Bedard was the kind of kid who was really attentive to his teammates, and it wasn’t correlated to how good they were. He could have asked for a trade from Regina at the deadline. He didn’t want to leave; he felt a responsibility. “I think I’ve just always been almost sensitive to other people’s feelings,” says Bedard. “You know, I never want to hurt someone’s feelings or make someone feel bad about something. I’m still young, and if there’s something I need to say no to, I try to get my agent or someone to do it for me; I feel bad about that."

"Like it makes me emotional, because I am so grateful. (Tom) learned so much in that moment. And he never has critiqued Connor. They talk about things, because Connor is his biggest critic. And I’m so grateful for their relationship, because what I’ve seen, and a big part of why I wanted to step away, was I would look at these dynamics ... Connor would say some of his teammates would be crying because they didn’t want to go on the car ride with their dad, with their parents. “And I thought, all these people in this machine, you are losing sight of the most important thing: your relation. Because even if they are the next Crosby, they’ll probably be done in their 30s and you’ve damaged that relationship that you could have had the rest of your life. Like, you’re gonna make everything in your world with your child about whether they scored a goal or not? That always was strange to me in that world.” (Melanie Bedard)

#the whole article is gold though #i cried #connor bedard #regina pats

[thecreaturecodex]

Lightning Worm Swarm

[Squirm is a deeply dumb variation on 1970s eco-horror. The monsters are killer earthworms, played by Glycera bloodworms in closeup shots, and they’re apparently mutated by electricity rather than toxic waste, nuclear accidents, a hole in the ozone layer, or any of the other excuses that that subgenre usually uses. Since they tear apart a small town following fallen power lines after a storm, shouldn’t such communities be attacked by worms on the regular in this universe? This is another movie that appeared on MST3K, as the second-to-last episode of the original series. The MST3K cut cuts out some of the gore and some sexual menace from the human villain, the backwoods incel Roger (who gets attacked by the worms and survives, but looks like a zombie for the third act? Bizarre). Unlike Reptilicus, I don’t think you’re missing much by sticking to the MST3K cut.]

Lightning Worm Swarm CR 6 N Magical Beast This cluster of worms is a lurid red and moves in unison. Each individual worm has bristles on its sides and a pair of nasty hooked jaws.

Deep in the cypress swamps, fishermen and hunters tell tales of the lightning worms. These little critters look almost identical to earthworms, but have sharp eversible jaws and can deliver a venomous nip when grabbed. Worse, they seem empowered by electricity, and often emerge following a lightning storm, hence the name. A single lightning worm can be a painful surprise, but is effectively harmless. A swarm of them, such as forms following multiple direct lightning strikes to the earth, or in the wake of magical electrical discharges, is a menace.

Lightning worm swarms fear the light, and so emerge after dark in order to feed en masse. Their bites are only mildly venomous one at a time, but can overwhelm victims with paralysis, swelling and excruciating pain. Fighting them with electrical spells is a fool’s errand, as the swarm only gets faster and more agile upon being electrocuted. These swarms are usually temporary, existing for a few days of frenzied feeding before the survivors disperse. But in areas where electrical monsters, like shocker lizards and will o wisps, are prevalent, lightning worm swarms may form permanent aggregations.

Lightning Worm Swarm                CR 6 XP 2,400 N Diminutive magical beast (swarm) Init +4; Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +0, tremorsense 30 ft. Defense AC 18, touch 18, flat-footed 14 (+4 size, +4 Dex) hp 65 (10d10+10) Fort +8, Ref +11, Will +3 Immune electricity, mind-influencing effects, swarm traits, weapon damage Defensive Abilities electric agility; Weakness light blindness, vulnerability to area of effects Offense Speed 30 ft., burrow 20 ft. Melee swarm (2d6 plus distraction and poison) Space 10 ft.; Reach 0 ft. Special Attacks distraction (Fort DC 16) Statistics Str 1, Dex 19, Con 13, Int -, Wis 10, Cha 2 Base Atk +10; CMB -; CMD 15 Ecology Environment warm and temperate forests and marshes Organization solitary or horde (2-20) Treasure none Special Abilities Electric Agility (Su) A lightning worm swarm takes no damage from electrical effects. Instead, whenever a lightning worm swarm takes electricity damage, it gains a +10 foot enhancement bonus to its speeds and a temporary increase to its Dexterity score by 1d4 points. Further electricity damage continues to increase its Dexterity, but cannot increase its speed further. These temporary Dexterity points are lost at a rate of 1 per hour; when all points are lost, the lightning worm swarm loses its enhancement bonus to speed. Poison (Ex) Injury—swarm; save Fort DC 16; duration 1/round for 4 rounds; effect 1d4 Dexterity damage and 1 Con damage; cure 1 save. The save DC is Constitution based.

#lightning worm swarm #swarm #squirm #b movies #it came from the silver screen #MST3K #pathfinder 1e

[birbliophile]

I have been working on this almost non stop for four days I do not know what has possessed me but it is finally DONE and I can REST aaaAAAAUGH

Rating: Teen and up

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: Gen

Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood

Relationship: Edward Elric & Lan Fan

Summary: AU where Lan Fan ended up trapped in Gluttony’s stomach with Ed instead of Ling. How will Ed deal with having his companion be injured and still recovering from emergency midnight backwoods surgery? How will this unlikely duo deal with the enormous threat that is Leviathan Envy? And most importantly, how will Lan Fan endure the torture of being trapped in blood hell with Edward Elric?

#fma #fmab #fullmetal alchemist #fullmetal alchemist brotherhood #lan fan #edward elric #my writing #my fic #funnily enough this is the second time I've sent Lan Fan to blood hell #the first one is still a wip #and it's a totally different take

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Forget-Me-Not 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Loki

Summary: You return to your childhood home to put the past to rest.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You spend the night on the couch. You don't go further than the bathroom. You can't bring yourself to check her bedroom or the one you left behind.

You go out to get your bag and change in the yellow haze glowing behind the faded curtains. You check the time. Jan is expecting you in an hour.

You emerge into the dewy morning and tramp down to ground level. You get in the car, reversing out without looking back at the dingy house. The final farewell can't come soon enough for the slanted walls.

Jan is out in the yard, hammering a pineboard as you drive down his lot. His white hair curls with the sweat beading on his skin. He stills the hammer and wipes his forehead as you pull up. 

You get out as he greets you in the way all the villagers do. A manufactured friendliness that cannot erase their true judgement. They smile in face just as easily as the mutter your name under their breath. You mother harboured little good will in Hammer Ford and blood is sacred here.

“Sorry to hear,” he says.

“Matter of time,” you shrug dismissively.

“Isn't no way to come home,” he shakes his head and coughs into his fist, “walnut,” he points the hammer over his shoulder, “like ya said.”

Walnut, like the dining table. Where she sat and drank herself into that box. You nod and follow him over to the casket. The hinges are brass and the finish is rough. What does it matter? It's just going into the dirt.

“Got cash,” you say. Jan doesn't deal with the bank, everyone knows that. Funny the little things that stick with you.

“Thanks,” he accepts the bills as you count them out. So much for a rainy day. The sun shine bright as if mocking the grin affair beneath its watch. “I'll have it taken down to Norn's.”

“Yep,” you agree, “she's there.”

You head out without further niceties. Neither of you uphold those. Better to say what you mean and nothing else.

You get to the property line and idle. You turn away from the woods. You're not ready to go back yet. 

You stop by the church first. Father Oswald sits with you to discuss the ceremony. You'll say a few words at the grave site. You don't think anyone would come to a wake. You don't want them to.

You set off again, still reluctant to retrace your steps. You drive to the spare core of the village and park outside the library. You cross the street and peer in through the window of the bakery. It wasn't there when you left.

You venture inside and peruse the sweets behind the glass. You order a black coffee and a cinnamon bun. You pay the woman behind the counter, vaguely familiar. You're certain she was a few years behind you at school.

You sit and pick at the glazed dough. You don't have much of an appetite. You don't feel much of anything. You're just wading through, try not to get lost in the tide.

You sip the coffee. Bold but rich. Not bad. Better than the instant powder gone stale in your mother's cupboard.

The door opens and shuts, several times over as you stare at the table. The city taught you apathy. You don't let the noise bother you.

The chair across from you slides out and a figure plants themselves on the seat. You raise your head, your vision narrowing to make sense of their features. You turn your head to gaze out the window as Loki blows over the top of a mug. 

You slide out your phone, a defence mechanism. Still no reception. You put it down and keep your attention diverted. He clears his throat and taps his toe next to yours.

“You know, I do have an important matter to discuss with you,” he says.

You don't react. You know that's what he wants. That's why he showed up the night before. He undoubtedly insisted on being his clan’s representative.

“You've sent your condolences.”

“Mm, yes, but that isn't what I mean,” he traces his finger up the handle of his mug. “The house.”

You lower your brows and keep your eyes beyond the window. The village moves slow as ever. Not like the endless flow of the city streets. There's no where to hide here.

“My father has an offer. The property has value.”

You check your cup, almost empty. You swig the last of it. You stand and gather the cup and unfinished dessert. You put the porcelain on the counter and toss the cinnamon bun on your way out.

The door doesn't close behind you. He's following you. Your heartbeat piques. In an instant, you're hurled into the past. You're running through broken twigs as he snickers behind you. You ball your hands as your breath hitches.

You cross the street without looking, only just dodging a bumper. You go to your car, fumbling with your keys. Before you can stick them in the slot, there's a snare around your arm.

You spin and shove Loki off of you, biting down on a shriek. You glare at him and point the key at his chin.

“Not interested.”

“My father will give you more than the bank,” he counters. 

“Don't care.”

He sniffs and quorks his head, “is this because I never called?”

You choke on a scoff. You turn and ram the keys in the slot and twist. You open the door as you step around it. The edge hits him as you swing into the driver’s seat.

“The house is worthless. The bank will give you pennies for the land.”

“Go tell your daddy you failed,” you sneer and yank the door shut, hitting the lock with your fist.

You start the engine without a glance in his direction. You pull put as he barely avoids getting his toes run over. Just as ever, this village belongs to the Odinsons. They won't have to pay the bank much to get what they want but you will never sign your name next to theirs.

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #drabble #au #backwoods au #series #thor #avengers #mcu #marvel #forget-me-not

[apotelesmatiki]

scarred hands would shakily place ‘out of our heads’ by the rolling stones on her old westinghouse record player .

" come on , come on . work you stupid thing . " as if by some magical intervention, the record began playing . a bit warped at first but soon the sound evened out . now to get her stats homework out of the way. heh , easier said than done. since they’d escaped those backwoods freaks connie had been slacking in all things : her schoolwork , her parents , her friends … everything . in fact , one could say she’d been actively avoiding those things .

after all , how could she be expected to go back to the way things were … to laugh and be happy and blissfully ignorant ? no , she was aware now . aware of the evil of the world and that would cause her to be hyper-vigilant of her surroundings , of the people she’d interact with and the energy of the space around her . she’d be going back to paris, il once this semester was over to spend summer back on the farm. ‘ maybe familiar surroundings will be what i need ’ she thought as she completed her homework.

leaving the album to play connie would hum along —standing to straighten up her apartment — until she felt the familiar tendrils of fear tightening around her chest. it would began with a subtle unease, a prickling sensation at the back of her neck that whispered of danger. connie would fight to bury it but they persisted, growing louder and more insistent with each passing moment.

and then it hit her, like a freight train barreling through the darkness: the memories, vivid and unrelenting, flooding her mind with images of blood-soaked walls and the sound of that thing’s chainsaw revving in the distance. she could feel the panic rising within her, a primal scream clawing its way up from the depths of her soul. heart thundered in her chest, each beat echoing in the silence like a drumbeat of impending doom. breathing became a battle, each inhale a struggle against the invisible weight pressing down on her chest. she felt as if she were drowning in a sea of terror, gasping for air that refused to fill her lungs as the walls seemingly closed in around her.

sweat slicked her brow, her palms clammy and trembling. she was paralyzed by fear, trapped in a waking nightmare from which there was no escape. time lost all meaning as she struggled to regain control of her racing thoughts. each moment felt like an eternity, stretching on into infinity. and then, just when she thought she could bear it no longer, it was over. the panic receded like a tide retreating from the shore, leaving her drained and disoriented in its wake.

as connie lay on the floor of her apartment , trembling and exhausted, she knew that the nightmares would return. they were a part of her now, woven into the fabric of her being like scars etched into her soul. but she also knew that she was a survivor, that she had faced unimaginable horrors and emerged on the other side. and as long as she drew breath, she would continue to fight, to defy the darkness that threatened to consume her.

#˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ i’m tougher than i look { inner musings } #˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ she deserves peace bro #˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ wanted a lil drama #Spotify

[appalachianwarlock]

Term's Hillbilly and Redneck

The term "hillbilly" in the United States started early in the 18th century when British soldiers began using it when referring to Scots-Irish immigrants who lived in the frontier areas of the Ozarks and Appalachian Mountains. These Protestant Irish colonists brought their traditions with them when they immigrated. Many of their stories, songs, and ballads dealt with the history of their Ulster and Lowland Scot homelands, especially relating the tale of the Protestant King William III, Prince of Orange. Many of the settlers in the Appalachian mountains were of German origin and were named Wilhelm with the short form Willy, a common German name during that time. Those Wilhelms, who went by Bill or Billy, living in the Appalachian Mountains became known as hillbillies, that is Bills who lived in the hills. The term emerged as a derogatory nickname given by the coastal plain-dwelling Southerners to the hill-dwelling settlers of Eastern Tennessee, Western Virginia (including modern West Virginia), and Eastern Kentucky.

The term Appalachian Hillbillies arose in the years after The War Between the States, when the Appalachian region became increasingly bypassed by technological and social changes taking place in the rest of the country. Until The War Between the States, the Appalachians were not significantly different from other rural areas of the country, but after the war, as the frontier pushed further west, the Appalachian country retained its frontier character, and the people themselves came to be considered as backward, quick to violence, and to make their living from moonshine stills. Fueled by news stories of mountain feuds, such as that in the 1880s between the Hatfields and McCoys, the hillbilly stereotype developed in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century.

The origins of the term "redneck" are Scottish and refer to supporters of the National Covenant and The Solemn League and Covenant, or Covenanters, largely Lowland Presbyterians, many of whom would flee Scotland for Ulster (Northern Ireland) during persecutions by the British Crown. The Covenanters of 1638 and 1641 signed the documents that stated that Scotland desired the Presbyterian form of church government and would not accept the Church of England as its official state church. Although the term "redneck" is characterized by farmers having a red neck caused by sunburn from hours working in the fields, many Covenanters signed in their own blood and wore red pieces of cloth around their necks as distinctive insignia. Since many Ulster-Scottish settlers in America (especially in the South) were Presbyterian, the term was applied to them, and then, later, their Southern descendants. One of the earliest examples of its use comes from 1830, when an author noted that red-neck was a name bestowed upon the Presbyterians.

The term Redneck refers to a stereotype of usually rural, Caucasian people of lower socio-economic status in the United States and Canada. Originally limited to the Appalachians, and later the South, the Ozarks, the Great Plains and the Rocky Mountains, this stereotype is now widespread throughout North America. Southern comedian Jeff Foxworthy defines "redneck" as "a glorious lack of sophistication" stating that we are all guilty of at one time or another. The common stereotype of a "redneck" is a group of people that are generally from The South, though can be found throughout the United States. They are considered uncivilized, uneducated, racist, enjoy outdoor sports such as hunting and fishing, and country music. They know how to work on a farm, can fix their own vehicles, and know how to make moonshine. They tend to live in the backwoods.

The terms "hillbilly/redneck" is often misunderstood by those north of the Mason-Dixon line. Many Yankees use these terms to refer to Southerners and treat them as if they were illiterate, uneducated, inbred, and backward compared to the rest of the United States. you know what you believe and you aren't afraid to say so, no matter who is listening; you respect your elders; or, you'd give your last dollar to a friend in need.

(Edited From Facebook)

[leanstooneside]

Oklahoma (PRISM)

- Eminem's swarthy eye

- Joshua Jackson's backwoods calf

- Kyle Richards's bolstered forehead

- Hailey Glassman's muscular hair

- Seal's lusty ear

- Tracy Morgan's elastic tongue

- Luke Bryan's gratuitous eyebrow

- Charlize Theron's ever-present cheek

- Catherine Malandrino's sensed ankle

- Kelly Preston's signed back

- Miley Cyrus's emerald upper arm

- Naya Rivera's emergency lower leg

- Heather Graham's charcoal arm

- Toni Collette's deluded belly

- Boo Boo Stewart's sometime breast

- Christy Turlington's outdone lip

- Kerr Smith's motorized nose

- Kim Kardashian's winningest lip

- Jaime Pressly's folic nose

- Jada Pinkett Smith's Bohemian hair

- Jonathan Rhys Meyers's perplexed finger

- Mo'Nique's lobster chin

- James Blunt's pensive waist

- Howard Stern's belted shoulder

- Jillian Michaels's worthless head

- Carey Mulligan's folic upper arm

- Michael Urie's reminiscent mouth

- Dina Manzo's slanting buttocks

- DJ Kiss's facsimile cheek

- Seth Rogen's bonnie ear

- Mariah Carey's casual knee

- Scott Wolf's neutered fist

- Busy Philipps's blocked chin

- Ashley Tisdale's plausible foot

- Kristin Davis's unwary mouth

- Tori Spelling's north nose

- Carmelo Anthony's dandy cheek

- Padma Lakshmi's convex ankle

- Ndamukong Suh's reversing hair

[everythingblreview]

Short Introductions to BL Games (Part 3)

Luckydog1+bad egg (R18+)

Description

Will it be possible for all the CR:5 execs to escape from the now-ruthless and lawless Madison Penitentiary?

Even if they were to all escape, all that awaited is the darkest of betrayals.

In all this loathing, Gian's super-good luck goes wild following the loss of his golden ring.

With his tremendously good luck that reshapes even destiny itself, the power dynamics of both the mafia and gangs too, become reshaped...

When Gian absorbs all these changes alongside the "human lethal weapon" Bakshii, what will still remain?

Genre: Action, Mafia, Comedy, Historical (US-America 1930s)

Rating:

Story 5/5

Characters 5/5

Romance 4/5

Artwork 5/5

Sadness level 1/5

Level of disturbing 4/5

Language: Japanese

Comments: Even if it counts as a Fandisk, you don’t need to play Luckydog 1 to play bad egg, there is only one Love Interest

Tamayura (R18+)

Description

Toya is a university student who wants to be a folklorist. One day during summer holiday, he visits an old shrine in the backwoods to write a summer report. Soon after he arrives there, he feels deja vu. He meets Yuki, who works at the shrine. He is invited to the secret festival, and...

Genre: Mystery, Japanese Mythology

Rating:

Story 4/5

Characters 3/5

Romance 1/5

Artwork 3/5

Sadness level 1/5

Lever of disturbing 2/5

Language: Japanese

Comments: If you want some good romance don't play this, characters are all reversible, you can pair up the side characters with each other

Omega Vampire (R18+)

Description:

A world in which humans and vampires share a bare minimum coexistence.

The year is 20XX in Yokohama.

The Aoi Research Firm has shone light onto the medical world, developing an artificial source of blood called EX-BLOOD, putting an end to the shortage of blood.

At the same time, the vampires who had hidden themselves in the shadows emerge and declare that they will now coexist with humanity. They gradually began show themselves out in society.

But by nature, vampires prefer human blood. Some of them continued to assault humans. Even as those vampires that wish for a peaceful coexistence with humans try to keep the others in check, "vampire hunts" are also widespread, carried out by some humans due to a drug-like high a human experiences when drinking a vampire's blood.

Even so, at least on the surface, peace appeared to be maintained...

The protagonist, Moriya Keiichi, sustains life-threatening injuries in an accident. His best friend, Aoi Setsuna, saves his life with a brand new drug which utilizes a vampire's extraordinary healing capabilities. As a side effect, Keiichi's attribute ends up transforming from Beta into Omega.

Keiichi's newly Omega pheromones attract the vampires to him.

One day, Keiichi finds himself saved from a dire attack by an Alpha vampire, Ooizumi Genma.

As someone who hates vampires, Keiichi refuses Genma's help. However, he himself had become a half-vampire desiring blood...

Genre: Action, Vampires, Omegaverse, Comedy

Rating:

Story 4/5

Characters 5/5

Romance 4/5

Artwork 5/5

Sadness level 1/5

Level of disturbing 2/5

Language: Japanese, English (apparently with Visual Novel Reader)

Comments: The cover does a bad job at representing the game, it's actually pretty hilarious and ridiculous, Non-con route, the game is like 95% about vampires and maybe 5% about omegaverse

#bl game #boys love game #visual novel #blvn