#there used to be like DOZENS of frogs that would hang out in the damp area outside

[subarubi]

Somethin’

Pairing: Sam Wilson x fem!Reader

Summary: Sam Wilson’s in for the ride of his life. (Idk I suck at summaries)

Word Count: 3.2k

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Sexual content. Modern AU. Cowboy!Sam. Slight Angst? Idk. Alcohol consumption. Inappropriate use of stable floor. 

A/N: Something about the leaves changing is putting me in the mood for some Sam Wilson lovin’. ma’ams, sirs, non-binaries, I present to you, COWBOY SAM. This is purely born out of thirst, the barely there plot is just a vehicle for it. Yee-motherfuckin’-haw!  

-

Clear blue skies and soft, white cumulus clouds look just the same above him here as they did there. 

It had been the first thing he noticed on that long, quiet car ride home from the airport and the last thought before settling into the checkered sheets of his adolescence. Night, day, clear or grey — it’s the same sky he’s been under his entire life, same backdrop to his last few years at war. 

One certain days, he feels blind as a newborn, clutching to his momma’s chest as she quiets his cries. Others, he swears he can see thousands of miles away if only he just squints hard enough. 

Today, there’s sweat stinging in his eyes, so he only sees wide pastures through a blurred filter. 

Sam Wilson holds his father’s hat in one hand, uses a forearm glowing bronze beneath the sun to wipe away the dampness over his brow. He’s known heat, spent hours baking under the hot sun in full fatigues. This is a different kind of heat — the lazy, sleepy kind that starts in his neck and spreads warm everywhere. It pools in unwelcome places: behind his knees, down his shoulder blades, in his ass crack. 

“What’s the matter, cowboy? Can’t take the heat?”

"M’fine,” he scoffs indignantly, kneading a thick thigh splayed out over worn leather, soothing his sore muscles. Despite his objections otherwise, Sam’s dog-tired and aching for a cold shower. He wants to fall face first into the couch and stay there for, forever, maybe. 

Your smirk burns him up from the inside out with irritation and a whole other barrel of emotions he doesn’t want to get into when you’re being this annoying.  “If you need a break, I won’t tell anyone...”

Sam pants a laugh, settling the cattleman hat back over his head, squint in his warm brown eyes easing in the brim’s shadow. Shaking his head, he replies “I don’t believe that for one second.”

He’s heard that most people settle a bit after they reach their mid-20s. People have jobs and responsibilities and have less room to be obnoxious and wild. You haven’t changed one bit since high school. You’re just as loud mouthed and unpleasant as you were all those years ago before Sam left to enlist. You used to laugh and throw mud in his face when he worked on your daddy’s ranch as a kid, put burs in his boots and made fun of his gangly arms. Not much has changed on that front now that he’s back — he’s kind of glad for it, so used to people in this little town treating him differently now.

Sam licks salt from his lip, watching you in front of him, horse in a jog. 

The steady rocking of your hips side to side holds his gaze, matching your pace but hanging back enough that conversation is sparse. Sam eyes the way denim hugs your legs, tapers off into a pair of worn brown boots with stitched designs fraying. He remembers when you’d first gotten those boots, how you danced in them before him. He’d always had a sneaking suspicion you liked him back then; he was older and worked for your daddy, your teasing always felt like just an excuse to talk to him. 

You’re a woman now. An honest to god woman with pretty eyes and a dangerous smile — all stuffed into tight jeans and a chambray shirt with the top buttons undone in such a way that he can the path of sweat down your neck and into your cleavage. Sam visibly swallows.

“What’s it like?” your sweet twang tickles the inside of his ears, a shiver run down his spine. 

Sam shifts in his saddle, leaning up on the horn to give his sleeping ass a break, “What’s what like?”

Silence for a beat, what little he can see of your profile twists in uncertainty. You slow up so that your horse falls in step beside his, shrugging to appear more casual, though it’s more comfort for you than him. “I mean... the Air Force, Afghanistan. That whole thing.”

Oh, that whole thing. Sam stiffens, reins creaking in tight fists as he struggle with such a small, harmless question. 

In the hours you’ve spent together since he’s been back, the subject of where he went and why he’s back remained fairly untouched. Sam didn’t want to talk about it and you don’t like awkward, feelings conversations in general. He’d liked the balance the two of you had struck up. Considered you a good friend, even, for it. 

“You don’t have to say anything! Just forget I said anything,” you rush out. 

Sam can tell by the way you frantically avoid looking at him that an ashamed heat is crawling up your neck and pooling in your face. He sighs heavily, shoulders sagging and looks out over the herd of cattle moving pastures.

He’s dog-tired. 

After Riley died, he just couldn’t find reason anymore — his momma said it was giving her smiley boy premature frown lines. Getting out was supposed to be a good thing for him, but he’s just so tired of waiting for the results. He’d expected coming home and working on the ranch would be like flipping a switch; he’d be happy again and wouldn’t have to think about his time in the war. For the most part, he has been. But some days he doesn’t know whether it’s better to be blind or to see thousands of miles away.

Then there are days like today: the in between where everything is blurry and he wants to talk about it, but doesn’t know where to begin. 

“It’s hot as hell.”

The bewildered look on your face makes him smile small. His lips twitch and it sends yours chasing off after them, cracking big and wide. He wishes his momma could see him now, with that gap-toothed grin she says she misses so much. What it is, he doesn’t know, but something about you makes him so comfortable. 

If you wanted to, you couldn’t get Sam to stop talking after that. 

He tells stories of COs with sticks up their asses and hillbillies he never thought he’d have to protect and never wants to again, of all the shit Riley put him through and what passes for food on military bases. And by the time the sun sets and the cows are grazing on fresh, untouched grass, the ache in Sam’s hips and legs can’t compare to the one in his cheeks. 

“He sounds like an amazing friend,” you smile softly, boot kicked up on the farriers stool outside the barn.

Sam smiles wistfully into the neck of his beer bottle, nodding firmly, “The best.”

The sweat on his shirt has dried under a cool night breeze, Sam’s eyes slide closed to savor the feeling of it. It’s peaceful and quiet in the best way, a warm beer in hand, crickets chirping and a somewhere frog croaking. He can’t help but think this is as close as he’s gonna get to being happy again without Riley. 

A cacophonous clattering of the glass bottle graveyard the two of you cultivated breaks through it. You hiss loudly, muttering curses under your breath as you try and right the ones that fell over, “Shhh, dammit. Shit.”

Sam rolls his head to the side slowly with relaxed breaths, looking at you with a goofy smile. He places his bottle down in the dirt besides just about the dozen other empty ones, reaching out for you, “You’re a good friend too.”

You watch him with wide eyes, chewing your lip dark in that way that he never lets on drives him crazy. 

His eyes lazily drift over your face, down the smooth planes of your neck and over the panicked heave of your chest. There’s a summer haze over him, he feels all fuzzy and warm with alcohol swirling around in his gut, liver working overtime. He’s thinking things he probably shouldn’t, fingers itching to do things he definitely shouldn’t. 

You are a good friend, he means that. 

He’s been home for a few months now and can count on one hand the amount of people he actually likes spending time with. His momma and his little sister on Sundays after church making — or rather, for his part, eating— pies. Your father, who Sam’s always looked up to, listening to life lessons that he’s already learned but doesn’t have the heart to say so. He likes going to the bar with the other ranch hand Tommy well enough, but only for a few. 

You. All the time, even when he’s supposed to be doing something else or you’re annoying the hell out of him. 

Sam clears his throat, hoping that the starry-eyed look in his eyes is obscured by the darkness of night and the low brim of his hat. By the way you’re looking back at him, he highly doubts he’s gotten away with it. “I should get going, it’s late.”

“You-” you swallow, sitting up straight in your seat as he makes to get up, “you shouldn’t drive.”

Cracking bones have Sam grimacing as he stretches tall, working out all the kinks he’d gotten from a long day out riding, driving the cattle. He stumbles a little in his boots, kicking up a small bit of dirt with a tipsy laugh, “You’re right...”

He sees your tense shoulders sag in relief, settling further against the red barn wall. Sam grins mischievously, swaying towards the open barn doors, “I’ll ride.”

“Sam!” you call after him, and he hears the light pounding of your boots after him as he bolts into the stables. 

He’s never felt so fast, so light, running with you hot on his trail, boots sliding dangerously across the hay covered ground. Sam’s a kid again, unburdened by the hardships of war and the grief of losing his best friend. 

Once, when he was working here in high school with you constantly ribbing on him, Sam stole your hat — same one sitting on that pretty head now — and ran. You gave chase until your shorter legs tired out and ugly sobs of frustration poured from your lungs. He felt guilty, mean even and stopped as soon as those doe eyes looked up at him in hurt. There was a terrible smirk on your face he’ll never forget when you triumphantly snatched it out of his hands and kicked him in the shin, little brat you were. 

This is payback. 

Sam takes a hard left into one of the empty stalls, laughing wildly when you corner him, hands holding his sides in stitches. Smiling eyes betray the scowl on your face as you approach slowly, as if he were a jumpy young colt for you to tame. 

Something’s in the air, suffocating the closing space between the two of you and Sam’s pinned beneath the unreadable stare of your eyes dark with... somethin’. 

The heave of his chest is prominent under the loose fabric of his unbuttoned shirt, white undershirt stretching taut over its broadness. He sucks down big, audible breaths to steady himself, face slack. Sam rests his hands over the silver longhorn buckle of his belt, pinkies tracing over the rough grooves to distract him from this churning in his stomach. It could just be the alcohol. He’s not been oblivious to the all the lingering touches and heated gazes these past few months working close together, but it could just be the alcohol. 

In the back of his head, he can almost feel the phantom sting of his momma slapping him there, warning him that you don’t shit where you eat and he’d be stupid to do what his body is screaming for him to. 

You’re the annoying girl that sent him sprawling into a cow patty, trained the dogs to circle him in the field and nip at his heels. You’re his boss’ daughter and his friend, an important one at that. 

You’re... somethin’ and when he’s with you the sky is bluer and the clouds make these funny shapes with resemblances the two of you never agree on. 

“Okay, okay, you got me,” Sam holds his arms up in surrender, rolled up sleeves unravelling on his forearms. 

It doesn’t stop your approach like he’d hoped it would. The longer this goes on, and the closer you get — he can feel hot breaths fanning over his face now, raising goosebumps beneath his stubble — the weaker his resolve gets. 

You’re right in front of him, warm hands squeezing his shoulders and a glint in your eyes that means trouble. “Do I win a prize, cowboy?”

Sam’s knees buckle just the slightest and it’s your hands wandering down the taut muscles at his sides that keep him standing. When you call him that he feels all weird inside, like any nickname before that was wrong and any after wouldn’t even register for him. 

A sharp hiss leaves Sam’s lips, jolting as a cool few fingers experimentally drift beneath the hem of his shirt, smoothing over his hot skin. He says your name in warning, low and pleading. 

“Sam...” you whisper, knocking his hat off with the tipping brim of your own, a pleading look of your own burning straight through him and settling in the erratic beat of his chest. He struggles to focus on anything other than your fingers splayed out on his torso, thumbs fiddling with the waistband of his boxers peaking out above his jeans, nails scratching just light enough to leave his skin crawling. 

God, what did you say? He can’t remember, clenching fists to avoid reaching out and touching you, all warm against him. And why is he even fighting it? 

Hesitantly, Sam places a calloused hand on your waist, squeezing softly when your nose rubs against his. 

His mouth falls open stupidly, eyes tightly held shut because he’s afraid if he opens them you’ll disappear and he’ll be passed out on the floor at home. He doesn’t know how long he’s been watching after you like he had earlier that day — a while now — but his gaze always seems to find you, same as the few good dreams he has nowadays. 

“I want you.”

“Shit,” Sam grumbles, slapping a hand over the back of your neck and crushing your lips to his. 

The clunk of your hat hitting the stable floor is like the starting shot of a frantic race of tongue and teeth. Sam scrambles to grab handfuls of whatever he can, pulling you closer by the belt loops of your jeans. Your hands curl around his shoulders and push his shirt off, as he pulls you up to straddle him. Sam’s hands shoves themselves down the back of your jeans, stuck between scratchy denim and the soft flesh of your ass. 

Your legs gets tangled with his along the bag of his thighs, the two of you stumbling around for balance. It’s found, of course, in the hay.

Sam’s never felt so desperate, so starved for touch that even with you in his arms it’s not enough. He craves more, wants more of you all the time. He wants you as a coworker, a friend, a lover. 

Everything you have to offer, he’ll take. 

On his back and staring up at you with pathetic, lovesick eyes, Sam blindly tugs off his shirt, distracted by the smooth expanse of skin you reveal to him in your own undressing. He leans forward to press kisses against the cups of your bra, palming at the flesh of your torso and along the ridges of your back, eyes black with hungry want. 

Something whiny joins the harsh breathing that fills the quiet barn and it takes a second for Sam to realize that it had come from him. You slanted your hips over his, slowly rutting the rough fronts of your jeans against each other and Sam can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed by his soft moans. 

“You can’t help it, huh?” you murmur against his lips, rocking back and forth over his groin, “My Cowboy, always watching me with those pretty brown eyes.”

Sam chokes out a wrecked moan, desperately gripping your biceps as you create a burning friction between you, weight bearing down on his hard dick. You’re riding him for all he’s worth and christ, he thinks he might just die. 

“So soft for me, right? Even when I’m being mean...”

He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him, your sweet tongue in his mouth maybe, but Sam has never been so utterly helpless. He doesn’t rightly know what to do with you, if there even is anything he can do. 

One particular roll of your hips has him quivering beneath you, reaching up to bring you down to his lips in a searing kiss. The grind has him seeing stars, crushing your shoulders in his hands as he fights back the rumbling burn in the base of his torso. Sam curses and you tut him, biting into his shoulder with a teasing smile, humming in appreciation as he stuffs his hands into the back pocket of your jeans and urges you on faster. 

Forward and back, a familiar rocking motion that he’s watched intently anytime the two of you ride out together, Sam’s a moaning mess. You drag your hot crotch against his again and again, he can hardly do anything but pant into your mouth as it presses little affectionate kisses.

“Please...” he begs.

You smile down at him, running your hands under his chin and pinching softly. He loves that smile, real soft and teasing, and just for him. Does whatever he can to draw that smile out. 

And then it’s a full out gallop, fast and hard down on his throbbing jean-covered cock and it’s too late before Sam realizes what’s about to happen. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” he struggles to stop you, hands futile in their attempts to halt your hips. You don’t stop and the knowing glint in your eyes tells him you know exactly what it is you’re doing. It’s building, burning in his gut, thick thighs tensed, chasing after it in acquiescence. 

Sam comes with a shout, painting the crotch of his jeans dark and wet with cum. He lays an arm over his eyes, practically hyperventilating as you ease him down with a few slow rolls over him. 

“I-” Sam doesn’t know what to say. Is there anything to say? He’s embarrassed and in awe of himself, of you. “I promise that’s never happened before.”

“You’re somethin’ Sam Wilson,” there’s a laugh in your voice, but Sam doesn’t feel like it’s at him and what he views as his failings. You pat his still heaving chest with a satisfied smile, the thumb of your other hand tapping lightly over his plump bottom lip. 

Sam grins, relieved that you’re still you. Understanding where it counts and a real fucking ball buster. Literally. 

“Not that I don’t love a good roll in the hay as much as the next guy... but, let’s do dinner before next time?” He’s a bit shy in his asking, focused on where his thumb traces the skin you your thigh still splayed out over his. 

You smile and nod, biting your lip and Sam’s a goner if it wasn’t already abundantly clear, “Gotta make it up to me somehow.”

Sam groans and throws you off of him, dipping you into a pile of hay he’s glad you disappear in. 

-

#sam wilson x reader #sam wilson #mcu fanfiction #marvel #one shot #modern au #cowboy!sam #female reader #reader insert #sam wilson x you

[savannahsdrabbles]

The Dinner Party (Encounters-verse)

rating: G summary: Splinter invites April over to the lair for dinner, and April learns that there are secrets yet to be revealed.

notes: This was a lot of fun to right, if not just because I got to talk about sleepy turts. <3 4k words, Ao3 link here

April pressed the buttons on the side of her watch and squinted as a soft blue light illuminated the small screen: 2:27 A.M. When Splinter said no one would know that she was gone, he wasn’t kidding. Her street seemed to be asleep, despite the fact that she could still hear sirens and cars moving in the distance. New York City was never totally silent, but at this hour it was the quietest it was ever going to get. Her mom’s heavy snoring from the other room was the loudest noise around, and didn’t show any signs of stopping even as April had pushed open her bedroom window and crawled out onto the fire escape.

She’d snuck back into her school clothes once her mom had gone to bed, tucking her pajamas and a few stuffed animals under the covers to give the illusion that someone was still beneath them. April didn’t think her mom would even come to check, but doing so still made her giggle – this all felt like a dramatic scene from a movie. The young protagonist, sneaking out of her house and meeting a stranger in the night to go to a party – April was sure she’d seen at least three Disney Channel movies with a similar storyline.

The girl’s stomach growled slightly, serving as a reminder that she hadn’t eaten much for dinner. She briefly considered pulling a granola bar from the box in her backpack, but then decided against it. They were supposed to be eating at the lair tonight, and it would seem rude for her to show up full and having eaten part of her gift for them. Still, considering the fact that the family had been dumpster diving for food only weeks ago, April couldn’t help but wonder what their meal could even consist of. It was very possible that the food would be a hodgepodge of things pulled from dumpsters or stolen from open window sills.

Perhaps it would be a good idea to eat a little bit of something beforehand -

“Are you ready?”

April bit back a shriek at the sudden voice hovering over her head and stumbled back across the metal grating, her fist swinging wildly in the direction of the source. Before it could land, however, a slightly larger and softer hand caught the fist and gently held on to keep her from tripping over her own feet.

“Splinter, oh my gosh,” April caught her balance and then pulled her fist back to place the palm over her pounding heart. “You nearly gave me a heart attack. I didn’t even hear you climbing up the ladder – you’re like a ninja or something!”

Splinter’s whiskers twitched in amusement. He was perched on the edge of the fire escape, squatting in such a way that he looked like he were about to leap frog onto the platform where April was sitting. A dark brown robe was tied around his body, and a hoodie was pulled over that to further cover his rodent features. “Or something like that,” he mused. “But I am sorry to have scared you. Are you ready?”

April nodded, shouldering her backpack. “Yup! So how do we get there?”

The rat leapt nimbly from the bars, landing silently on his claws and then pulling himself to his feet. “I know that we spoke about this last night, but I wanted to give you one more warning before we go. Our home is intentionally a bit difficult for the average person to find, but that is for the safety of myself and my sons. It is of the utmost importance to me that you do not reveal its location, even to your mother. I am trusting you with a secret that, if shared, could spell danger for my family. You do understand this, right?”

April bobbed her head hard in affirmation, then gasped as her glasses slid down her nose and nearly tumbled to the ground below. “Yes sir!”

“Heh, alright then.” Splinter’s serious expression changed to a paternal smile. “Let us hurry now– I left the oven on.”

***

Splinter was not exaggerating about their home being difficult to find. After leaping from the fire escape with April hanging onto his neck, the rat had ricocheted off of the surrounding brick walls until he landed safely on the ground below. There he had led her to a nearby manhole cover, which he removed with ease and then pointed out the metal bars connected to the sides of the cement tube. The two then descended together into the depths, April grimacing slightly at the smell and general dampness in the air until they reached a bigger tunnel below. The air felt at least slightly drier there, even if the smell persisted. Once they had dropped onto the underground sidewalk, Splinter began to follow a seemingly nonsensical path through the sewers – two rights, a left, straight for several minutes, three lefts, a right – April tried to memorize the course, but eventually gave up and instead focused on not stepping in anything weird.

Eventually the sewer area ended, and the two emerged onto what appeared to be cement platforms that ran alongside old railroad tracks.

“From what I understand, these tunnels were originally going to be part of the New York subway system,” Splinter explained as he jumped down onto the tracks and then held a hand up for April to take. She took it gratefully and jumped, the CLANG from her feet landing on the metal sending echoes through the tunnels. “However, after several tunnel collapses and general flooding issues, these tracks were abandoned and left vacant. So for now, the boys and I have decided to make use of what was left behind. Someday soon we will likely out grow our home and be forced to relocate to an area that better suits our needs, but until then,”

Splinter gestured down the line, and April gasped. A lone subway train car was positioned a short distance down the tracks, definitely older and more rusted than any of the cars April had seen actively moving in the subway station. The car also appeared slightly smaller – more like a sleeper car than one of the long, steel tubes that normally carried dozens of human passengers across the city. Several tubes and wires were suspended from the ceiling above the car and hummed softly – April guessed that this was how they had access to water and electricity. “Oh wow – you guys live in there?”

Before Splinter could reply, a door on the side of the car slammed open and a shriek of delight rang through the tunnel. “They’re here!”

Within seconds, a small green and orange form crashed headlong into April, bowling her over and knocking the breath from her lungs. She stumbled backwards, gasping, and eventually fell flat on her butt on the tracks.

“Michelangelo, calm yourself!” Splinter warned, but there was a smile in his voice as the small turtle wormed his way into April’s lap and wrapped his short arms around her waist.

Once April could breathe regularly again, she looked down into her arms and locked caramel colored eyes with the chocolate brown ones of Michelangelo. The hoodie-clad box turtle rested his chin on her chest and gave her a gap-toothed grin, showing no signs of the fear that had been so prominent on their first meeting. His sleeveless hoodie also seemed to have been thoroughly cleaned since then, since the turtle smelled more like a normal, sweaty little boy rather than the filthy garbage he had been hiding in. “I’m so excited you’re here – Dad told us you were coming over and so we’ve been getting the lair ready for you all day! And he said that since it’s a special occasion, we get spaghetti AND meatballs – that’s one of my favorite foods beside pizza!”

April opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off as three other turtles of varying shapes and sizes tumbled out of the train car. “Mikey, you were supposed to wait inside until Dad brought her in!”

Michelangelo shifted into a sitting position, still perched atop April’s stomach, and stuck his tongue out at his brothers. “Well, they’re hear now, and it’s polite to greet guests - right Dad?”

Splinter’s ears flicked as he pushed down the hood that had been covering his head. “I suppose so. But it’s also equally as polite to not crush your guests.”

“Oh, sorry – ” the turtle quickly rolled off of his newfound friend and allowed her to stand, but didn’t show any signs of joining his brothers. “I’m just super happy to see you!”

“I’m happy to see you, too, Mikey!” April grinned. “How’s the foot doing?”

“Better now! I got really sick from it before, and Dad had to take out the stitches to fix it,” Mikey stuck the specified foot into the air, allowing April to see the row of bandages looped around it. His beak wrinkled up as he remembered the incident. “It really hurt, but I didn’t even cry, hardly. But now it’s healing up, and I just have to walk like this for a while – ” He took a few steps away from April, balancing on the heel of his injured foot with each step to avoid putting pressure on the wound. The process looked painful, but Mikey ended the walk cycle with a proud grin. “Plus Raph has been giving me piggy back rides, which has been cool.”

April looked towards the other turtles, suddenly remembering that they had an audience. She smiled warmly at the largest one, who she was fairly certain was Raph. The snapping turtle shuffled his feet under her gaze and blushed shyly. A red football jersey fit snuggly over his shell, but April could already see where several spines were protruding through the fabric. He was about the same height as she was, a fact that would have made her nervous had she not seen how he behaved before. Despite his gruff looking exterior, April still remembered the way he had cradled Mikey after Splinter pulled them out of the dumpster, and the small flowers he had drawn on their correspondences. “That’s nice of him.”

“I don’t mind.” Raph rubbed one arm and smiled. “I don’t want him to hurt his foot any more.”

The other two turtles were slightly more reserved in their greetings, hovering close to their father as they observed April. She didn’t blame them – she and Mikey had formed a bit of a closer bond through their initial meeting and eventual note passing. The other three she only really knew by name and what Splinter and Mikey had included in their messages.

“Why don’t we head inside now,” Splinter motioned with his tail towards the car. “It’s brighter in there, and April still has school tomorrow, so we shouldn’t keep her too long.”

“You go to school?” one of the boys piped up, his eyes suddenly sparking with interest. A more middle-sized turtle with a purple hoodie tied around his waist peered out from behind his brothers. He wore what appeared to be a large army style backpack over his shell, and a pair of thick black glasses was perched on his snout, making April briefly wondered how Splinter had managed to get his claws on prescription lenses. “What grade are you in?”

“I’m in sixth grade,” April smiled as the group shuffled down the remaining line and into the train car. Splinter ducked in first, muttering to himself that ‘the meatballs had better be done by now’. Mikey clung to her hand, skipping beside April and pulling her up the metal steps. “But I’m only eleven. My birthday falls late in the year, so I’m one of the younger kids in my grade – most of my classmates are twelve.”

The turtle – Donatello, she decided – listened with interest, his head bobbing as she spoke. “Cool. We’re all eight and are homeschooled, so that would make us…” he squinted thoughtfully. “Third grade, I think? Right Dad?”

“Something like that,” Splinter nodded absently as he hurried around the stove and adjusted the burner. “School was a bit different for me when I was your age, and the levels can vary from country to country.”

“Dad’s from Japan.” The turtle in the sleeveless blue tank top piped up, speaking his first words since April had arrived. She turned to face him, and was surprised to see the twin streaks of red running down either side of his face. They looked almost like crescent moons, running vertically from the tip of his head to right above his chin and passing over both eyes. Similar shaped yellow stripes ran up and down his arms and legs, marking him as a red eared slider – a term April had discovered during the frantic turtle research she had been doing over the past few weeks. She hadn’t had a chance to see his markings in the dark that first night, but now in the light of the car April could see that most of the turtles bore unique markings. Donatello’s shoulders boasted purple rectangles below his backpack straps, and bright yellow circles crept up and down Mikey’s legs. A few smaller dots were smattered across the bridge of his nose, almost as if flicked from an artist’s paintbrush. Several stickers had also been slapped to Mikey’s plastron, further diversifying his color scheme. They were all quite a sight to behold, really – a brilliant splash of color and life amongst the darkness of the sewers.

Mikey suddenly tugged at her arm, pulling her out of her thoughts. “C’mon – let me show you around.”

Now that she was looking at her surroundings, April couldn’t help but gape. The inside of the train car was nothing like the cold, intimidating exterior. The whole thing primarily consisted of one long room, with a curtain hung along the back right wall. The front of the car had been completely remade, and was now outfitted with the stove that Splinter was cooking on, a small sink, and a tiny cabinet from which he pulled a variety of mismatched silverware. Behind the rat was a small card table, currently covered with a variety of knickknacks, VHS tapes, stacks of used notepads, and books that April assumed had been collected over the years. Her eyes glanced across the spines – science and engineering textbooks, a few nature magazines, and then several books labeled with symbols that she could only assume were Japanese. She recognized a few of the VHS covers as being Lou Jitsu movies, and the rest were a collection of old cartoons she vaguely remembered having heard of. A large wooden tub sat underneath the table, which Raphael pointed out and clarified that it was for baths.

The four turtles elbowed past each other as they continued towards the back of the car, where twinkling lights had been strung along the ceiling and posters bearing characters from various action movies were plastered over the windows. Donatello explained that this area had originally been the conductors’ sleeping quarters, and two bunk beds had been built into the walls for layovers or when conductors took shifts driving through the night. Nowadays, this served as the boys’ bedroom. Leonardo seemed to be warming up to April as they guided her around, and he whipped open the curtain proudly to reveal the bottom bunk.

A large amount of the twinkling lights were gathered here, woven through the bars beneath the top bunk so as to dangle above their heads like stars in the night sky. The whole bunk was outfitted with a handful of t-shirt pillows and several small blankets with frayed edges. A large quilt lay on top of these, stretching from one end of the bunk to the other in a brilliant gradient of red, blue, purple and orange fabric. April noted a few holes poked through the red portion of the blanket – a clear sign that that was wear Raphael often slept.

The top bunk was much less decorated – two pillows and a thin blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed. This was clearly Splinter’s domain, but Leo loudly announced that he had thrown up on the bed during their bout with the flu the week before.

“I had to clean it up,” Raph grumbled. “Since everyone else was sick.”

Mikey patted his arm solemnly. “You’re our hero, bro.”

On the opposite side of the bunks sat a small, portable television – April remembered having seen a similar one in her grandparent’s house back in Northampton. She had vague memories of watching cartoons in her grandpa’s workshop while he worked on cars, and having to lean in close in order to hear the sound that could never seem to get loud enough. In this small area, though, April could imagine snuggling into one of the bunk beds and allowing the speakers to echo through the car.

The last area of the car, immediately to the left of the door, featured a small table that folded out of the wall. A few books had been stacked here – easy readers and a handful of well worn comic books that April guessed were part of their homeschool curriculum. A row of spiral notebooks bearing each boy’s name sat in the window sill, and Donatello pointed his out proudly.

“I’ve got a list of inventions in there- stuff I’m going to make one day when I’m a world famous scientist!”

April grinned. “Cool! I’ve never been great at science myself – I’m more of a math person.”

“Ooh – I like math, too!” the turtle flapped his hands in front of him excitedly, causing Leonardo to giggle. “I can show you what I’m working on, if you want!”

“You can show April your work later, Purple,” Splinter suddenly announced as he sat a stack of plates and silverware on the school table. “For now, let’s go ahead and eat.”

He didn’t need to speak twice – the boys’ calm demeanor quickly dissolved into pushing and shoving as they all grabbed for plates and scooped out heaping portions of spaghetti and meatballs. April was a bit startled at the sudden commotion, but Splinter saw her expression and rolled his eyes tiredly as if to say ‘this happens everyday’.

Once everyone had settled down, forks in their hands and steaming plates before them, Splinter raised his cup. “I want to take this time again to honor Ms. April O’Neil, and the kindness that she has shown our family. From helping Michelangelo in his time of need, to helping us with groceries, she has proven herself to be our hogosha. April, thank you again.”

“To the hogosha!” the boys chorused as they lifted their cups.

April shrunk down in her seat a little, ears burning as she blushed. Thankfully they didn’t seem to need her to say anything in response, as the whole family immediately lowered their cups and dove hungrily into their meals.

***

“Ugh,” April placed a hand over her stomach and sat back in her seat. “That was so good.”

“Yeah,” Mikey nodded in agreement, having already flopped his head into her lap. The other boys sat in various stages of food comas, Donatello’s eyes drooping occasionally and Leo leaning heavily against the wall. Only Raphael seemed to fully awake as he happily bit into another forkful of pasta. Having enough food was clearly a rarity in this household, and being totally satisfied was even rarer. “My tummy is happy.”

April grinned down at the turtle in her lap and patted his shell. He made a purring sound in response and scooched closer, silently urging her to continue. As she did so, the girl looked up at where Splinter was quietly washing dishes. “I can help out with that, if you’d like.”

Splinter’s flicked in her direction, but he continued his job calmly. “That is alright – I’m almost finished, and then we need to get you home.”

April glanced at her watch. Sure enough, it was almost four a.m. She wondered briefly if she could convince her mom that she was sick in order to skip school, since she could already tell that she would not be getting any work done.

“Speaking of home, Leo mentioned that you were originally from Japan? That’s so cool – I’ve never been out of the country before.”

The rat nodded, though April could almost feel a silent guard go up as he spoke. “Yes, I was born and raised in Japan, but I came to America when I was still young. It was a good life, but…” he turned and looked over his boys. “My life wasn’t complete until I adopted these four.”

The girl considered his words for a moment, pondering if her next question would be rude to ask before she finally blurted it out. “How did you get to America? I mean, I’d imagine it’s hard to fly or something when you have to be in disguise the whole time.”

Splinter paused, and April immediately bit her tongue. That was clearly a sore topic. “I’m sorry- you don’t have to talk about that if you don’t want to.”

“No, it is alright,” the creature gave a light shrug of his shoulders, and then turned back to the dishes in his hands. “Life was not always like this for me. Let us just leave it like that.”

April yearned to dig deeper and ask more questions, but she swallowed them down and nodded. Whether he noticed it or not, she could see the way that his shoulders had tensed beneath his robe at her words, and how his ears had flattened slightly. Whatever had happened to him in the past, Splinter was clearly not ready to speak openly about it – or at least, not to her.

Her thoughts were cut short when sleep apparently overtook Leonardo, and the boy’s head dropped to the table with a small ‘thwack’. Mikey and Raph immediately burst into quiet laughter, only barely managing to muffle the noise behind their hands. Donnie watched the incident through half-hooded eyes, a look of confusion on his face as if he couldn’t tell what had just happened, and then slowly nudged Leo’s plate out of the way before his brother could end up covered in marinara.

“I think someone’s ready for bed,” April laughed, but she couldn’t blame him. Her own eyes were drooping heavily, and she was already dreading the long walk back to her apartment.

“I’ve got him,” Raph finally said as he got over his giggle fit and hopped out of his chair. April watched the turtle gently lift his brother from the table and carry him towards the open end of the sink, where he coaxed the half-conscious turtle into brushing his teeth. Even though she knew that all of the turtles were the same age, it was hard not to see Raphael as the big brother of the bunch – a role he clearly took with pride. The thought almost made her feel jealous – she’d always thought that it would be nice to have a younger sibling.

As if reading her mind, Mikey yawned pitifully from her lap and stretched his arms into the air. “M’legs are tired – carry me?”

April smiled down at the sleepy bundle and grinned. “Where to?”

“Gotta brush my teeth.”

“Alright, then,” the girl opened her arms and allowed Mikey to cling to her side like a baby koala bear. Donnie followed close behind, his steps heavy as he reached out to grab Mikey’s ankle for guidance. Together the trio shuffled towards the sink and traded places with Raph and Leo. The younger two both pulled their toothbrushes out of a cabinet and set to work as Splinter dried off the last dish and set it to the side. He nodded gratefully at April, and then cleared his throat. 

“I should probably take April home now, boys,” The air filled with a chorus of sleepy moans. “So everyone say your goodbyes, and off to bed.”

“Can we read a story tonight?” Raph asked hopefully as he pulled his jersey over his head and climbed into bed. Leo was already snoring quietly at his side, but shifted obediently when Raph nudged him.

“If there is anyone still awake when I return home, yes.”  

Donnie let out a small, exhausted ‘woo’ as he spit into the sink and then wiped his mouth on his arm. “G’night, April. See you next time.”

“Yeah, goodnight!”

“Goodnight!”

“zzzzz… ood ni….zzzz.”

After giving each of the boys that asked a last hug, April shouldered her backpack and followed Splinter out the door- but not forgetting to leave the box of granola bars on the table. Her eyes drooped heavily as she walked, but her heart soared with warmth as she reminisced on the evening. Granted it had only been an hour and a half, but she couldn’t help but feel the sensation that this was a landmark occasion in her life. Each of the boys had won her heart in a different way, and she was already excited to come back during the daytime in order to hang out and ask more questions. Like where did they go the bathroom? Why did Donnie wear that big backpack the whole time she was there? Was he really going to me a ton of inventions like he said? And what about the future lair that Splinter had mentioned?

April smiled to herself as Splinter began to hum a walking song under his breath. She still had questions about the rat as well. There were somethings that he wasn’t telling her, and that he didn’t seem to want the boys to know either. But what?

When they finally reached the ladder that led to the surface, Splinter allowed April to wrap her arms around his neck as he carried her up and out of the sewer, then up to the fire escape before she even realized what was happening. The rat waited patiently as she climbed back through her window, bidding her farewell with a promise that she could come over again whenever she wanted, and then he vanished.

And as April climbed into bed, not even bothering to put her pjs back on, she rested in that promise – that she would see the boys again, and learn more about their world.

#rottmnt #tmnt 2018 #nickelodeon #savannah drabbles #tmnt #tmnt fanfic

[evolutionsvoid]

I am sure there are some people out there surprised to hear that the Underworld has lakes and rivers. According to many tales on the surface, that land down below has replaced such water bodies with fire and lava. While it is true that some regions have magma pools and fiery springs, the majority of the Underworld has water just like us up above. Some of these bodies are so big, that they almost act like oceans! I bet you never thought that the Underworld would have coastal towns! They are definitely a sight to see, and they bring with them an equally amazing amount of flora and fauna that you find on the surface. One of these interesting species is the Klost. Klosts are freshwater dwelling creatures that are mainly found around pools, lakes and rivers. They possess slick, wet skin like a frog or salamander, which means they thrive where ever there is moisture. Due to the structure and environment of the Underworld, some regions are constantly humid and damp, which allows some Klost to live in areas without major water bodies. A set of gills allows them to breathe underwater, but they also have lungs so they can breath normal air. Due to their amphibious nature, they spend half of their lives out of water and the other half in it. With this in mind, their anatomy is built to let them maneuver on land or underwater. A pair of webbed forelimbs are capable of acting as arms or fins depending on the situation, and they are often used to manipulate objects or food. Three pairs of fins line their lower body and they help provide propulsion when the Klost is swimming. On land, they act as crude legs, pushing the Klost along as it slithers across the shore. They are not nearly as fast on land as they are in water, but thankfully their food doesn't run all that fast. Before talking about their diet and feeding habits, one has to bring up the most notable thing about Klosts. If you have ever talked to any demons or shades about these beasts, you would get the impression that Klosts are not to be messed with and should be given their space. When you finally see one of these creatures squirming across the land or lazily resting in the shallows, you may wonder how it got such a reputation. With their strange limbs and big goofy mouths, many describe them as a cross between a fish and a salamander. So what is so fearsome about them? Sure they are large and they have sharp spines, but what is the big deal? This answer will come to you when you observe the Klost eating or warding off threats, and it will be pretty hard to miss. When looking to take a big bite out of something, the mouth will open wide and its entire "face" will unsheathe itself. The slimy skin will pull back to reveal a terrifying face built of bony armor and shearing plates. With a single bite, the Klost will crack through stone, armor and exoskeleton with ease. Once its meal or foe is chomped into pieces, the skin shall slide back into place and the Klost's goofy appearance will return. When watching this amazing transformation, some people get the impression that the Klost is opening its mouth to release a second head from its throat, but this is not the case. What is actually happening here is the skin on the face is sliding back as if you were pulling up an arm sleeve. This hide is not fully connected to the head region, and special muscles allow it to pull this layer on and off. The point of this skin sheath is not fully known, but it is believed that it acts as a protective layer when the Klost is not eating. Another theory is that this maneuver is meant to keep the skin from being damaged when it is feeding, as its armored plates can take a lot of punishment. I can see that one having some merit, as you wouldn't want to bite your lip with those chompers! Just by looking at its mouth, you can tell the Klost has some serious power in its bite. Instead of teeth, its jaws are lined with tough sharpened plates that kind of look like a beak. Backing up this intimidating grin are several powerful muscles that create an amazing amount of force. Combing the two together creates a bite that can shear through just about anything. The fang-like protrusions can be positioned on its meal so that they puncture thick armor and rinds with little resistance. Bare flesh is an absolute joke to these jaws, as Klosts can bite through a leg or torso without missing a beat. Armed with this incredibly powerful weapon, the Klost is able to take on its favorite food: Fruit! 

Shockingly, the Klost is not some powerful carnivore but instead an omnivore that favors fruits, nuts and vegetables. The cracking jaws are meant to take down thick shells and rinds, allowing the Klost to get to the meaty center. One of their particular favorites are Geode Fruit, which possess a rock-like exterior. While we would have to access this food with a hammer and chisel, the Klost merely needs to take a bite to crack open this impossible shell. For food, the Klost roams the waters and lands in search of vegetation. Due to the environment found in the Underworld, many plants and fungi grow their pods and seeds closer to the ground. With its arms, it will dig up buried roots or pluck low hanging fruits. Aquatic plants can also provide a crunchy meal, and the Klost will slither across the water bottom in search. They are indeed capable of eating meat, but they often find it too fast and bothersome to deal with. Shelled mollusks and insects are their main meals in the meat department, as these critters are slow and rely on their armor to protect them. Hiding in your shell, though, will do nothing to save you from these jaws though! The Klost can sometimes eat softer animals, but this usually happens when some fool decides to pick a fight with one of these beasts. When it comes to defending itself, the Klost's preferred weapon is obvious. An array of sharp spines can deter attack, but its powerful jaws are the thing that can take down any foe. Armor and hide are insignificant to this bite, while flesh and bone offer as much resistance as a bowl of warm butter. If one is not careful around a Klost, they can easily lose a limb to the beast. Tales even suggest that the Klost can bite through weapons, shattering blades as if they were twigs. Demons and shades are sure to give Klosts plenty of space, and any boat captain will avoid getting too close to foraging individuals so that the irritated beast doesn't bite through the hull. Thankfully, the Klost is a lazy creature that is perfectly fine slithering along and chowing on fruit. They are not territorial and will only be aggressive if an idiot chooses to get too close and antagonize them. When I got to watch these creatures in action, I literally sat on a ledge overlooking a shore line and watched a dozen of Klosts just laze about in the shallows. I don't even know if they registered the fact I was there! With this strength and laid back attitude, Klosts are a danger only to the ignorant and stupid. Vespar said that they warn young ones about Klosts like how you would warn them about a precarious ledge or cliff, "you can look at them if you want, but don't go dancing on top of them." Another thing that I have heard was that Klosts are one of the beasts that can be considered a "Fool's Trophy." I never heard of the phrase before, but Mamin explained it to me. A Fool's Trophy is an indicator amongst hunters and warriors that let you know if someone is absolutely full of it. If you go into a boastful hunter's abode and find a trophy or a mount of a Klost in their collection, then you know that they are a fake and an idiot. The reason behind this is that Klosts are incredibly strong and they have an intimidating visage, but they are lazy and uncaring oafs. To actually hunt one of these beasts is not all that difficult and such a feat is hardly an accomplishment. No professional hunter would put up a trophy of a Klost because it is meaningless and proves nothing, but a try-hard fool would solely on the reasoning that Klosts are strong and they look scary. While Klosts are really cool with their bizarre facial anatomy and pretty colors, I have to admit that this species is a little ruined for me. I am not saying they are bad, stupid or boring, but every time I see them or hear about them something else comes to mind. You see, the sharp jaws of a Klost bears some resemblance to the shearing plates that we dryads have. This was an observation that was not missed by my demon guides, and I never heard the end of it. The name "Klost Face" became a frequent thing I heard during my trip, most of which I blame on Valac. I guess this is what happens when you try to "smile with teeth" for people who have never seen a dryad before. I was just trying to be nice and polite! Gimme a break, guys! Chlora Myron Dryad Historian ------------------------------------------------------------------- Back into the Underworld we go for a spell!  

#monster #creature #amphibian #art #drawing #underworld

[justheretobreakthings]

Remember Me - Chapter 1

(Next Chapter)

A Voltron: Legendary Defender fic Central Characters: Keith, Lance (platonic Klance) Genres: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family, Supernatural Word Count: 2,822 Read on AO3

Story Summary:

It was strange enough for the paladins of Voltron to have found another human this far from home, locked in a Galra prison. But it was stranger still when this human insisted that he knew them, and even that he was the former red paladin of Voltron.

That couldn’t possibly be true, could it? After all, if this Keith was actually a part of the Voltron team, then why does nobody remember him?

Chapter Preview:

“Um, guys?” he said into his comm, his voice a half-whisper in his stunned state. “There’s – this, um, this prisoner – ”

In the brief tick of silence that passed as Lance fumbled to remember how to use words, Shiro prompted him: “What about them? Lance? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s just – he’s human.”

Chapter 1

“All right,” Lance said into his comm as the last of the aliens in the nervous mob of limbs and prison garb turned the corner to start toward the stairwell. “Is that the last of them on this floor?”

“Looks like it,” said Pidge’s voice, tinny and echoing through a hint of static in the helmet’s speakers. “Not picking anything else up on the BLIP tech.”

Hunk’s voice piped up to join the discussion. “We’ll still want to do a sweep of the floor before we head back up, though, right?”

Lance groaned. “I feel like we already covered every inch of the place while we were smashing through security.”

“Please,” Pidge scoffed. “I was doing ninety percent of the work from here.”

“Well, to be fair to the rest of us, firefights are a lot more tiring than sitting on your ass in front of a computer screen.”

“Excuse me, would you like to try hacking into the security here? If it’s so damn easy – ”

“Guys, knock it off.” A fourth voice, this one steady and authoritative, came through the comms. “We’ve all worked hard and we’re all exhausted. But this is our fourth and final prison break and once we’re done here, we can all take some vacation time in the castle and de-stress. Could you please just hold it together until then?”

“Sorry, Shiro,” Lance grumbled, and Pidge did the same. “How are things up on the surface? Everyone making it out okay?” Lance added.

“Seem to be, yeah. Allura’s really got a knack for crowd control, so we’re getting them all into the castle pretty neat and quick. I’m not as great at the first-aid, it seems. Coran’s getting the cryopods ready, so once we’ve got everyone freed, we can figure out a priority order for them and get started on the real healing.”

Lance frowned. “Wait, once we’ve got everyone freed? Didn’t I just get the last batch of them?”

“Nope,” said Pidge. “There’s one more floor to go, it seems.”

“You’re kidding,” Lance said with a grimace. Each floor of this prison so far had been worse than the last; the one he was on right now was dark and damp and cold, smelled faintly of urine and what may have been ammonia, and had housed prisoners who had needed a hell of a lot of coaxing to stop huddling away from the door. He hated to think there was another beyond it.

“I’m not kidding in the least,” Pidge said. “This one shouldn’t take long, though; looks like most of the bots and any live prison staff came up to the higher floors earlier during our raid, so this floor should be pretty much clear. And I’m only seeing about a dozen prisoners down there.”

“You got the security tech out of the way?” Shiro asked.

“I’m working on it, I’ll have it soon. Hunk, there’s a door a few yards down the hall from your position. I’ll have that open in a moment, so get ready.”

“Roger that,” said Hunk.

“Want me to go join Hunk, then?” Lance asked.

“Actually, I’m seeing two stairwells down, and one’s a couple halls away from you. I figure you and Hunk can each take an end and meet in the middle. Walk to your right and take the next two left turns you come by.”

Lance sighed and started off, following Pidge’s directions. “I gotta say, I’m not crazy about moving around solo down here.”

“You know, uh, I’m actually with Lance a little,” Hunk commented. “This place just feels a little too much like a great setting for a horror movie.”

“That description could apply to half the places we’ve been to since we came into space. Lance will meet you soon, and I’ll be monitoring from here. So no worries, Hunk, you can chill out.”

“Hey, you hear that, Hunk?” Lance said. “Turns out all this time, we just needed to tell you to chill out. I can’t believe Pidge cured your anxiety.”

“Lance,” Shiro scolded.

“Sorry.”

“Come on, guys, we’re nearly done. Stay focused. And, hey, stay positive. We’ve had a record number of rescues these past few quintants, and that number’s still getting higher. Don’t burn out now; once we’re off this planet you guys should be in the mood to celebrate.”

“Yeah, everything’s fantastic,” Pidge said sarcastically. “I guess you’re right that it’s great we got that intel about the prisons. Almost makes the fact that a Blade base had to be raided and destroyed to get it seem worth it.”

“What the hell did I just say about staying positive.”

“Ah, Shiro, don’t mind Pidge, you know she gets cranky when she misses her nap.”

“I can turn some of these lasers back on, you know. Don’t tempt me.”

“Uh, guys?” said Hunk. “As much as I’m enjoying the banter, I’d really appreciate it if you could get that other door open so Lance could come down?”

“Right, sorry. I’ll have it in just a couple of ticks.”

“You all right there, buddy?” Lance asked. “Nothing too horrible down there?”

“Well, um, it’s not great. I got one of the cells cleared, and the guy in it wasn’t looking so hot.”

“Injured?”

“Spooked, mainly. Didn’t make a sound. Also, there’s, like, machines? Not in the cells, in other rooms. I think they might be labs or something. Hang on, found another person. It’s just one per room, I think. Got them spread out.”

“All right, Lance, you’re in,” Pidge spoke up, just as Lance heard the soft electronic hum of a sliding door opening a little ways down the hall. “Hunk, Lance will be right there.”

Lance lowered the volume of the comm as he descended the stairs, Hunk keeping up a running commentary of everything he saw. The hallway he reached was nearly pitch-black, and he had to turn the lights in the corners of his visors on to see properly. A door beside him had a small green light above it, and the next door down the hall from it had a red light that turned green as Lance watched. Pidge must be unlocking them still.

He opened the first door. The room inside was silent, with no hint of movement. Hunk, it seemed, was right about there being labs here. Lance’s first impression of the room was that it looked a bit like an operating room, complete with monitors and utility columns. He shuddered as he closed the door and moved on to the next room.

This one was more of a standard prison cell, if an extremely barebones one. A cot in the corner seemed to be the only furnishing, and it was going unused as the cell’s sole occupant – a creature that Lance thought looked rather like an enormous frog, if frogs had exoskeletons – was instead manacled by the wrists to the back wall.

He opened the kit in his hand, the one full of Pidge-approved lock-picking devices that had been his best friend during these prison raids, and approached the prisoner, watching the steady rise and fall of the body. “Hey, you all right?” he asked. The prisoner froze. His head was resting against his chest, facing the floor, and he didn’t look up at Lance’s voice. In fact, he didn’t so much as move a muscle. “Okay, um, I’m here to help you. That okay?” He stepped toward the alien. “I’m gonna get you out of these things, and then I’m getting you away from here. I’ll only be a moment.”

He cautiously took hold of the manacle holding the right wrist, and when the alien still didn’t respond, he began working to unlock it, working in silence. It wasn’t until he started on the second manacle that he spoke again, but this time he turned his volume back up and spoke into the comm rather than to the alien. “Hey, this guy’s seeming pretty unresponsive. I think I’m gonna need help getting him out.”

“I’m already on my way down to help Hunk with the same,” Shiro said. “Hang in there.”

“Okay, good, I just didn’t want – “ The manacle clicked open, and in an instant, the alien’s head shot up, making Lance let out a small, surprised yelp. The alien sprang away from the wall and shot out of the room and into the hallway, seeming for all the world like he’d been waiting his whole life for the opportunity to break away.

“Lance?” Shiro called. “What’s wrong?”

“Uh, nothing,” Lance answered. “Just, cancel the help. Think he’s good to go.”

“Ah. Well, hey, these people have been through some trauma. Best to take any weird behavior in stride.”

“Gotcha. I’ll try.”

He continued on his way down the hallway. It seemed the prisoners on this floor had had it rough, and they were letting him know it. The next one he found, a noodle-thin, eight-limbed alien he freed from a tank in one of the lab-like rooms, had screamed wordlessly at him as he worked off the lid of the tank and tried to bite him the moment the opening was wide enough to attempt; and in the next room, another cell, a gelatinous figure had huddled like an armadillo into a perfect sphere that it took every bit of persuasive skill Lance possessed to get them to come out of.

The fourth prisoner he found, though, was the one that truly shocked him.

This one was in one of the labs as well, laid out on an operating table. He was strapped down by his wrists and ankles, and a device was attached to his head, what looked to be halfway between the sort of objects Lance and the other paladins wore during their mind-melding exercise, and a metallic spider, and draping wires connecting it to a dozen different machines. He looked to be unconscious, as his eyes remained closed even as Lance came into the room none-too-silently, and his breathing was ragged and unsteady. There was discoloration on his nose and around one eye, from bruising, and although he was fully dressed such that Lance couldn’t see the state of the rest of his body, a splattering of dark stains on the operating table beside him gave him a pretty good hint.

None of this, however, was what shocked him.

“Um, guys?” he said into his comm, his voice a half-whisper in his stunned state. “There’s – this, um, this prisoner – ”

In the brief tick of silence that passed as Lance fumbled to remember how to use words, Shiro prompted him: “What about them? Lance? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s just – he’s human.”

There was silence on the comms. Apparently the news was just as surprising to the rest of the team as it was to him. Pidge was the first to break the silence, urgently crying, “Lance, did you just find – ?!”

“It’s not Matt,” he cut her off. “Or Sam. Sorry, Pidge. I, um, I don’t know who it is.” He leaned in to take a closer look at the figure before him. It was a man, young, probably around his age, and looked to be near his height as well. He was slender, and his skin seemed pale, at least as far as Lance could tell in this lighting. His face was angular, but still youthful, and was partly covered by an uneven curtain of hair that looked like a style Lance had seen only in photographs from the nineteen-eighties. “Shiro, do you know of any other humans who might be this far out in space?”

“I don’t know of any astronauts besides myself and the Holts who didn’t come back to Earth,” Shiro answered. “You’re sure he’s human?”

“Pretty sure I know my own species well enough to recognize it on someone else.”

“Is it… maybe some sort of shape-shifter?” Hunk asked. “And took the form of a human when one was approaching?”

“He’s unconscious, he wouldn’t have been able to do any shapeshifting.

“Then, it – it must be someone who left Earth at some point after we did,” Shiro said slowly. “I could see if he looks familiar at all after you get him out, but… it’s probably a long shot.”

“All right,” Lance said, still nervously watching the prisoner. “I, uh, I’ll probably need some help. This guy doesn’t look like he’ll be up for walking on his own two feet.”

“Hunk and I will be there as soon as possible. Just do what you can for now.”

“Roger.” He took a deep breath and stepped down along the operating table to start unstrapping the man. The blistering he saw on the thin wrists as he removed the straps had him cursing under his breath, and the ankles seemed to be in the same state.

Once the arms and legs were freed, Lance moved back toward the head, biting his lip in apprehension as he took in the device on the man’s head. It didn’t look to be hooked into his skin at all, so Lance figured he could safely remove it, but he still was slow in the process, cautious, pulling it away delicately so that the metal appendages broke contact with the head one at a time.

Still, something must have snagged somewhere, because when the object was half-removed, the prisoner finally stirred. Lance froze in place as the man’s breath hitched, and then, with a twitch of his head so faint it was nearly invisible, he let out a frail whimper.

“I’m sorry!” Lance whispered. “I’m sorry, buddy, didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m almost done, I swear.” The man may or may not have heard him, but Lance continued muttering reassurances as he finished removing the device. All the while, the prisoner seemed to be gradually growing awake. His whimper slowly switched to a groan, and he began squirming on the table, then stiffening and changing the pace of his breathing, an indication that his movement must have been aggravating some sort of injury.

“Hey,” Lance said softly. “Hey, hey, calm down, all right?” He put a hand as gently as he could on the man’s shoulder, rubbing it in what he hoped the latter would recognize as a comforting gesture. “I’m only here to help. Just hold still for now, I’ve got people coming to help get you out of here. Can you hang tight, bud?”

He was answered with another soft moan, and the shoulder beneath Lance’s hand tensed as, slowly and deliberately, the man’s eyes flickered, and gradualy the eyelids peeled apart, leaving them opened but narrowed.

What little Lance could see of the eyes rolled tentatively back and forth for a moment before finally hardening into focus, and the man squinted up at Lance, brow furrowing. Then, suddenly, his eyes shot fully open, round as globes, startlingly purple irises on milk-white, staring at Lance in what looked to be utter shock.

Lance met his gaze, not sure how to interpret this reaction. “Um,” he said. “I, uh – are you doing okay?”

The man’s lips parted, and he drew in a deep breath before he spoke, his voice rough and tight – from fear or disuse, Lance didn’t know – but it wasn’t in answer to his question. Instead, he said, tone incredulous, “Lance?”

Lance stared at him, and he needed a moment to find his voice. “Did – did you say – ?”

“Lance!” the man cut him off, and his breathing seemed to double in speed as he started squirming again with a renewed vigor. “Lance, you’re – how did – ” His eyes darted frantically around the room, and then he squeezed them shut, as if the action had left him dizzy. “Where’s – where are – ”

His voice was fading already, and as much as Lance knew the man probably wasn’t up for cognizance, he couldn’t help himself from gently shaking his shoulder, relieved when the eyes opened up wearily. “You said my name. How did you know my name?”

The man blinked uncomprehendingly. “You came,” he rasped out, ignoring Lance’s question completely. “I – I didn’t think…” And with that, his eyes rolled back up into his head and he collapsed back into unconsciousness.

That seemed to have been the last of his awareness for the time being, as he didn’t stir again. He lay there beside the equally silent Lance until, finally, footsteps announced the arrival of the black and yellow paladins.

“How’s he holding up?” Shiro asked as he strode into the room. He bent over the operating table, intent on getting a better look, but he paused when he noticed the expression on Lance’s face. “Lance?” he asked. “Did something happen?”

“He said my name,” Lance said. His voice was faint and flat.

Shiro stared up at him. “He said – are you sure?”

Numbly, Lance nodded. “He said my name,” he repeated. “I think – Shiro, I don’t know him, but… I think he knows me.”

#keith kogane #lance mcclain #vld fic #voltron fanfic #vld keith #vld lance #keith #lance #my writing #fic: remember me

[tarnishedhalo]

Ship meme: The whiskey three

Married Life || Accepting { @therealgamble, @whiskeyandtwoshotglasses}

If  We Don’t Die, It’ll Make a Helluva Story

leaves their dirty clothes on the floor

The night before…

“Jesus, Riley, do you have to be such a slob?” “You were the one that said I couldn’t bring B-”“Say her name one more time-”

“Guys…honestly, is it so hard to-” It was all fun and games before the whiskey got knocked over and the tee-shirt was used to mop it up.

forgets to run the dish washer

It’s a land of empty mre packets and plastic utensil forests. There’s empty 3.2 cans, packed in such a way that they’d been claimed as tactical gear…and somehow, the brass bought it. All to avoid Punto Negro the Second of its Name.

Hunter still refuses to tell Gamble the story, and as predicted, uses security clearance as his excuse. Riley just laughs.

pumps gas for the car

It’s a known fact that Gamble drives. Riley pumps the gas because it’s better than waiting ~but it’s so he can stretch and pull tension out of his spine, his leg~ and Hunter…Hunter is the one that sits in the back, dreaming of margaritas and warm sands. Until they hit the roadblock. Then there’s a burst of thirty second activity. Before the car moves an inch, Brian’s now in the back, black case at his feet, looks like a suitcase. They know better. Hunter’s behind the wheel because he’s the one that speaks the local language. And Riley’s the one muttering it’s never going to work until Gamble kicks his seat.

It’s a fire-drill every few dozen clicks, lather rinse and repeat as it was before. Their shirts stick to their skin, rivers of damp down their spine, their brow, every part of them that isn’t covered with dirt.

drives when they’re going somewhere

It’s old hat by now. Squad forward to the release point.

Bravo is silent because there’s none, which makes some things better, some worse.

“Kumbaya, kids.”

The claymores are in place, camouflaged. The moon is low giving limited visibility so they have to rely on Gamble who is far too cheerful. The patrol they’ve set up against is destined to make its rounds and Riley and Hunter have established a crossfire. It will be a kill zone for forty-five seconds. Then green smoke between their position and the objective.

“You should see the look on your faces.”Riley knows Gamble’s keeping up moral in his way and because he knows neither Riley nor Hunter can smack-talk back. It’s both a comfort and an annoyance.

Gamble lets out a low, sharp whistle over the comms and time starts. Patrol is at Nine and Twelve. A deviation from what recon had gathered but it makes no difference. There’s barely sound as the first shots don’t ring out, weapons suppressed. 

“My granny leap-frogs better than you two old ladies. And she’s been dead twenty years. Don’t make me come down there and show you how it’s done.”

They move, covering each other while Gamble watches over, picks off the extras with well placed shots.

They hit the door and kick down the door, smoke obscuring everything, even breath. The masks do little to filter out the acrid taste but at least they aren’t crying. 

“Five…four….three….two….white.”

Moments later, out they come, dragging the limp frame between them. Riley hands over his rifle, Hunter slings his over his shoulder. The objective gets slung over Riley’s shoulder and it’s a running back’s rush as the PJ eats ground. The Brit’s not far behind him, pulling a pin with his teeth and lobbing the grenade into the building’s open maw.

rearranges the furniture

There’s four of them now, crammed into a space barely bigger than a couple of jail cells, and the civvie’s getting antsy. Keeps asking questions none of the Whiskey Three have answers for. Gamble’s given up trying to allay the engineer’s fears and has started ignoring him. Riley just keeps pouring drinks. Hunter thinks both of them are pretty shitty when it comes to intel.

He pulls a cable spool over to make a makeshift table, used chalk and a sharpie to make a board. Pebbles for pieces. Talks to him in his own language over the longest checkers game in history, because, as he reminds the other two…

This man is afraid. Was rescued from his own murder because he was willing to betray his god and his family to do the right thing. He’s still human.

Later, when the night gets cold because the desert’s a bitch that way, Hunter pulls the spare sleeping bag closer to the portable heat source, and gives the guy an extra blanket, and space to pray.

He notices though, that their guest isn’t the only one. Gamble’s got a well worn picture of Tabby that he may or may not just have brushed a thumb over, and he knows without a doubt that it’s a rosary Riley’s murmuring over. In moments like that, Hunter bites his tongue and doesn’t ask him if it’s Mary or his sister that he’s praying to. Low hanging fruit, and all.

falls asleep with the TV on

Three days on and things have scraped the bottom of the barrel for boring. And Riley’s going out of his mind. Waiting was always the worst part of the job, the hours and hours of nothing but watching sand-flies crawl up the crumbling mud walls, and the heat shimmer parching the dirt outside, micro-waving the horizon.

Muzzani and Hunter have grown tired of checkers, and are dozing off the afternoon heat. Gamble’s turn on the radio.

“You ever think about retiring from this? Getting a joe-job and-”“Naw. Where would you two be without me saving your asses?”“But we could be home right now, cold beer, game on the tv, yelling at the refs for shitty calls.”

“And who would you put in our place?”

“You make a valid point.”“Sure as shit I do.”

Riley shacks up in a corner, back against the wall, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. He refuses to complain, but some part of him knows he’s starting to get too old for this. He pulls his lid down over his eyes and closes them for just a minute…

gets to use the bathroom first

It’s the only time that Hunter’s had to himself, and of course, he’s stuck inside three and a bit canvas walls. He steals from it a moment of serenity from Riley’s constant complaint and Gamble’s murderous sarcasm. Even Muzzani’s hopelessness and fears. It gives him a moment of focus and clarity, to remind himself that they just need to wait a little longer.

Patience, after all, was a virtue, even here.

Patience is also what he calls the camel-spider lurking near the toilet paper.He doesn’t mention Patience because you have to laugh about something.

decides the temperature for the ac/heater

From temperatures that can soar upwards of a 105 degrees during the day, down to less than 40 at night, each one of them believes this is hell, and there’s nothing they can do about it.

sets up holiday decorations

“Uh…what are you doing?”

“Herding sheep. The fuck does it look like I’m doing?”

“….where did you even get flowers?”

“Muzzani and Hunter helped me out.”“And you’re stringing them together with…suture thread and a needle from the med kit?”

“It’s tradition.”“For…what?”

“It’s June 11th. Kamehameha day. So I’m making a lei.”

“You…need…fuckin’ therapy.”

leaves the lights on

Gamble’s set up the left side, Riley the right. They aren’t exactly landing lights but you do what you can. The road flares glow with a sickly pale red light, but it’ll be enough for the chopper to pick up a visual. It’s a bittersweet sensation; on one hand, it means finally going home. On the other, it means giving away your location and things have been going too smoothly, too quietly…

They’re all thinking it, but no one wants to be the asshole who says it out loud.

uses the bathroom with the door open

Man was raised in a bar, can’t be bothered to walk the hundred paces to make it from the door way to the latrine. Just unzips and lets it go, shakes. All with one hand, rifle steady in the other.“Do you do that at home?”Riley flashes Hunter a grin, even in the dark.

Gamble bites back on the first, second, thirty-fifth thing that comes to mind.

fixes the plumbing (or calls the plumber)

Sand scours the few exposed bits of flesh as the chopper blades whip it into a frenzy, not that they notice. Their luck didn’t hold out like it promised to. The night is filled with the staccato burst of automatic fire on both sides, Hunter’s running point with Muzzani and they’re half way toward the dark silhouette and the open doors that mean extraction.

Gamble and Riley are laying down cover fire and they’re running low; four heart beats later, Gamble’s shouting for them to haul ass and…nothing happens. He’s gotten about a third of the way when he notices he’s running alone.“Shit. Shit. Shit.”The pilot’s signaling, Hunter’s screaming…And fucktard’s not moving at all.

Keying his radio, Gamble barks a change in plan, from gun-run to cas-evac. And as soon as they get back to civilization, he’s going to kick Riley’s ass.

He turns back to drag his friend from the shadow of the building.

#Thanks!G #The Whiskey Three|Gamble and Hunter and Riley #excerpts from the 'drabble' I'm writing for Gamble-mun's other prompt #tw: violence #tw: strong language #tw: stupidly long post under cut #therealgamble

[literarygreg10xsmenow]

~ 'The Rails, Some Hemp, and A Hanging' ~

/* ‘The Rails, Some Hemp, and A Hanging’ ~ ‘A livin man, a livin man… I wants to be a livin man. In all da world, he moves around, he walks around, he turns around… I sees each tree, I reads each vein, I hears each worm upon each leaf… The buzzing flies, the splashing fish, they moves around this livin man… A livin man, a livin man – I want to be a ‘Living Man.’ ~ ‘The Rails, Some Hemp, and A Hanging’ "A Believers' View" By Gregory V. Boulware, Esq http://therailssomehempandahanging.blogspot.com/ http://hbcu.com/content/358995/the-rails-some-hemp-and-a-hanging https://www.amazon.com/Gregory-V.-Boulware/e/B00OI16PDI/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0%20 The Sun hadn’t risen to light up the world this morning. This pain-in-the-ass of a war has proven fruitless. It has put us all in a terrible bind. The ‘Blue-Bellies’ outside were laughing and joking right under the window of my jail-cell window. And as I recall, I think I could see several ‘darky’s’ planting, plowing, picking, and singing in the distance. The damned ‘Yankees’ have taken all that belongs to us…  A couple, maybe three of four birds chirped and sang in the distance. There could not have been any more than that, I’m sure. The Yankee soldiers outside reveled in their mastery while enjoying the aromatic scents of ‘Hemp’ and ‘Moonshine.’ There was no other way to get liquor other than someone making it themselves. There was no store-bought liquor to be had for miles in any direction. The company had its share of ‘shiner’s’ on both sides of the war-torn fences. Their horses bayed and pranced in the cold damp yet dark beginning of the day’s morn. My hanging tribunal was short and to the point. My foolish guilt could not be reversed, albeit, my hatred for these ‘Blue-Coats’ and their Black supporters surpasses my pain and sorrowful agony. I do long for the fragrance and joys of home… My dear sweet ‘Abbey,’ my darling wife and young’uns; my plantation and memories of France cut at my brain. In France I was broke, poor, and penniless… Here in South Louisiana, I have become rich, powerful, and wholesome. I have more than a hundred acres of land manned by two-hundred and eighty-five of the best young and strong Black livestock in the territory. Four hundred head of cattle graze on my lands. The farmyard houses chickens, geese, ducks, pork, and several dozen head of living horse flesh along with a few dogs and cats. I am a very wealthy man indeed.  These invaders, these usurpers, these Black-defenders who have confiscated our properties…must all return to their northern domains and domiciles or die. We have made and taken great lengths and efforts to drive them out. They will not relinquish our belongings…they will lose theirs! Cowards and subordinates have taken the places of my one time friends and neighbors. They have cravingly crept into running, hiding, and collaborating with the disciples of the leader of reform, abolition, and reverse slavery for white land owners and the young’uns. I sir, will not allow it, not at all. Someone ought to put a bullet in the head of that tall and long bearded charlatan in that ‘White-House’ Capital of theirs! I will fight them to my last breath. I will spit on thee and kill thee upon sight of your blue coats. Bounties have been imposed on you white folks who hire, save, utilize, employ, and/or hide any Black run-away slaves or so-called Union Soldiers. I will kill them, and kill them until I can kill them no more. I will shoot their horses, cook their dogs and livestock…and hang anyone who interferes. Their buildings, houses, transportation, bridges, and trestles are game subjects for the targeting of my wrath and abhorrence for their tyranny! Resistance will not be futile. Did I kiss my wife and daughters this morning? I, for the life of Me do not recall. I cannot remember! The drifting tufts of the smoking hemp are most gratifying… I’d like a pipe-full. My pipe-full, did I leave it on the terrace table next to my comforting rocking-chair? I do believe that I have. I left it for my return to relaxation once the bridge is blown. That will stop the intrusion, the advancement of these ‘*****-lovers’ from coming down here, through here. The morning…its’ beginning was indeed ominous. It was strangely and mysteriously overcast with heavy thick clouds of gray and dulling-whiteness overhead. One bird made a noise that I could hear. The keys of the jail-house door clang and rattled. No breakfast did I receive; no water for washing or drinking was permitted either.  The voiceless ‘Blue-Bellies’ had come for me. It was a time to reflect my misgivings. Do I have any? I wonder. The coldness of the morn and the trembling of my fear, have caused me apprehension to begin the procession to the bridge. I did resist. I did struggle against them, my enemies. But it was all for naught. And then I complied with their directions. We marched from the jail-house toward the desolation of the ‘Owl Creek Bridge.’ A Posted Warning: ‘ORDER…ANY CIVILIAN CAUGHT INTERFERING WITH THE RAILROAD BRIDGES, TUNNELS, OR TRAINS WILL BE SUMMARILY HANGED!’ ~This 12 of April 1862~ The posted sign warned all who would keep men as slaves while opposing a right and just law. But this stalwart southerner, tried to blow up ‘The Owl Creek Bridge’ anyway. “Yes, something occurred at ‘The Owl Creek Bridge’ one morning during the war. It was a chilly, misty, and cloudy one at that. I was a private when we hung em.” The officer continued on with his recollection. “He was defiant as hell, right up until the end, well, least ways when we put that ‘hemp-rope’ around his neck. We tied his legs and feet so’s they won’t kick and flail. He cried. We then stood his cowardly ass atop a nice new plank…and dropped him like a sack of ‘tatter’s’ in the drink. Lucky for him there was no ‘gators’ swimming about.”  The drum-roll sounded. A bugle blew the morning ‘reviles.’ An owl was heard hooting just as I heard the commander bark the order: ‘FIRST SQUAD, STAND-FAST! FORWARD HUPP!’ Then, the sound of marching boots…including those which covered my feet. The owl began to sound like a child’s whistle, a flute, or maybe a turtle-dove. The first Sergeant; with my eyes I did see him un-winding and unraveling the knotted hemp. This was being done in preparation for the perfect noose-fitting around my neck. It simply did fit just perfectly. Wet from perspiration, my jet-black, long wavy hair did drip the sweat all over me. Blowing through was the wind, but not through the dead looking, leafless trees all around. They just stood there staring at me, laughing at me without an ounce of pity or sorrow; the dead looking, and lifeless gray things. They appeared to be burnt wistful embers of black, gray, and white sinews. The snow fell from the sky a few days ago. I trembled. I heard my pocket-watch tick… “Take his watch!” A voice ordered. It was taken away as I stood backward upon a fresh new plank of wood. Was I dreaming this horrible thing? Abbey, Abbey, my dear darling ‘Abigail.’ Am I not home with you and the babies, my darling? Do I feel the warmth of our bed and the tender bliss of our happiness? ‘A living man, I want to be a living man…’ My dearest, I am with thee, I see thee – I do; I feel thee. ~ ‘A livin man, a livin man… I wants to be a livin man. In all da world, he moves around, he walks around, he turns around… I sees each tree, I reads each vein, I hears each worm upon each leaf… The buzzing flies, the splashing fish, they moves around this livin man… A livin man, a livin man – I want to be a ‘Living Man.’~ “At ten-hut!” shouted the commanding officer. I cried some more… Plunging down, down, and further down into the cold, cold drink, I was suddenly shocked. The cold icy-water pulled me straight to the bottom. My shiny new black knee-high boots filled with creek liquid. I was forced to part with them once I was free of my bonds. The fish gazed and gawked from in front of me and from behind every crevice. I hurriedly swam to the top for air. At the surface, there was plenty to be had. I heard the birds singing and chirping. I saw the flowers and blooming blossoms on the trees. A beautiful spider was mending her web as a wondrous green frog leaped from one leaf to another… A shot splashed close to my left ear. I saw the soldiers up on the train’s bridge. They were training their weapons upon me…they are going to shoot me, to kill me!  They were steadily shouting at me as I quickly swam away. I swam very fast as though my life depended on it. I outswam their bullets. Under the water, the fish and a tortoise joined me in the trek. I surfaced for air and swam a bit further. A ‘Cottonmouth’ saw me and wiggled in my direction. Diving beneath him allowed an avoidance. They kept shooting at me with handguns, rifles, and cannons. The hemp was still about my neck. Somehow, it had broken from the fall off the bridge. “He must be hanged! Sergeant, give the order to open fire!” “Yes sir!” “If it’s necessary, fire the cannon as well!” “PRESENT YOUR ARMS! STAND FAST MEN! STEADY MEN, STEADY…AIM, FIRE! HE MUSTN’T ESCAPE! THERE HE IS…HE’S STILL MOVING. HE WON’T GET FAR. HE’S LIKE A RAT IN A TRAP… IN A TRAP, A TRAP, A TRAP! FIRE AT WILL!” They continued firing and reloading. The bullets and shells hit all around me in the water. The more I swam, the lesser the fire-power. The white-water rapids were now upon me. They threw me this way and that way, hither and fro…they carried me closer and closer towards home. The forest changed from cold dead limbs to lively and beautiful green leaves with healthy foliage upon the ground. I ran heavily through the fields and into the woods. I ran and ran for what seemed like endless hours. The gunshots and cannon-fire drowned and disappeared in the distance behind me. Then suddenly a familiar pathway opened up in front of me. It pointed, beckoned to me to come hither. The trees, the tallest redwoods or dogwoods that I’ve ever seen stood on either side of the roadway. Wagon traffic must have traversed these woodlands. The pathway was worn well. I ran and ran some more…I ran toward home. It was familiar, yet it was not. The twenty foot tall wrought-iron double gates stood closed at the end of the pathway. They opened wide upon my approach and closed tightly behind me after I’d passed through. I kept on running, running towards home. My shoeless feet bled as I began to walk. I’d fallen from running. I was tired but rejuvenated with my new found freedom. I began to skip through the *****-willows. I then saw it. The multiple tall white columns that adorned the veranda was a welcomed sight indeed. My heart jumped and skipped with gladness. The porch, upon which my rocking-chair sat, the table whose top kept good my corn-cobb pipe filled to the brim with the best flavored hemp, accompanied by a bowl of my savory smoking tobacco. Next to it was my little brown jug. The mansion’s multi-paned windows gleamed in the bright and warm sunlight. The immaculate and tasteful clothing that I wore were now tattered, dirty, and full of filth. They were shredded to mere rags. I did not care. I was home. There she is, there she comes… My dear sweet and most beautiful Abbey. I could hear my children laughing and playing…she ran to me – for me…Abigail, my loving wife. She saw me running toward her. I could not get there soon enough, fast enough. My rags flittered in the racing wind. What was left of my once magnificently embroidered vest simply hung from my shoulders. My pantaloons were mere shreds about my hips and thighs…I did not care. I was finally and completely home! She reached for me and hugged me. She kissed and caressed me. She held me tightly. I felt her breast upon mine. I felt her warm and full lips upon mine. Her heartbeat was strong as she held me fast and firm. I was home – fully and completely home. “This is strange dear Abbey…it’s eerily and suddenly quiet. Where are the ‘darkies?’” She quietly smiled. Her pearly white teeth and ruby red lips simply smiled at me. Her beautifully long thick black hair flowed with a sudden gust of wind as she kissed me once more. “To bed my dear…I wish to bed thee now. It seems like it’s been so long since we’ve made beautiful love. The warmth of you and our bed will feel oh so very delightful, indeed. Where are the children – where are all the animals?”  She hugged and kissed me some more…and simply smiled as we turned toward the house and the bedroom. I was happy, oh so very happy and relieved. I began to cough…it grew worse and would not stop. Abbey smiled and reached for me with open arms and a deliciously delightful kiss that I did not, could not receive. The pain in my neck…on how painful it was. “My ears heard a pop and a snap while my eyes beheld the bridge full of soldiers above and the cold murky water flowing below… The steady swinging portrayed the cold gray sky and the wispy willows of the dead and lifeless land …all about. My mind’s ear heard singing. It was the voice of a Black singing an old familiar song of the south. Was this sound also a dream?” ~ ‘A livin man, a livin man, I wants to be a livin man… In all da world, he moves around, he walks around… I sees each tree, I reads each vein, I hears each worm upon each leaf… The buzzin flies, the splashin fish, they moves around this livin man… a livin man, a livin man – I want to be a ‘Living man!’ ~ ~ Peyton Farguhar was just plain stupid. He was not a soldier nor was he involved in the activities of the war. He was a civilian southern plantation owner with a family and the owner of slaves. Peyton was a secessionist who wanted to be a soldier. He wanted to strike a blow for the sovereign states of the south. Farguhar suckered himself into involvement by acting on an opportunity to fulfill his wish. “I’ll blow up the damned bridge!” He was warned not to take action on his own by participants of the horrible conflict and that of his close friends. After his capture and sentencing, he dreamed of home and family like so many of the Black slaves once did, the people he despised, with his neck in a noose. The bridge intended for destruction, stood over ‘Owl Creek,’ bearing the plank that bared the weight of the doomed believer of the confederacy. Peyton Farguhar wished that he’d remained at home. ‘The Bridge’ ~Pg., 13-14, ’HALLOW,’ a journey into now and then~ ‘Occurrence At Owl Creek Bridge’ Ambrose Bierce, ‘The Twilight Zone,’ Rod Serling “A Living Man,” Henri Lanoe ~BoulwareEnterprises~ http://www.BoulwareEnterprises.com

#WellRead Hemp Reddit NowReadThis Futurist Boulware Yahshua Yahushua Hebrew BoulwareBooks HallowII Hallow Fairmount Bear 25thDynasty The3rdEy