#old plows

[chiptrillino-art]

(ID in ALT text)

Something we don't consider enough in Howl!AU zukka. Is Zuko harassing the old man sokka. but he does so with young sokka as well hm...

idk how to post these but crused blond zuko and sokka aged compared to his youthful look side by side

(ID in ALT text) i tried with blond zuko, but i really can't commit to that sorry

[rosesradio]

i try not to let dumbass fandom disk horse take up any space in my mind but now on behalf of the percico side of the fandom that had to deal with that entitled negativity i wanna write a percico drabble

actually the smuttier and more offensive the better

[dip-the-pip]

what.... what do we know about the breakfast bar... ?

we’ve learned more than enough about the breakfast bar

[andy-clutterbuck]

4x01 | 30 Days Without an Accident

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

Vincent Price promotional still for The Bat 🦇

[rabid-dog-steve-horn]

[postcard-from-the-past]

Plowing the rice fields near Saïgon, Vietnam

French vintage postcard

[vastiitas]

Thinking abt cole's way of watchfulness,,, its progression and origins,,, the way it is embedded so deep into his behavior that it's subconscious,

[uniqueartisanconnoisseur]

Boys Just Want to Have Fun

There is just something about playing in the dirt that attract men and boys like a moth to a flame! After finishing up the field work, a few local Morrisonville farmers had a bit of John Deere plowing fun. The blue sky and mild temperatures made for a nice day to turn the soil. Plow history Everything changed for farmers with the invention of the steel self-scouring moldboard plow. John Deere…

[all-the-words-necessary]



Ok, fuck it, lady Chatterley's lover au Steve comes back from the front not quite as he went off. He's got a new wife waiting for him and a huge old manor home that is now his own. Everything would be fine, great even, if it wasn't for his fucking legs not working. The doctor said he was lucky to be alive, but, Steve thinks waspishly, not so lucky that he's not practically paralyzed from the waist down. Nancy is taking it in stride, still bright eyed and hopeful for the future they both wanted when they said 'i do'. Right before he was shipped off. 

He loves her for it, but at the same time every kind smile and gesture from her makes him feel like he's swallowing glass. It hurts because Steve knows there is no way he can keep those promises he sees shining through in her eyes. 

When they reach the old manor home the cracks start to show up right away.

"Steve, Let's take in the air!" she says, bouncing out of the car. The trip had taken five hours to get out to the country, the car stopping in front of the old imposing manor looming in front of them. He can see her stretching, reaching up to the clear blue sky as her curls shine in the sun. It takes him longer to get out of the car needing Nancy, and a servant that quickly hurries out of the house, to lower him into his wheelchair. 

It quickly becomes apparent that, despite its recommendations for being top of the line, the wheelchair can barely manage the gravel drive in front of the house, much less the wooded path Nancy is not so covertly eyeing. 

"It's fine," Steve says, catching her eye and giving a smile, "I wanted to check out the house first. Go on ahead and tell me what you find when you come back."

And so he's wheeled into the massive family manor, the doors closing behind him with an air of finality that sinks deep into the pit of his stomach. 

He remembers this manor. Knows it well from his childhood, every floorboard and every window reminds him of his recently passed father. He thinks, idly, of taking a sledgehammer and smashing the foundation so thoroughly that no one would ever know a house once stood here.

"Would you like anything else, sir?" The servant says, after he's wheeled to the library.

Steve gives a polite smile and waves him off, turning so he faces the window. It's where Nancy finds him when she gets back. 

~NANCY AND STEVE DRIFT FURTHER APART, WORKERS ARE HIRED FOR THE MANOR, STEVE FINALLY SAYS 'FUCK IT, IM TAKING THIS WHEELCHAIR OFF ROAD'.~

It had, he thought, seemed like a good idea at the time. 

He ordered the new chair weeks ago, planning to surprise Nancy by joining her on one of her walks. When it had finally arrived, she had been out of the country visiting her family, and a test run really didn't seem like the worst idea. 

He just hadn't accounted for the mud. 

So here he was, about three kilometers from the house, stuck on a path in the middle of a muddy field. 

"This stupid piece of, fucking, bullshit, motorized my ass…" he slams his fist down on the armrest of the chair in frustration, hearing a satisfying crack. 

"Everything alright over there?" 

Steve jumps, whipping his head over to the man walking up the bottom of the path. His voice is rough, from the village obviously, but he looks familiar. 

Heat prickles up his face as the man gets closer and he hates this. He knows just how he's going to see him. Helpless. Stuck in the mud. A burden. 

"I'm fine, thanks." He says, pasting a smile to his face. He hopes it conveys the message that he loves this. Being stuck in mud is his passion. Prehaps then the man will leave him alone and he can go back to sulking.

The man stops next to him, his brown curly hair under his cap a bit longer than it should be. It frames his wide brown eyes, currently looking at him like he's full of shit. 

It's then that he makes the connection

"You're the new gardener, aren't you?" He thinks back to a couple of weeks ago, when the house had been filled with those seeking employment. "Mr. Munson, was it?"

"Aye, sir. You've got a good memory," he crouches down next to Steve as he says it, fiddling with the back of his wheelchair.

"It also looks like you've got a busted engine." 

 "It's new," Steve sniffs, "it's engine is supposed to help with out-of-doors travel." because it's not his fault, and he didn't ask for help, and he probably would have figured it out on his own. Probably. 

"Can I take a look?" He asks, probably a bit too late Steve thinks, uncharitably. He inclines his head regally and looks off towards the edge of the trees. If he squints hard enough, he thinks, he can maybe pretend none of this is happening.

There is a minute of silence, maybe two, before Munson says,

"Y'know, when I was younger I hated reading. Hated it." 

It's such a non sequitur that Steve turns blindly back towards him. 

He's still hunched over the engine in the back of the chair, hands fiddling with god knows what, not really looking at Steve.

"I had such trouble with the words all blurring together, I never wanted to do it. It was embarrassing." He's gesturing wildly as he talks. Steve doesn't think he even realizes he's doing it and he finds himself relaxing in his chair for the first time since the trouble with the mud started.  

 "My uncle found out from a teacher who, well, probably thought I was hopeless. He came over that very night. Started reading books to me, no pressure or judgement whatsoever- ah here's the bugger." He pulls a small piece of machinery from the back of Steve's chair with a showmanship he wouldn't have expected from a gardener. 

"Sorry for the language, sir." he says with a cheeky smile, implying that he's maybe not that sorry at all. 

It's an astounding bit a familiarity that Steve knows he should put a stop to. He knows his father would. There's just something about the man that makes him…pause. Possibly brain damage from the war, he thinks, somewhat hysterically. 

"Anyways, long story short, I started to want to read as well, and when I did, he helped me with that too. Took ages, but that man never faltered once. Sometimes now I even read for fun."

He holds out the busted piece of machinery for Steve to take, his hands dirty from the engine and mud. When Steve takes the part he can feel how rough and calloused the pads of Munson's fingers are, a direct clash to his own.

He clenches the small piece of machinery firmly in his lap, the grooves imprinting on his palm like a vulger tattoo. 

It's then that Munson looks directly into Steve's eyes.

"It's okay to ask for help sometimes." 

There are a lot of different responses Steve knows he could have to this. He's affible and popular, knows how to work his way around a conversation. He could be cold and direct making sure this "Mr. Munson" remembers his place, or he could make a pithy joke at his own expense, have them both laugh off the entire exchange. 

He hears cicadas in the distance, Munson's honesty still hanging raw in the air between them. In the end, he decides the man's truth deserves his own in reply.

"I don't want to be a burden." He says quietly.

The words hang between them for a moment. 

"Well, excuse me, sir if I'm being impolite, but I don't think I was one at eleven and I don't think you are now." His voice is strong and steady, the words feeling as set in stone as if they were given to Moses himself.

Munson then slides up to standing, clapping his big hands together.

"Now, I know you could get out of the mud yourself, but you seem like a busy man and your engine wont work until you order a new replacement part. What say I get you out of this patch here and you can roll on back to the house."

Steve looks up at him. He cuts a clean figure with his waistcoat half unbuttoned, arms crossed with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, to account for the heat. His fingers idely tap out a nonsensical beat as he waits for Steve's reply.

He realizes Munson is right. Steve could do it himself, but that wasn't the point. He didn't have to.

"Ok, but just with the mud" he replies, grinning.

[forbiddcnsirvn]

instagram » DEVILSERPENT uploaded a new photo.

DEVILSERPENT: 

There’s never really a rulebook on how to wish a happy birthday to a person who’s lived nine lives in one, but here goes. Cyrek, you’re one hell of a puzzle. When we started, it was like trying to defuse a bomb that could laugh — a lot of cursing, a ton of shouting, and wondering if we’d lose a hand. But hell, what a ride it’s been. Reflecting on where we started — a chaos of arguments and clash of wills — it’s almost surreal to see where we are now. Back then, I was more a walking weapon than a person, a life more of commands and missions than choices and freedom. You changed that. You didn’t just crash into my life; you blew the damn doors off. You saved me from a life where I was nothing more than a tool, a puppet. With you, I found a life where I could be more, where I could be me, even if it’s a version that scares the hell out of some. You gave me freedom, a voice, and a choice. Without you, I’d still be that puppet, a shadow of someone else’s making. You broke those strings, brought me out of that darkness, and showed me what real freedom and real life could be. 

And as a father? You’re not the kind they write about in parenting books, and thank the bloody fuck for that. You’re the dad who’s showing our kids how to be fiercely themselves. You’ve got a past, we both do, but you’re showing them — and me — every day that it doesn’t define us. You teach them to stand tall, to face the world with all its bullshit, and to never back down. You’re the dad they need, the one who understands struggle, survival, and strength. Married life with you has been a rollercoaster, and it was the best fucking decision I had ever made. One I’d line up for again and again. Despite the turbulence, the ups and downs, I’d say “I do” every damn time. You’ve been my partner in crime, my fellow warrior in this messed-up world. You’re the one constant in my ever-changing universe, and damn, I’m lucky to have you. The Bastards are bloody lucky to have you keeping them and their shite’s together, no matter what your brain tells you, you’ve done a lot of shite that helped a lot of people. Wounded as you might be by the unfairness that I still fucking wish I could mend, you are a savior. To say that I’m also proud would be an understatement. 

Happy birthday, Cyrek. You mean to me more than anything that has ever existed in my life. Know that without you I’d be so damn buried in shite I would never crawl myself out of. Heck, I don’t think I’d even be here still, at all. I want more years with you. More birthdays, more screaming, and more fucking in places we shouldn’t. More importantly, more of your heart, as I want to cradle it forever and breathe life to it as much as you breathe mine. I love you. Endlessly. Through storms and beyond. 

ps: Packing your presents ;)

@nxnbinarydracvla

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

Vincent Price - The Haunted Palace (1963)

[criscura]

(i enjoyed reading it btw thank u for making my evening)

i am nothing if not utterly hornt at all hours, I am DELIGHTED to provide by spreading my "fuck that old man" agenda.

which i'm right about. I am RIGHT.

[finex09]

Tumblr besties get my dumb memes first. Anyways. Based on true recent events.

[postcard-from-the-past]

Plowing on the Philippines

American vintage postcard

[july-19th-club]

problem im not equipped to handle socially: neighbor i barely know keeps texting me asking me to go to a rodeo or come over and visit (as in, neighbor would come to MY house) and while i have nothing against this neighbor i also have no interest in hanging out. but i dont know how to SAY no i dont want to hang out with you sorry without being rude. so i just keep ignoring the texts and the neighbor keeps texting and i know that's the wrong way to do it but if i text the neighbor then they will REPLY and i will have to carry on a conversation with them