#I don't know why I wanted to write this so badly | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lazyjellyfish300 · 6 hours

Text

Letters from Nanami 🖋️💘

CW: ANGST, x FEM!READER, SUGGESTIVE- MINORS DNI, FLUFF, kinda self indulgent I'm sorry!!! Word count: around 1k

@1-900-venusluvs @thatone-writer

----

Postcard letters to you from Kento Nanami while he's on his missions would probably sound a little something like this:

-----

Darling,

Waking up to another letter from you was the highlight of my day. Thank you for sending the coffee grounds. Reminds me of home and saved my life since where I am now is lovely but their coffee...leaves a lot to be desired.

Anyway, I hope you're taking care of yourself. Enjoy a cup for me and know that I'm doing the very same thing with you, even miles away. Hot for me and iced for you, just how you like it.

Love,

~Ken

-----

Couldn't stop thinking about you. I adored the pictures you sent me of the tulip festival. You look beautiful and the flowers are lovely. I love how despite being away, you write to me and speak to me as if I never left. Don't worry about finishing that show without me, honey. Watch it and enjoy it and tell me all about it when I get home.

Always,

~Ken

----

My love,

We saw Lake Como today for the first time. It was absolutely breathtaking, just as you described. I suppose I did tease you a little much about "Anidala" and your adorable thoughts on why it was the perfect date location, because it absolutely is.

I only wish you could've been here to see it with me. I'll bring you back one day, but only after I show you Malaysia.

Be good for me sweetheart.

Love,

~Ken

-----

My dearest,

I'm so sorry you had a tough week. It's moments like these that pain me the most, that I cannot be there when you need me so. You are so patient and you inspire me every day with your strength. Please hold on a little longer and I'll be back home with you in my arms before you know it.

My love for you is unending. If nothing else brings you comfort, I hope that does.

Passionately yours,

~Ken

-----

Darling,

You can't even begin to understand how needy I'm feeling right now after reading that. When you say those things it causes my mind to think about all kinds of scenarios I probably shouldn't write for fear of this letter finding someone else by mistake.

Just know that I feel the same. God, you don't know how badly...

Knowing your body craves me even when I'm not there does things to me you can't even imagine.

When I get home, the first thing I plan to do is demonstrate just how much.

Always yours,

~Ken

-----

Sweetheart,

Yesterday was a good day. It's been raining all morning, which makes me think of you. I had a chance to go into town for a moment. I visited the gardens, saw some brand new ducklings and had a chance to admire the bridge. I think you would like it here a lot.

They have a bakery which I made sure to stop by. They have this sort of house dressing they put on their sandwiches with fresh honey mustard mixed with mayonnaise adding just the right amount of tang balanced with sweetness. It's absolutely amazing.

As always, I hate being away from you. But your letters never fail to cheer me up. Thank you for taking the time to write them and send them to me.

I'm sorry to hear you're struggling still, my love. I don't like seeing you upset, especially if I'm not there to help you get through it.

Well darling, I hope you have a better week. Please don't forget to take care of yourself just as I would do if I was there.

Don't worry too much about things love, that's my job.

Faithfully yours,

~Ken

----------

My sweetest darling,

It's been harder than normal for me to be here without you.

Part of me hates admitting that to you because the last thing I want is for you to feel responsible for how I'm feeling when you have more than enough on your plate. But it's the truth. I would be doing you a disservice if I wasn't honest. I miss you and the sound of your voice like hell.

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately and I think it's time for us to plan for the future. If the things we talked about before I left are still true, then I think we shouldn't wait any longer.

I want to marry you, have a family with you, have all of the things that I've always told you that I wanted but was too big of a coward to seize it with both hands, all because of fear. This silly fear that I would push you away over time or you'd grow to resent me because of my profession. It's about time that you and I resign to the quiet life, so we can have this together. I want to stop dreaming and start doing. If you'd still have an old man like me, then I'd be the happiest man on Earth. I want to give you my mother's ring and my last name.

Darling, as I write this I can't help but feel extraordinary sadness that you're not with me. I'm trying to hold back these overwhelming feelings and from spilling every last confession on these pages, because as I said before, this is not your burden to bear. It's mine alone to shoulder, and I need to be the strong one for both of us.

Just long enough until I can have you in my arms. Just long enough until I can love you so deeply until the morning. Just long enough until we can go to that chapel on the edge of town that you pointed out when we went on that drive last Autumn, and I can bring you to all of these places that I'm seeing and experiencing without you, only this time I can experience it fully and properly with a fresh set of eyes because I have my love rightfully beside me where she belongs.

I'll be dreaming of that moment. It's simply the only thing I can hold onto for now, my darling. You, the promise of you, and your gorgeous smile and those eyes that drive me wild. From now, until the edge of time, I'm all yours, and you're all mine.

I'll see you very soon darling, as always, be good for me.

No other fitting way to end this letter besides just

Yours,

~Ken

渋谷区

Shibuya, Japan

Postmarked 2018年10月30日

------

A/N: sorry if I messed up the Japanese, pls correct me if I did 🖤

37 notes · View notes

physalian · 2 days

Text

There’s this unskippable Google AI ad on YouTube where this girl consults the robot about how to cancel dinner plans with the people across the table in the most annoying voice (likely because I have seen this ad now and had to listen to her asinine questions 20 times at least) and this ad, right here, speaks to my frustration around AI:

It disincentivizes critical thinking.

I know the ad is a joke and meant to be lighthearted and I’m only this annoyed because it’s unskippable and irritating af, but every time I see it all I can think is “if you can’t manage enough creativity and critical thinking to come up with your own excuse to cancel on your friends, maybe you shouldn’t have those friends.”

I have a relative who is firmly in the ChatGPT camp and, for example, yesterday I was trying to figure out how to compress a video file and was venting to them about it. They sent me back something I didn’t read from ChatGPT. Meanwhile, I looked up a YouTube video and figured out how to do the rest on my own, and getting the file compressed was immensely satisfying. Far more than mindlessly and thoughtlessly consulting the robot.

“It’s just like a YouTube video!” They’d told me.

No, a real person put time and effort into that video. That robot stole their content without their consent, didn’t credit them, and spat it back out. I used to patronizingly refer to ChatGPT as "the magic conch" and now I can barely do that anymore because that metaphor is becoming all-too real.

While I can understand the barriers it lowers—like if you struggle with writing the robot does it for you, or if you need a piece of art and are too poor, you can generate it for free. Mindless, repetitive tasks that eat up creative juices that can just be automated by a robot, too (even though everyone can tell when a response is canned and artificial and no one appreciates talking to a machine).

If you keep consulting ChatGPT for how to articulate what you want to say, or just straight-up having it do the hard work for you, you’re never going to learn. Yes it’s taken me 8 years to reach the quality and skill of writing I have but as another Tumblr post out there said: The time will pass anyway.

I can’t draw to the skill level that I’d like to. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to keep practicing until I get there. I thrive off that sense of accomplishment. There’s no little hit of dopamine from typing in a prompt and clicking a button and I certainly don’t appreciate the final product scalped without consequence from real artists.

Or, like when I had to fire a beta reader for flagrant abuse of AI in her work: I can copy-paste my manuscript into ChatGPT, too. I’d paid her for a human response, not garbage feedback that couldn’t understand what I was writing beyond that there were words on the page. I wanted so badly to ask her why she does a job in a creative field if she's just going to have a robot do all the fun parts? I beta read at a great loss of profit because I enjoy beta reading and it's a fiercely competetive market. Surely if she wanted to scam people, she could have done so in so many other ways. You don't need to know how to pen complex prose in your every day life, but by god, you do need to know how to effectively communicate, contextualize, and argue your perspective and this ridiculous ad joking about cancelling dinner plans sure is funny, until it isn't.

And I know the people who made AI probably did so with the best of intentions but people can be lazy and cheap and we love taking shortcuts to save money and I stand by this: "Your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn't stop to think if they should."

So. Yeah. This is a writing advice blog and this post has almost nothing to do with it, but that ad annoys me to no end and I had to say something somewhere about it. Bottom line: Robots were supposed to make the hard jobs, the monotonous jobs, the overcomplicated jobs, the belittling jobs easier, not make us all into pudding-boned Wall-E people. If you want to write, learning is absolutely free - write on the back of your grocery receipts for all I care. If you want to draw, pick up a notebook and pack of pencils from the local dollar store and start drawing.

What you made will always mean more to you than something that didn't cost you time, effort, brain power, or even money to obtain.

#fuck ai everything #writing #drawing #ai #chatgpt #mini rant #wall-e was a warning not an aspiration

50 notes · View notes

aye-jaye-2005 · 1 day

Text

alright, as promised, for the 50 notes on my post about being starved for mlm cod smut - here is my work. it's not very good most likely, so i apologize in advance

NAMES - König x M!Reader

Summary: König being a jealous bitch cause someone flirted with you. (the guy who flirted with you was being an ass anyway)

A/N: My boyfriend has read this once, this is unedited. I was always ahead in english classes so hopefully this won't be a load of hot garbage.

Content Warnings: Aggressive Flirting (character won't take no for an answer), Injury, Strong Language, Badly Written Medical Care (i don't know how to write injuries and medical stuff, i'm sorry 😭), Badly Translated German, Praise Kink, Size Difference(?), P-in-P Sex, Jealously-Sex. (i think that's everything, please tell me if i missed anything)

********************************************************

You were doing combat training with König and a crop of new recruits.

"Alright, split off into pairs and practice. Small injuries are mostly excusable but please don't break anything."

There was a low grumble of "Yessir"'s and the group began to split off into pairs.

A smaller man saunters over to you. "M'name is Theo. Who're you, handsome?" Theo held out his hand for you to shake.

"Y/N." You shake hands with him briskly and pull your hand away.

"Ah, strong and silent type, are we now? I can work with that too." Theo got closer to you, chests nearly touching.

"Excuse me." You back away a step. "I just know when to hold my tongue."

Theo raised an eyebrow at you. "Are you trying to imply something, handsome?"

You shrugged. "Now, spar me. Isn't that why you came over here?"

"Not the only reason..." Theo mumbled under his breath.

"Hm?"

"Nothing."

Before you'd joined the army, you'd done various martial arts. You were quite good and were able to pin Theo to the ground a few times. Theo, however, was small and surprisingly quick. He wasn't all that good at fighting and hand-to-hand combat, but he could avoid you quickly. He tired out quickly and you were able to finally pin him to the ground. You let him up and let your guard down to go get a sip of water, and Theo jumped you from behind and held you down. His foot was on your shoulder and he was holding your arm down at the wrist with his hands.

"Now I've got you right where I want you." Theo hissed in your ear.

You rolled your eyes at him. "Can I go get my water now?"

"No." he growled. "Now, I have something I want to ask you, handsome." His voice became sickly sweet as he increased the pressure on your shoulder.

"Could it have waited until-"

"No. Stop giving me that fucking attitude." He pulled back on your arm, making your shoulder crack.

"Ouch- You're gonna pull my arm out-" You started tapping out to try to signal that Theo needed to let you go. "Theo, I'm tapping out, this hurts."

"No, you are gonna listen to me." Theo pulled back harder on your arm, making it crack a few more times. You stifled a cry of pain. "You, Y/N, are gonna meet me, Theo, out back by the barns after training is over. We're gonna talk, and late tonight we're gonna meet up and have some fun."

"And what if I don't want to?"

"Then I'm gonna do this." Theo gave one last pull on your arm and pulled your arm out of socket with a loud *CRACK*. You cried out in alarm and pain.

"I was- I was tapping out- You bitch-" You could hardly talk. You had never dislocated a joint, not even a pinky finger, and this was hurting like hell.

König came running over, having heard you yell. He saw you on the ground and Theo standing over you. "Anyone care to explain to me what the hell is going on here?"

Theo was quick to whip up a story. "We were just sparring and I was holding him down and practicing a technique I'd heard about. He wouldn't tell me it was hurting, sir-"

"That's Colonel to you, Theo." König growled at him.

Theo seemed to shrink under König's threatening stance. "R-right, Colonel- Anyway, Y/N wouldn't tell me I was hurting him, he wasn't tapping out or anything."

König sighed and muttered in German under his breath. "Y/N, come with me to the medbay. Theo, find someone else to spar with." He then shouted across the field. "HORANGI!"

A smaller man perked his head up and came rushing over. "Yes, Colonel?"

"I have to take Y/N to medbay, keep an eye on these utter buffoons."

"Yes, Colonel."

Underneath all the conversations, you were lying on the ground, sweating from the pain. König gingerly hoisted you up off the ground and helped you half-walk, half-stumble to the medbay. The nurse was able to quickly pop your shoulder back in place.

"It might be sore for a day or two, so don't overwork it too much."

"Yes, ma'am." You were panting from the effort it took to not scream when she put your shoulder back in place.

"You should stay here until lights out, 2300, so I can make sure nothing else is happening underneath. Gotcha?"

"Yes ma'am."

König put a hand on your uninjured shoulder. "It's about 1900 right now, so you won't be stuck here for too long."

"Yessir."

***

Just an hour later, Theo walked into the medbay. His eye was swollen and his nose was bleeding.

"Colonel punched me. Did'n have my guard up." he grumbled bitterly. Upon seeing you also in the medbay, his face lit up. "Well, hey there sweetheart. Any reconsideration on my offer yet?"

"No."

"Aww, handsome can't handle a little fun? Might muss up your spotless record or something?"

"Man, just fuck off. I don't have a spotless record, but I don't want to fuck you."

"I'm just messing around, babycakes. Learn to take a joke, lighten up a little!" Theo winked at you and turned to the stone-faced nurse.

You turned your face away so you wouldn't have to look at him. Unfortunately, you could still hear his frankly pathetic attempts at asking the nurses to sleep with him. You finally drifted off into a nap, glad to get some rest after this whole ordeal.

***

A nurse gently shook you awake. "Y/N, it's 2230, you may head back to your quarters."

"Oh- Thank you."

"Of course. Come back if it's giving you any trouble."

"I will."

It was a short walk to your quarters that you shared with König. There was a gentle evening breeze and you stopped a moment outside the door to drink in the delicious wind. You sighed satisfactorily and went inside.

"There you are, Schatz." He pulled you in for a hug. "I was worried about you."

"I'm fine, Kö, don't worry. It was that bitchass Theo who caused this whole mess. He dislocated my shoulder after I refused to meet with him."

König bristled. "He did what?" he backed away from you and bent down to look you in the eyes. "Did he try to ask you out, Meine Liebe?"

"He just wanted a one-night, I think. He tried again when he saw me in medbay and had the audacity to wink at me and flirt with me. I mean, honestly Theo, you think I'm gonna be willing to fuck after you dislocated my damn shoulder?" You started to wander slowly into the kitchen.

"Theo? His name is Theo?"

"Yes... where are you going with-"

König pushed you up against the counter and started kissing you hard. It took a few moments before you pushed him back slightly.

"Well, what was all that about, Kö?"

Now there was a passion burning behind König's eyes. "Well, Mein Schatz-" he took his gloves off and placed them on the counter behind you. "The easy solution to this is that i fuck you until you can't remember his name. I'll show you just how much better than him I am." Now he was taking off his boots and he was already undoing his belt. "Sound fair, Schatz?"

You blushed "I-" You cleared your throat as you were already getting hard. "God-"

König smirked at you. "Does it sound fair or not, Liebling?" König walked over to you and pressed his body against your stiffening cock.

Your eyes rolled back a little before you met König's bright blue eyes. "Yep, sounds- Oh, god- sounds good to me-"

***

König had you cumming quickly. He was quick and aggressive, and knew just how to hit those spots that made you make all those pretty little noises for him.

"Your first reason that I'm better than him: I can make you cum much quicker."

"Oh, please do-"

"Reason number two:-" König continued talking as you shuddered and bit back a loud moan. "If you, Liebling, are a good boy for me, I'll praise you much better than he ever can."

"God, yes you do-"

"Reason number three:-" König pulled down the waistband of his boxers to reveal his large, meaty cock. "I am definitely bigger than him, and you know it. Don't you, Liebling?" He pulled down the elastic of your boxers to reveal your own hard dick.

"Yes- Yes I know-"

"Come on, Liebling, say it with your full chest for me." König cooed in your ear. He started teasing the tip of your erect cock with his thumb. "Say it, Schatz."

"I know- fuck- I know you have a bigger dick than him-" You inhaled sharply and let loose a breathy, high-pitched moan.

"Hmm? Who's 'him", Liebe?" König eyes were dark with desire.

"Theo- I know you have a bigger- ahh- a bigger dick than Theo-"

You were already weak at the knees from König's relentless teasing. You leaned back and braced your hands on the counter behind you and you shuddered as precum started leaking slowly out your hard dick. "Oh god-"

"Reason number four: I can and will kiss you so much better than he ever will." To prove his point, König pressed his lips hungrily on yours, all while teasing you with his thick, calloused fingers.

You threw your head back and whined. "Yes- oh god, yes- You're a much better kisser than Theo-"

"Good, good, you're learning." To reward your learning, he started slowly, slowly pushing his dick into yours.

"Please- Please go faster- fucking hell-"

"I will, Liebling, just you wait."

The anticipation made your dick throb. "Please-" you whined. To retaliate, König covered your mouth, which just turned you on more. You moaned loud and long into his large hand.

Finally, finally König was starting to go faster. His dick was so large and long that he was able to slam that sweet spot each time, which affectively turned you into a whining, moaning mess.

"Reason number five:-" he paused momentarily for another deep thrust. "I know all your dirty little secrets."

"You know- you know all my dirty little secrets-" Each of your quick breaths was ended with a short, sharp whine as König kept slamming that wonderful little spot deep in you.

"And who doesn't?"

You couldn't even get the words out. König smirked at you. "Go on, who doesn't, Meine Schatz?" He paused his thrusts for a moment to let you get a word or two out. You were panting hard and your cheeks were flushed bright red.

"Th-Theo-"

"Good, good boy." He continued his relentless beat of thrusting, and even when it seemed he couldn't he went faster and harder. The sounds of your squelching arousal were filling the small kitchen.

You could feel that knot deep inside you starting to move outward, closer to the tip as König kept thrusting in you.

"Oh god- Ohh god-! I'm gonna- Aah-" Your whole body shuddered. "I'm-" You couldn't even get all the words out.

"Go on, finish your sentence." König teased.

"I'm so close-!"

"Tell me how close, Liebling." König smiled mischievously."

"So close- Mmm-" Your back arched and you groaned. "Almost there-"

Your whole body shivered and your hips bucked forwards as the knot in you became dangerously close to your tip. Your dick pulsed and throbbed, and one final rough thrust from König forced the knot out of you.

Thick, creamy liquid leaked out of your tip and ran down your dick, some threatening to go down your pants or on the floor. König milked your dick dry before pulling out, dripping his own milky semen.

König bent down on his knees to clean up the mess he'd made of you while you caught your breath.

********************************************************

(i don't know how to properly write aftercare and also i have a migraine slowly building so i think i'm gonna call it here)

anyways, here my fellow gay men, be fed. idk 😭

#konig #konig cod #könig call of duty #cod #call of duty #könig smut #könig x reader #könig x male reader #könig fanfiction #aj writing

26 notes · View notes

p-redux · 20 hours

Text

Well, folks, the day has finally come, I'm so angry about something, I can barely speak, let alone write. But write I will...

Here goes. I, Purv, in NO WAY, approve of Bcac's blog or her. It has come to my attention that after Bcac's account was deactivated by Tumblr and then quickly reactivated, she made this mention of me. 👇

First of all, what I said I said privately in a DM. If I had wanted to offer public support, I would have. I thought my DM conversations were private, apparently not. The person I DMed with has already apologized to me for betraying my confidence. Secondly, just because I said Bcac shouldn't lose her account does NOT mean I'm cool with her or her blog. I said in DM that I didn't think Bcac should have lost her blog, but because I think everyone should have freedom of speech, in general. That's it.

But now Bcac has taken what I said privately and weaponized it to try to legitimize herself with those other than the Sam-haters and Purv-haters she surrounds herself with. And THAT I'm VERY upset about.

Bcac has toned down her blatant displays of Sam hate because she realizes she has a captive audience of Sam fans who are waiting on his every move. And she provides that for them. But let me be VERY CLEAR, Bcac has disdain for Sam Heughan. And, she welcomes people who have disdain for him on her blog. And people who have disdain for me. She regularly commiserates with and allows comments from KNOWN Sam haters. They have harassed and bullied Sam and talked sh*t about the women he dates for years.

Here's a quick sampling of MANY examples, showing Bcac talking badly about Sam and allowing others to. 👇

Aside from the Sam-haters that Bcac welcomes on her blog, she also welcomes those who have made MY life hell for years and years. I recognize so many names from the past. People who harassed me all day and even tried to dox me. That's who flocks to Bcac's blog. Sam-haters, Purv-haters, don't be fooled thinking that's not the case. I can name names if anyone is interested in DM.

Bcac herself has talked sh*t about me privately and publicly on her blog. Here's a quick example of her making fun of me and also putting Sam down in the process. 👇

Here she is continuing to put me down, even making fun of my eye issues! 👇

Like I said, this is only the tip of the iceberg of Bcac and her followers mocking me. And she's toned it down significantly because she knows many of my followers now look at her blog too.

So, yes, I don't think Bcac should have had her blog deactivated, but ONLY because I believe in freedom of speech. Even for b*tches who talk sh*t about Sam and about me. And make no mistake, Bcac and her minions are b*tches. They're just hiding it better these days. Except for the blogger who shared my DM, she's not a b*tch. But I will be parting ways since I can no longer trust her. Silly me, I thought it was possible for someone to be best friends with Bcac and also be friendly with me. I should know better after 10 years in this Godforsaken fandom.

Tumblr only lets you post 10 pics, but if anyone is interested in more crap Bcac has posted about me or Sam, hit me up in DM, and I'll show you.

So, today is the day I draw the line in the sand. I don't want to ever hear Bcac's name or anyone associated with her. Why would I want anything to do with someone who puts me down? I'm not going to tolerate that. No one should. Soooo, anyone who is chummy to me on my blog, but then I get wind you're also chummy with Bcac, will get blocked. I'm done with this bullsh*t. I get it, she finds out Sam's every move and people want that info. So, go ahead and get it from her. But, you won't ALSO be able to stay on my blog. Am I making people pick sides? Absofuckinglutely. If that means I lose a lot of followers. So be it. I've decided I'd rather have no followers than two-faced people. I like Sam and I like myself. She doesn't like Sam and she doesn't like me. You can't be okay with her and her sh*t talking of me, and be okay with me. It's impossible. Simple as that.

Those of the more reasonable calm, Switzerland type personalities may not understand my choice. Those of the passionate, take a stand, have your back no matter what persuasion, will understand. Maybe it's my Italian blood, maybe, I've put up with too much betrayal and bullsh*t in this fandom. It is what it is. And what it is...is that I'll leave this post up for a few days for people to read it, and then I'll start blocking people. So, if you find yourself not being able to see my blog, you'll know why.

Again, this is not me being upset over some minor disagreement or Bcac constantly accusing me of stealing her stuff (funny, how a few days ago, SHE stole two exclusive pics I got of the Outlander cast at the Taylor Swift concert, but whatever), THIS is because she has said and says horrible things about me and about Sam. Obviously, she does it more in private now since she wants to keep her Sam fan followers. And so many eat her info up, not knowing she's secretly laughing about you in DMs with the Sam haters. I'm done turning a blind eye to it. And I want people to know how toxic she is to Sam. And to me. And that she used what I said about her blog in a very misleading way to make herself look good. "Look, even Purv thought I should have my blog back, I must be okay." Nope, don't get it twisted, sister. And the industry people in L.A. I know who know Sam personally were made aware a long time ago about all the Sam hate blogs, which means Sam was too. Those liking, reblogging, or commenting on Bcac's posts are guilty by association. JS.

For those who have supported me all these years, you mean the world to me. Loyalty is everything, so thank you. ❤️

PS. So much for not writing a long ass post. 🤷‍♀️

#purv #p-redux #sam heughan #sam haters #bcacstuff

30 notes · View notes

wanderingblindly · 1 day

Note

Hey bb!! For the WIP game!

Fuck it, we (don't) ball

Oopsies, fucked my boss

😋🫶

oh god, those are two that will probably get moved to my graveyard folder eventually ((when hell freezes over and I stop being so stubborn). But!!!

Fuck It, We (Don't) Ball:

This was actually meant to be another installment in my silly little Is It Gay Verse! Inspired by that interview in the offseason, when Oscar put together his fake basketball team and -- notably -- didn't include Lando. Snippet below the cut <3

“He’s cheating on me!” Lando gasps, looking down at his phone with comically wide eyes. He thrusts the phone in Daniel’s face, ignoring his closed eyes, and repeats it with more exaggerated emphasis: “My husband is cheating on me!” “Cheers to the happy couple,” Daniel mumbles, pulling the rim of his hat down lower and sinking further into the couch. “With Charles.” He says, shaking the phone where it continues to hang in the space between them. Daniel cracks an eye. “Actually?” “He can’t even play basketball!” Lando whines, tossing his phone onto the couch and hiding his face in his hands. There’s a moment of silence between them – Daniel’s eyes once again closed and Lando peering through his fingers. “You’re s’posed to comfort me, mate.” “I’m sorry your husband kicked you off his imaginary basketball team.” He says without enthusiasm, the words lazy in his semi-consciousness. Clearly Daniel isn’t going to play along – even though Lando is notably not playing. He’s peeved, the edits he saw of Oscar spinning a basketball on his finger suddenly in the back of his mind. The cute slideshow of him smiling through an interview, clearly equal parts uncomfortable and excited, feels like a distant memory. Oscar would put Charles on his basketball team over him? Alex and George? Fine, he can accept being short. Logan? Sure, Americans basically come out of the womb with a basketball, or something. Zhou? He seems confident, Lando can’t argue. But Charles?

Tbh I stll think the idea is cute, I might fiddle with it later....

Oopsies Fucked my Boss:

GOD I JUST WANT TO WRITE A FUCKING OFFICE AU SO BADLY WHY DO NONE OF MY OFFICE IDEAS PAN OUT!!! NONE OF THEM1!! WHAT THE FUCK!!!!! BITCH!!!!!

“He’s not even good at his job!” Max exclaims, slamming his half empty glass on the table – Lando watches the beer sloshes dangerously around the edges, holding back a wince. “We fucking went to Uni together! I’m the reason he even passed Tax! ‘It’s Mr. Leclerc, actually’,” He mocks a French accent with disdain. “Like, are you fucking kidding me?” “Maybe he doesn’t remember you?” Lando suggests light heartedly, hoping to move on from the subject before Max gets even more upse– “Obviously he fucking remembers me! We were,” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, lowering his voice to a low, harsh whisper. “We slept together, ok? I know he remembers.” Lando stares at him with wide eyes, mimicking his body language and leaning towards the center of the table. “Real shit?” He whispers back, earning an eye roll as Max sits up and downs the remainder of his beer in one go. “No. I’m joking about sleeping with my new fucking boss, obviously. Cheers, mate.”

(original post)

#LONG SUFFERING SIGH #ALWAYS #landoscar #lestappen #writing.txt #ask me :)#WIP

33 notes · View notes

iztarshi · 4 months

Text

Prompt: Killing in self-defense

Fandom: tmnt 1987

Notes: Gun violence. Death, although not character death. Serious injury to a turtle.

“The state of the victims makes it look like the work of the Globfather, or another member of his species,” says Leonardo. “And it’s happened to six people so far, which means we can’t afford to wait until nightfall.”

“Uh, fearless leader, you got any plans that don’t get us killed before we even find the Globfather?” Raphael asks.

Leonardo thinks of the half-dead amoeboid husks and glares at him. “Raphael, this is serious.”

Raphael glares back. “You think I’m not?”

“Raphael does have a point,” Donatello adds. “The Globfather’s actions have stirred up the fear of aliens caused by Dregg’s reveal as a criminal to the point it’s spilled over onto mutants again. Something like this will have people ready to riot against anything that isn’t human.”

It’s true. Anti-mutant sentiment fell after Dregg was first revealed, after all he was the one who had been stirring it up. But it never went away, the things people had started to think had stayed at the bottom of their hearts, and now instead of choosing an alien over a mutant they’re ready to destroy aliens and mutants together. “It’s not all of them,” Leonardo says. “Most humans are just trying to get by. The fact that some of them hate us doesn’t mean we can let innocent ones fall to a monster like the Globfather.

Raphael looks away and Leonardo takes that as a win for now.

“We will need disguises, though,” Leonardo continues. “Proper ones, not just ones that work from a distance. Michelangelo, do you know where those halloween masks are? At least then we won’t look like turtles.

“No, we’ll just look like we already got got by an amoeba monster,” Raphael mutters.

Michelangelo pushes past him roughly on the way to the disguise room, “Will you stop complainin’? If we listened to you we’d never do anything for anyone.”

“Why not? No one does anything for us,” Raphael calls after him.

“Dude, you know that’s not true,” Michelangelo turns around, beak to beak with Raphael. “April, Casey, Carter…”

Leonardo hastily gets between them and pushes them both back with a hand on their plastron. “Guys, stop fighting. Michelangelo, just get the masks. Raphael, do you want to stay behind?”

For a moment Leonardo thinks Raphael’s going to say “yes”. He wonders whether it would be a relief if he did. Then Raphael shakes his head. “Might as well go down with the ship,” he says.

“That would be Leonardo. He’s the captain,” Donatello says.

“Come on. Time to get ready,” Leonardo tells them.

None of them really like clothes, although Raphael sometimes enjoys the way they look when he’s in the mood to enjoy anything. Clothes are often scratchy, never tailored for turtles, and they tend to pull over the shell. It’s why they usually throw them off as soon as a fight breaks out, there’s not much point in maintaining a disguise but getting stabbed because you weren’t moving fluidly. The halloween masks are worse, they push the beak inwards and give a turtle a headache after a while.

“Everyone stay in disguise,” Donatello says. “Unless you really have to take something off. Raphael’s right, we’re in danger from everyone up there.”

“We all know that,” Leonardo says, because that’s not what he was arguing with Raphael about. The point isn’t that humanity won’t hurt them, the point is that they have to save people anyway. “Turtles, move out.”

They don’t take the turtle van or the blimp. Donatello is a turtle who is good at many, many things and subtlety is not one of them.

They take the rooftops, despite their disguises it’s still quicker than the streets for now and gives them more of an overview of the city. Raphael grumbles about having disguises on for no reason but when it’s only something like this it’s easy to tune him out.

An ambulance shoots down the steet beneath them, sirens blaring, two police cars following in its wake. It might be nothing, or, not nothing, but not what they’re here for. Still, Leonardo has a feeling.

“Follow that ambulance!” he calls, taking off in pursuit.

The thing being taken into the ambulance looks more like their halloween masks do when empty than like a human being. It’s what they’re looking for and it’s sickening.

“Still want to sit this one out and let humans end up like that, Raphael?” Leonardo asks.

“I nearly ended up like that protecting them and I don’t want to do that again either,” Raphael mutters, but he won’t look at Leonardo.

Leonardo sighs. Raphael’s reluctance never really lasts past seeing someone in danger, but Leonardo’s getting sick of his perpetual bad mood. Especially when it can spread to Donatello who, while less cynical in general, is much more likely to stick with a conclusion he reaches. Those two have split the team before, Leonardo doesn’t want it to happen again.

Right now, though, Donatello is hanging from a windowsill and waving some strange piece of equipment over the scene below. His tongue pokes between the lips of his halloween mask and then he suddenly flips back up to them.

“I’ve got it,” he says. “Now I’ve tuned it, this should track either further victims or the orignal amoeboid. It doesn’t have much range from down here, though, it’s being blocked by the houses.”

“So we’re gonna need the blimp after all?” asks Michelangelo.

“That’s not exactly keeping a low profile,” Raphael says.

“It should be fine,” Donatello says, eyes still on his device. “The government understands we were on their side now, so we aren’t in danger from the army. Civilians aren’t going to be able to shoot down a blimp.”

“There might be some misunderstandings, but no one’s gearing up to shoot us down,” Leonardo says, hastily. Maybe when Dregg’s propoganda was at its worst, yes, but right now they’re just unpopular. Their blimp showing in the sky is likely to cause anxiety and bad feelings among humans, not get them shot down.

“Oh, aren’t they?” Raphael mutters.

“No, dude, they’re not,” Michelangelo retorts. “Yeah, people don’t like us a whole lot right now, but that’s not new. Being mean doesn’t mean they want to hurt us.”

“Yeah? Have you seen the stuff they’re saying on TV now that April doesn’t feel like defending us?”

“Don’t say it like that! April’s not got a job anymore, she can’t just say what she likes. The dudes at the top won’t run it.”

“So she’s avoiding us completely now that stories about us won’t run unless she gets nasty. Guess we’re lucky she hasn’t chosen getting nasty yet.”

“We know the villain is in this area,” Leonardo says loudly, cutting the two of them off. “Donatello’s device might give us an important lead, but we should also search this area. Two of us need to go back for the blimp while the other two go down to street level and start searching.” The question is, how to divide the team for this one? Donatello obviously needs to go back for the blimp. Sending Raphael with him when he’s this mood is out of the question, Donatello’s too likely to agree with him. Sending Michelangelo would be fine, but that would leave Leonardo to stay with Raphael and it’s not fair but he really, really doesn’t want to. As long as it’s not Raphael with Donatello any split is as good as any other, he tells himself, and Leonardo’s the most tactically minded of them so it might be useful for him to see things from above. “Michelangelo, Raphael, you stay here. Take a look around but be careful. If you see any sign of the Globfather, call us.”

Walking through a crowd in disguise is lonely. It’s not the first time Michelangelo has felt that; he likes people and, just ‘cause he’s green and has a shell, a lot of the time people don’t like him. It feels worse when it could be violence, not just rejection, but he really doesn’t think it would be violence. Or maybe he doesn’t want to think it would be violence.

Raphael’s presence only makes him feel lonelier. Raphael takes everything so seriously now and that’s meant to be a good thing, but it just means he’s wound so tight he’s constantly snapping. Michelangelo misses the times when they were the ones who could go with the flow.

Michelangelo looks around and Raphael is gone. For a moment he can’t tell which person in the crowd might be him, then he sees a familiar trench coat and jogs to catch up.

“Hey, where are you going?” he asks.

Raphael shrugs. “You’re the one who was staring into space. We’ll go faster if we split up, anyway.”

“Go where faster? We’re just here in case something happens.” It’s not like poking around at street level is gonna find anything. If the glob dude’s gone, he’s gone, if he comes back they’ll see him.

“So much for getting this over with,” Raphael mutters.

“It’ll be over when the dudes get back, no matter what we did while they were gone. Relax a bit, wouldja?”

“In this city?”

“You use’ta know how to relax.” Michelangelo tugs on Raphael’s arm, trying to pull him over to a junk shop window. Something fun to look at. “I know it feels gnarly right now, but it’s not so different from when we first came above ground…”

“…and an old lady immediately tried to shoot us. Yes, I’m seeing the resemblance.”

“Yeah, some people were rough, and it mondo sucked how willing they were to believe bad stuff about us. But a lotta people just, y’know, even if they didn’t love us, they had better things to do than hate us. Our disguises were, like, sunglasses and they let us be.”

“And now we don’t dare show a hint of green.”

“Ninety percent of ‘em still wouldn’t care,” Michelangelo insists. “We’re being careful, but they’re still just guys doing their stuff. It’s not like the world’s out to get you.

“Us, Michelangelo. The world’s out to get us,” Raphael sing-songs.

“It’s not!” Michelangelo snaps, his voice pitching louder than he means it to.

“Uh-uh. Don’t draw attention. We’re being careful, remember?”

“Forget it, dude.” This time it’s Michelangelo who stomps off and Raphael makes no attempt to follow.

Michelangelo stops to look in a shop window, not even registering what it’s selling this time. All he’s seeing is his own reflection, rounded and slightly hunched in a trenchcoat, a rubbery face with too round, staring eyes. How the heck do these masks make them less scary? The first time he saw one he jumped into Leonardo’s arms and familiarity has not improved them. His reflection is a pretty sad imitation of a human. People seeing this have gotta know something’s up. Maybe even that they’re looking at a mutant and, just like before, they don’t care all that much as long as a turtle doesn’t try to talk to them.

Michelangelo rubs his beak through the rubber and then drops his hand to toy with the edge of the mask at his collar-bone. With sudden decision he pulls the mask off and shoves it in his pocket, putting his hat back on afterwards. Raphael would have a fit but Michelangelo has had it up to here with Raphael’s paranoia.

The giddy, guilty, triumphant feeling of doing something he probably shouldn’t lasts even when a few people do catch sight of him and quickly put their heads down and hurry away. Yeah, people are feeling a bit paranoid of them right now, but they’re feeling a bit paranoid of people so that’s fair. Both sides have to get used to each other again, that’s all. Most people don’t want to hurt anyone.

A stone hits Michelangelo’s shoulder and he retracts his head halfway into his shell while turning around. It’s a big guy standing there, the kind who can probably get somewhere by getting aggressive when he’s scared. Michelangelo holds out his hands placatingly.

“It’s okay, dude, I’m just going.”

“Yeah?” The guy says, swaggering closer. “You the one that hurt that poor guy? On your way to do that to someone else?”

“No way!” Michelangelo says. People are pressing in, now that someone else is in front of them. Most people don’t want to go out of their way to hurt mutants, but aggression spreads fast. They’ve got his shell up against the wall as they form a loose half-circle around him. “Come on, I’m a teenage mutant ninja turtle. You know us.”

“No one really knows mutants.” The rumble of agreement from the crowd feels like approaching thunder.

Michelangelo raises his hands higher, showing he’s unarmed to the people at the back of the gathering crowd. He can’t leave without pushing them aside and if he hurts anyone the thick, ozone feel in the air will come together like a bolt of lightning.

Another stone hits Michelangelo’s shell.

<hr>

Raphael pays no attention to the gathering crowd at first. If they’d found whatever was turning people into skin puddles they’d be running screaming, so it’s probably just a street performer or a fight or something else irrelevent. Then he hears Michelangelo’s voice, sees the green hands raised at the centre. Sees the stones.

Raphael tears his disguise off and throws himself through the crowd, sending humans tumbling in his wake. Sticks and handbags fall on his shell but the trick to keeping his feet under him is moving fast, falling forward into the next step. He skids to a stop with one hand thrown up to avoid hitting the wall, then twists around to face the crowd. He wraps one hand around Michelangelo’s wrist, the other already grabbing a sai from his belt. Michelangelo’s hand wraps around his wrist in turn, linking them together.

He hardly needs to pull them into motion, Michelangelo is already following, running for the path Raphael cut through the crowd. They nearly stumble over a young woman he knocked down before and another, taller and darker, throws herself at him from the side. Only Michelangelo’s grip keeps him upright. She pushes him again, standing between him and her friend with snarling defensive aggression that he matches, showing his teeth and shoving his sai in her face.

Michelangelo jerks him back. “We’re not gonna hurt your friend,” he says, fast and urgent, already trying to push through the crowd a different way. “We’re not gonna hurt any of you! Just let us leave!”

The crowd pushes in around them, from all sides now that there’s not even a wall at their back. How are there so many humans? Raphael can’t get the momentum to bowl through them the way he did before, especially with Michelangelo hesitating, not wanting to knock them over. When Raphael hits out it’s with his sai flipped, spikes lying over his wrist so it’s the hilt he’s lashing out with, but no one seems to care that he’s going easy on them. A middle-aged man with dark hair smacks a piece of drain pipe down over his wrist sending pain vibrating up it like the chime of a bell. Michelangelo kicks someone in the chest and pulls Raphael forward again.

The snap of a shot makes Raphael throw his head up, as if even the sound is painful, cold washing through him from his head to his toes.

“Dude, don’t shoot in a crowd!” Michelangelo yells.

“Y-yeah, it would be terrible if they hit someone who wasn’t us,” Raphael mutters. He’s scanning the crowd frantically, everything seeming to slow down so he can take it in. The old man being helped to his feet by two blond girls. The college kids trying to push their way out, because, yeah, someone shot a gun in a crowd. The guy in a neon safety vest passing out tools from his toolbox, including a really heavy looking spanner. The gleam of light on the muzzle of a gun in the hands of a sandy-haired guy in his thirties.

Raphael lets go of Michelangelo’s wrist, pulling free of Michelangelo’s own grip, and leaps. Landing, he wraps both hands around the gun and wrenches it upwards as it fires again. Humans leap in, trying to prise Raphael’s hands free even though this guy is the idiot who’s shooting. Michelangelo arrives next to him just as Raphael kicks the guy hard in the chest and pulls the gun against his plastron, shielding it from anyone who might try to take it away.

The gun feels solid in his hand. Powerful.

Michelangelo’s hand closes around the back of Raphael’s shell, like there’s somewhere he could drag him.

Raphael points the gun at the crowd. “Move aside.” There’s no need to make an effort to sound hoarse and menacing, his voice comes out as a croak.

No one listens. Instead they close in and try to get the gun away from him again. Do they think they’re heroes, here? Are they trying to die? Or do they know that he’s not… that he won’t… that he doesn’t want to…

He just wants to get out of here alive.

“Why won’t they move?” he whispers.

“They’re scared,” Michelangelo answers, putting himself shell to shell with Raphael so they don’t have anyone behind them. “They’re trying to protect each -”

“They’re not scared enough,” Raphael snaps as Michelangelo’s voice breaks off into a yelp.

The shot he fires is far above the heads of the crowd. He just wants to convince them he’s serious, get them to move. If he’s a monster to them they should stop provoking him!

There’s the answering crack of a rifle from the crowd.

There’s a stinging line on Raphael’s shoulder, a light pain almost like a papercut, and then it burns with a pain that spreads like fire. A space opens at his back as Michelangelo falls, the warmth and wetness of his own blood mingled with his brother’s runs down his arm. When he turns, Michelangelo is on the ground, lying on his plastron, his trenchcoat hiding everything but the tear in it where the bullet exited and a massive, spreading stain. The blood running down Michelangelo’s arm from under his trenchcoat has shards of shell in it, like a smashed egg.

Raphael drops to his knees, touching his hand to Michelangelo’s beak to feel the laboured puff of breath. There’s blood around his nostrils but he’s not dead. Not yet. Raphael lifts his hand to the bloodstain on Michelangelo’s back, fingers hovering before reluctantly dipping down to touch. Under the fabric he feels the sharp edges of broken shell and, worse, a gap, a hole where there should be solid carapace, a void that feels like it could swallow him whole.

A stone hits the back of his head and he looks up, for the first time aware that the crowd is still there, that the world hasn’t stopped. They’re pleased, excited, to see a turtle down. Pressing in like feral dogs around a cat. How could they do this to Michelangelo?

Raphael leans across Michelangelo’s body, tucking that wounded carapace under his own shell. One hand rests on the ground for support, the other lifts the rifle still clutched in it and aims it at the crowd.

“You’re not going to get a chance to finish him off,” Raphael tells them and when the next stone comes anyway he squeezes the trigger.

Someone shoots at him, the bullet pinging against the ground by his foot, so he pulls the trigger a second time. A third. Someone goes down in a spray of blood, but he won’t let himself focus on them. They’re a puppet, a loose shape with long flailing limbs. There are no more bullets in the gun.

Raphael tucks his head into his shell, wraps his arms and legs around Michelangelo, and holds on.

<hr>

“It looks like our villain came back,” Leonardo says grimly.

Donatello smacks the sensor in his hand, ignoring the wail of sirens below him. “He can’t have, I’m not getting any kind of reading.”

“Someone’s dead,” Leonardo tells him.

Donatello leans over the edge of the blimp platform. There’s a body, doll-like from this far away, being dragged towards an ambulance that’s just parked. Beside it is a seething crowd, both angry and panicking.

“Well, that’s not good,” Donatello says. “They can’t take on the Globfather themselves.”

“Then we’d better help!” Leonardo steers the blimp lower, planning to get as close as he can before detaching the glider.

Donatello stares downward, trying to analyse the situation. The glimpse of green at the centre of the crowd suggests it is an alien lifeform they’ve caught, but whatever it is it seems oddly helpless against a pummelling. An amoeboid who spreads by touch ought to be winning. Whatever this is, it’s smaller. More solid. A familiar shade of green.

“Leonardo. It’s them. Our turtles.” The words rip out of him.

“It can’t be.”

“It is, it…” Donatello takes a deep breath. “Don’t detach the glider, if we lose the blimp we’ll just be in the same situation. Drop a ladder, I’ll grab them and we can get out of here.”

The shadow of the blimp scatters the ragged edges of the crowd. People throw their hands over their heads and run for shelter like they expect the turtles to drop bombs. Others yell insults, or become more frenzied in their attack on Raphael and Michelangelo, like the humans are trying to finish them off before Donatello can reach them.

As soon as the ladder is dropped Donatello slides down it, bo already out, hitting the humans like the bomb they were afraid of. If Leonardo was here he would be trying to push them back without hurting them. Donatello is mostly not aiming for the heads.

“Turtle Power!” he yells, smacking a drainpipe out of a teenager’s hand.

Raphael looks up. His face is bloody and tear-stained but his hollow eyes spark with something like life at the sight of Donatello. As soon as Donatello drives people back a little way he’s scrambling to his feet dragging Michelangelo across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry even as Michelangelo’s blood runs down them both.

“What happened?” Donatello demands. “How did you even get into this kind of mess? Where’s your disguise? Where’s Michelangelo’s mask?”

There’s no answer, all of Raphael’s energy is going into climbing the ladder with Michelangelo still slung across his shoulder. As soon as he’s far enough up Donatello grabs a rung himself and yells, “Leonardo, go!”

The blimp rises as Donatello kicks and pokes the grasping hands of the mob away.

It seems to take forever to climb the swaying ladder. Donatello has one hand on the ladder, one on the base of Raphael’s shell to push him upwards. For a moment as Raphael reaches the top the blimp starts drifting, and then Donatello finds Leonardo reaching down to drag him aboard a wing of the glider platform. He balances quickly as Leonardo takes control again and starts them moving for home.

On the opposite wing Raphael is laying Michelangelo down gently. “Donatello?” he calls pleadingly.

Donatello jumps across the middle of the glider to land next to the two injured turtles. When the glider starts to tilt in their direction Raphael hastily scrambles to the side Donatello just vacated.

Michelangelo is a mess. Bloody nose, bloody mouth, broken shell. Should Donatello try to take the trenchcoat off him? It’s probably holding pieces of his shell in place. It’s bad to let fabric get into wounds, but taking it off would make him bleed more and all Donatello’s really sure of is that the blood should stay inside Michelangelo. Donatello’s the turtle that fixes things, that’s his job, that’s what he’s for, but serious injuries are tended by Splinter while the rest of them pace anxiously around the lair.

“We need to get him home,” Donatello says. Then, “Leonardo, hand me our trenchcoats.”

Leonardo does as he’s asked and says, “The blimp’s not fast, but I’m heading home as directly as I can. When we’re close enough, can we risk using the glider?”

“I don’t think it could hurt,” Donatello answers. He folds one trenchcoat into a wad and pushes it under Michelangelo’s plastron. Then he folds the other over the carapace and tries to press hard enough to stop the bleeding but not hard enough to make those bits of shell push inwards. He can feel them grating against each other. Could they pierce a lung? Should he have opened the trenchcoat and pulled them away?

“What happened?” Leonardo asks. “How did Michelangelo get injured?”

“They shot him.” Raphael’s voice is hollow. When Donatello looks over at him he’s curled up, beak pressed against his knees, one arm over his eyes and one hand loosely gripping the glider.

Leonardo takes a deep breath. “Did you shoot them?”

There’s a long silence and then Raphael says, “….did you see?”

“We saw that someone was dead,” Leonardo answers.

“Can you blame him?” asks Donatello. “After what they did to Michelangelo?”

“We can’t shoot people,” Leonardo snaps.

“Not even to protect each other?” says Donatello.

“I didn’t,” Raphael says softly. “I wanted to protect him but… nothing I did helped at all.”

Silence falls over them. Donatello holds his pad of material in place and tries not to cry.

“Hold on, I’m detaching the glider,” Leonardo says. “Raphael. I can’t detach until you hold something properly.”

The glider falls away with a clunk and then a swoop, set free from the slow balloon. Donatello might not be great at first aid, but at least his invention is getting them home fast. He pulls Michelangelo’s head onto his knees, holds his uninjured shoulder down, does everything he can to soften the inevitable jar of landing. He’s still rewarded with blood bubbling from Michelangelo’s nose.

“I’ve got us as close as I can,” Leonardo says.

Donatello nods. “Get the manhole cover up and help me lift him. Don’t let him touch the water in there.” The runoff from New York streets could contain any number of pathogens.

Leonardo puts Michelangelo in a fireman’s carry again to get him down the ladder. It’s not the best idea, but it’s better than any other idea they have.

Donatello looks back and Raphael hasn’t moved from where he sits on the glider.

“Raphael, get over here,” he says.

Raphael shakes his head. “I’m not coming.”

“What do you mean you’re not coming?”

“Master Splinter isn’t going to want me in his house after this.” Raphael’s voice seems to be fading, getting quieter with every sentence.

“Don’t be stupid, you’re his student,” Donatello says. Never mind that they officially graduated from that, they’ll always be Splinter’s students.

“So was Shredder,” Raphael whispers.

“Donatello! I need you!” Leoanardo yells.

“You should go. It’s going to take two of you to carry Michelangelo home and you need to be quick,” Raphael says, voice almost lost beneath Leonardo shouting again.

Michelangelo might be dying down there, they need to get him home safely. Donatello has no choice but to go.

“Just…” he falters, about to ask whether Raphael has his turtle comm, tell him to keep it on so Donatello can call him later, and then fearing that if he mentions it Raphael will immediately discard it. “Just be safe.”

He turns his back on Raphael and jumps down the manhole cover, barely touching the ladder as he slides to the bottom. “I’m here,” he says, taking Michelangelo’s feet. “Let’s go.”

If Raphael keeps his turtle comm then Donatello can track him. If Michelangelo doesn’t bleed out before they get him home then Splinter will heal him. It’s not too late to fix this.

It can’t possibly be too late.

#87 turtles #tmnt 1987 #gun violence #injury #I don't know why I wanted to write this so badly #it fought me every step of the way and helped derail febuwhump #and now I'm posting it as early as possible because I'm glad to have it done #but I did want to write it and I have #it might get further editing before it goes on ao3 though #febuwhumpday10 #febuwhump

9 notes · View notes