This is not a spoiler-free blog.
CREDITS || Sidebar gif from thorinsgirl. Icon by lilyzv. TMNT scarves by berrykiz. House badges by clashofthekhaleesi.
how richard armitage infiltrated my fandoms
To: Confusedpulse
Title: Sound of Silence
Rating: PG/PG-13
Pairing(s): Semi-Don/April
Brief Summary: A study of Donatello and the limits of knowledge and certainty. As safe grounds and fixed borders fall away, Donatello must venture beyond the edge of paper flowcharts. He learns a new song for Splinter’s birthday with April’s help. (Takes place after I, Monster but roughly covers time from The Gauntlet to Panic In The Sewers.)
Message From Your Secret Admirer: Thank you for this opportunity to write for characters and a pairing I rarely do (Don and April are tough nuts to crack!), weaving in a topic I have no background in (music). Quite a challenge I would not have tried otherwise! Hope you enjoy the fic.
Oh. My. GOSH. Words cannot describe how happy I am with this! I am blown away, and excited, and my head is currently filled with squee. So here’s a poem for you, my secret gift-giver.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Thanks for the gift
I FREAKING LOVE YOU
The story was sweet
It tugged at my heart
And gave me the feels
I especially loved the ending, when poor Donnie didn’t succeed at playing the recorder, but succeeded in showing his father how much he loved him. This last part didn’t rhyme. The end.
Welps, I can finally reblog this!
Aww, that is the best poem, thank you! So glad you liked it. :)
For the record, I wanted to make the instrument a kazoo, but I’m not sure it qualifies as a “musical instrument” as much as it’s a tumblr meme.
One of my must-do projects when going home was to bake this recipe. And here they are!
I didn’t have any elvish leaves so we used mulberry instead. And no twine either because my elvish supplier was a stingy git fucking elves amirite thorin
This plate is for Pippin:
TMNT Advent Calendar :: Day 18, Party
>Day4Science logged on
Day4Science entered the rustic tavern, its wooden walls awash in hues of golds and reds from two enormous fireplaces. Giant wildboars hung on spits and a hearty song filled the background, despite only a few players milling about the bar. He joined them to replenish the herbs and potions in his stock.
He was not sure which quest they would be embarking on. But this was his first time asking her on a party quest, so he wanted to be prepared for any eventuality.
>sk8tergirl logged on
A busty female character approached him, decked in the clothes of a beginner priest. She initiated a conversation through the private chat.
>Hey Donnie, is that you? :)
>Who’s asking?
He was always cautious even in the game. After their experience with Bradford, all the turtles were.
>April, silly! D:<
Okay Shellheads, I think I’m going to start compiling that list of TMNTfanwriters that I talked about here.
I know there is a lot of you, so I’m going to ask you to do me a favour. Reblog this post with the form filled out below and insert links where they apply. Exactly like this, except with your name instead of mine and the appropriate URLs. Likes and incomplete forms will be ignored. Thanks!
DESIGNATEDTOASTER
|FF.NET PROFILE|A03 PROFILE|LIVEJOURNAL|OTHER
SMILINGTHROUGHBROKENTEETH
|FF.NET PROFILE (defunct)|A03 PROFILE|LIVEJOURNAL|OTHER (tumblr)
 |
maybethings ; OK, that wasn't AU so much as crack. Mikey and Tyrion meet in one of their universes. |
Michelangelo grinned. “Dude, this is my armour.”
At the whirling nunchaku, Tyrion reconsidered. Perhaps offense really was the best defense.
|
maybethings ; Splinter and Shredder eat cookies. |
“Master Yoshi!”
Splinter turns and finds nothing. “You honourless coward!” he accuses, aghast.
Unrepentant, Shredder claims his macadamia chip reward.
 |
Anonymous ; “Nurse Me” |
The barricade of furniture and crates gave them a moment of respite. Muffled voices continued to demand their surrender but they were no more than background noise to Raphael, who stared at the wide open gash with disbelieving eyes.
“Stitch me up,” Donatello had said, sinking to the floor from the weight of his pack. “We have a bit of time,” he had said.
A bit of time. Enough time for Leonardo or Michelangelo to return, he thought. They could do this. They could do this much better than he.
Raphael shifted the needle uneasily in his hand, swallowing desperately to keep his stomach from jumping out just like little brains in robotic suits. Donatello’s words felt as if they came from far away, mixing with the din outside. Cold, cybernetic voices grew louder, enveloping them in overwhelming echoes.
With a sharp, crystal clarity, Raphael became very aware of his hand. Bloodied and skin torn; the hands of a warrior. He was not deft and precise like Leonardo. Nor steady and meticulous like his wounded brother. Nor even gentle like Michelangelo.
Everyone had a role to play, and his was not as a healer.
Raphael felt his eyes stinging. He could not do this. He could not.
“Meathead!” Donatello punched him with his good arm.
The voices retreated behind the barricade once more.
“You’ve seen me do this a million times!” His brother’s tone softened into one of clinical calmness, “I’ll talk you through it.”
The truth was they had no idea where Leonardo or Michelangelo were. The truth was their little bit of time was very little indeed.
“You’re not gonna cry at a little blood, are you?”
Raphael wiped his face roughly with his elbow and growled. “Just sweat from hauling your useless butt all the way here, lamebrain. Now start talking.”
 |
tordles ; paint me ( ͡o ͜ʖ ͡o) |
Michelangelo bit the tip of his pencil as he frowned at the canvas. As usual, Raphael was causing the most trouble.
His head was just so weird!
No matter the angles he tried, not even drawing upside down, he just could not nail down the shape of his older brother’s head. It was like a round brick; a thing so impossible his artist’s hand could not capture its likeness. Yet in mockery of the world, there it existed before him. Mocking him. Mockingly.
Secretly, the young turtle also felt himself running out of steam. Drawing a family portrait seemed like a great idea when he first thought of it. He even got everyone to sit down for a whole day for his sketching.
That was several months ago.
Last week, Donatello found an old camera and promptly fixed it up. All that was left was to convince Splinter to allow them to take photos. They did not predict any trouble with that.
Gritting his teeth, he scribbled two dots and a frown over where Raphael’s head should be. That ought to do it.
“Sorry, Mikey.” Michelangelo turned at the opening door. His oldest brother walked in, shrugging regretfully, “Splinter said no photos. Too dangerous.”
“Aww, man!” The words left him quickly, full of genuine disappointment he did not realise he felt. Perhaps he had been looking forward to trying their new toy just a little bit. He had even planned the different superhero poses they would do.
“You’re still working on this?” Leonardo walked over, his attention fully turned to the drawing. “Hey, it’s pretty good.”
“Really?” Happy to talk about his work, he hopped eagerly beside his brother and pointed at the upside-down smiley. “Raph’s head is being a pain, though.”
“Nothing new there,” Leonardo said dryly. He continued to survey the drawing, going over the messy linework and faint trails bearing the trace of a dirty eraser. The canvas was the length of their arms, spread out on the floor of their bedroom.
When his brother spoke, Michelangelo released a breath he did not know he held.
“Guess you better work on that if we’re putting this out there. I don’t think Raph would appreciate a smiley for his head.”
Blue eyes widened. Michelangelo grinned. “Dude, you know what they say…”
“Everyone’s a critic!” they quipped together.
TMNT Advent Calendar :: Day 20, Tea
Splinter poured boiling water into the cup, stopping precisely below the rim, and waited for the tea to settle. A single candle lit the room with a soft glow, trembling slightly as its wick almost sank in a pool of thick wax. The small flame was enough for this space, really more of an offshoot from the dojo than a bedroom proper.
But it was safer in here than in the vast subway outside, with its crumbling walls and sheer openness. It was too large for one man to manage alone. Too easy to lose four rambunctious boys in its hidden corners.
A soft purr drifted from the shadows further away. Nestled under a blanket, Donatello kicked his leg, chasing something in a dream. His little foot nudged his brother’s face. Raphael swatted at it irritably but slept on.
It would take quite a commotion to wake the boys tonight, their energy completely spent from celebrating their fourth… for lack of a better word, Splinter thought of it as their mutation day. And while he did not like wasting candles, he also allowed himself this small luxury once every year.
After the chaos of the day with his sons, the night belonged to him. It was for Splinter’s reflection and Hamato Yoshi’s memories.
Sitting just before him, illuminated in the circle of light, was Tang Shen. She held their baby daughter in her arms. She was still cast in deep, rich shadows — in the underground, far from lights of any kind, the photo kept its condition well — and gazed at him in gentle solemnity.
Each year, Yoshi drank tea and recounted his life with his sons to her. Their lessons, their mistakes, their little adventures with him and each other. He asked her for advice. He lamented their challenges. Sometimes, he even imagined these were the experiences — the life — he had with Miwa.
Then, when he was particularly tired, he tried to read.
Yoshi looked into his cup, now empty. The bottom was covered in a thick layer of wet leaves. He turned it slowly, watching the shapes, the rim reflecting the candle’s glow like the outline of a new moon on a clear night.
That first year, he read for Miwa. It has been a reckless move, borne of a desperation to return to his previous life, creating baseless expectations and inevitable disappointment. He never tried it again.
But tonight was different.
For years, Tang Shen and their daughter sat with him in this gloomy, closed room. Sometimes she was nothing more than a landscape of white curves and midnight ink. A constant presence that beckoned from the past to the past, away from the difficult present. An invitation which, at some point, various points, he had been tempted to accept.
He did not know what had changed, only that Splinter woke up one day and realised he was still a father.
Tomorrow, he would take the photo out and place it on the shelf in the new dojo. Tang Shen would watch her sons grow and learn in the art of their clan. As her photo faded from the light, she would bear witness to her gracious spirit blossoming in Leonardo’s heart, Raphael’s passion, Donatello’s wonder, and Michelangelo’s joy.
They would never hear a word from her lips, they might never even understand; but they would become her sons as much as his.
Tonight, Yoshi read for a blessing and a future.
