Attacking a stranger on artfight: I had a blast drawing your character. Your designs are super charming and fun. Have a good artfight! âşď¸
Attacking your friends on artfight: I GET YOU I GET GIU I GET YOU AND THEN I KILL YOU đĽđĽđĽđĽ KILL YOU đđ YOU WILL NEVER WIN AGAINST ME. my fr iend đŤ
It's been a muggy summer so this challenge was very much felt. Go join this DTIYS!! It's a random giveaway (not skill based) so anyone who joins will have a chance to win a ROTTMNT artbook! You can decline if you just want to participate in the challenge tho. Turt is a genuinely amazing artist and he deserves all the love and attention. This was super duper fun :))
Konnichiwa guys uh im gonna be hiatus cuz my homework r stacking up rn and THANK U FOR 500 FOLLOWERS (tumblr) AND 4K FOLLOWERS (tiktok) !!!!!
Still wondering abt the comic? Dont worry bro the part 1 is almost finished. I'll probably upload it around at the end of july (there's a chance it could be a delay due to school giving homework per day đŤŠ)
one of the best parts of making up increasingly wild and specific aus with a friend is sending them posts like "this is sooo blorbo in torture chamber au number 15" and they reply back like "YESSS btw have i told you about my latest idea for how to torture them even more" and you get to enjoy a little snack and kick your feet with glee
rottmnt
word count:Â 1.5k
title borrowed from sleep louder by dom louis
part of the archer au
i managed to get a little something written for gio's birthday :) introducing a very important character to the au !
x
Mike
Hey Clementine! PT is running super late today so I probably wonât be home in time for dinner. Sorry!! But thereâs plenty of food in the fridge!! Help yourself, okay?? ŕ´Śŕľŕ´Śŕ´ż(･â˘Ě á<)
Gio has looked at that text at least four times since he got it an hour ago. He hasnât replied yet.
Heâs still getting used to the concept of using his phone outside of work, for mundane things, like discussing dinner plans. He doesnât know the etiquette, and he doesnât want to make himself look stupid by breaking one of those unspoken rules that seem to be obvious to everyone else.
Itâs been an hourâis it too late to reply now, even if he thought of what to say? His big brother will happily send a dozen texts even if the first one goes unanswered, so maybe itâs fine.
He would never want Mikey to feel bad about going to physical therapy. Apparently heâs never taken Draxum up on the offer before now, but something happened recently that made him change his mind.
Mikey usually keeps those snaking black scars on his arms covered up, but Gio has seen them once or twice. He knows they must ache. Sometimes he catches the older turtle clenching and unclenching his fists, like his hands have fallen asleep and heâs trying to make the numbness go away. Once Gio had to take over chopping vegetables for him, because he couldnât grip the knife properly.
Gio looks down at his own gloved hands. The scars on his palms are much smaller, mostly faded. He doesnât have the kind of nerve damage that would prevent him from working, but sometimes his hands ache, too.
Maybe Mikey wouldnât mind passing along whatever methods Draxum is using. He almost definitely wouldnât get angry at Gio for asking. At the very least heâd be nice about saying no.
He was looking forward to dinner. On Fridays, they cook pasta, everything made from scratchânoodles, sauce, garlic bread, even the mozzarella. Gio has absolutely no talent in the kitchen, but Mikey teaches him anyway.
Itâs an unofficial tradition, because those seem to be important to his brother. Gio enjoys it, too. He likes knowing what to expect. A simple routine is something heâll never take for granted.
He doesnât want to go back to the lair and eat there alone. The food doesnât taste half as good when Gio is the one cooking. And he especially doesnât want to run into Raphael and Donatelloâhanging out there, without the only person who actually wants him around, would feel a bit too much like rubbing it in their faces that theyâre stuck with him.
So he doesnât answer Mikeyâs text, and he doesnât go home. He takes a walk instead.
The Hidden City of this dimension has taken some getting used to. On a surface level, itâs very similarâall the various districts and neighborhoods are laid out exactly where Gio would have looked to find them, but small things arenât the same.
The Ryu-gumi all but owned the city Gio used to live in, but here no one is familiar with the name. The street where Tenten should have been is a crowded row of apartment buildings and a coin laundromat.
Gio keeps walking and manages to feel homesick while actively avoiding going home. At some point, maybe because thereâs a limited number of places he knows the way to, or maybe just because heâs a creature of habit, his feet take him to Run of the Mill.
Itâs busy inside. He should have expected that on a Friday evening. Heâs done enough delivery jobs to know how hectic restaurants tend to be around this time, especially ones as local and popular as this. He stands in the foyer just long enough to clock the long line at the hostess stand, the packed bar, and the scurrying waitstaff, and decides heâs better off anywhere else.
His tactical retreat is waylaid by a group of about thirteen making their meandering way through the front doors. Thatâs all it takes for the owner to spot him.
âPecoso! Stop standing around in the doorway,â the skeleton scolds by way of greeting.
Hueso always has a fed-up look on his face when Gio sees him, but he doesnât think itâs personal. Hueso looks at Mikey like that, too; like he can count on any day he has to deal with Hamato Nonsense to be a bad one.
It doesnât stop him from waving Gio impatiently forward, past the long queue, and pointing him into a little corner booth thatâs just been cleaned up for its next party.
âI was leaving,â Gio starts to explain, barely able to hear himself over the ambient noise of the dining patrons and the live jazz band. Hueso cuts him off easily.
âAnd let those brothers of yours get the idea that I donât feed you? As if I will invite that chaos into my life!â He slaps a laminate menu on the tabletop and tells him, âI will be back in five minutes for your order.â He doesnât wait for a rebuttal, disappearing to go put out fires elsewhere.
Well. Gio has nothing better to do. And itâs not the worst welcome heâs ever gotten. He sits down and opens the menu.
Tenten rarely got as busy as this. It was a third of the size, for one, and Sable ran the izakaya-style kitchen and served the drinks by himself before Gio was foisted off on him without any issue. Run of the Millâs menu is longer than theirs had been by a mile. But the lighting, the murmur of conversation, even the clink of glassware, create a familiar setting. If he lets his eyes unfocus and doesnât think very hard, he can almost pretend heâs fourteen again, and the closest thing heâs ever had to a father is just across the room, cleaning the bar.
âHey,â an unfamiliar voice says.
Gio hasnât been paying enough attention to his surroundings, caught up in daydreaming. He looks up fast.
A skeleton yokai about his age looks back at him. Heâs dressed in a serverâs uniform and a backwards cap, one hand shoved into a pocket, bus tub braced against his hip on the opposite side.
âIâm Junior,â he says plainly. âAnd youâre one of the Hamatos, but I donât know which.â
Gio has never been good at talking to people his own age. Or people in general. Or having any sort of conversation that he wasnât able to practice having beforehand. Nerves begin to thunder through him like a dozen trains roaring down a track.
âClâ Gio,â he says, feeling more stupid by the second. Then, because the silence begins to stretch, âIâm not from here.â
âHuh, guess that explains it,â Junior says. He sets the bus tub on an empty chair at a nearby table and sits across from Gio on the edge of the booth seat, long legs stretched out into the aisle. âYour brothers are so weird. Dad used to complain about them constantly when heâd come home after work. Iâd be sitting there trying to do homework and heâd be going off about property damage and noise complaints.â Junior rolls his eyes. âIf they were really that annoying, he would have just banned them, but nooo. He obviously had a soft spot for âem. Especially his favorite, the one who died.â
As soon as he says it, Juniorâs eyes widen and his head jerks to the side, looking at Gio with an expression that heâs tempted to call panicked. Like he realized he put his foot in his mouth a second too late and thereâs no way he can possibly salvage it.
After a moment of the two of them just staring at each other, Junior looks down at his feet and mutters, âI didnât know him. Sorry.â
Gio catches his breath.
Everyone knew Leo. Every single person he has more than a passing familiarity with in this dimension weighs him against the missing brother, measures him against the hole that Leo left in the world when he saved it, whether they mean to or not.
âI didnât know him either,â he says, before he realizes heâs going to say anything at all.
Junior lifts his head and glances back at him. He looks surprised, and then grateful, and then it all gets shuffled behind cool indifference.
âOh. Okay, then. Want some garlic bread?â
A bony fist comes down upon Juniorâs skull with an audible thunk, and Hueso says, âYou had better have a good excuse for why there are three tables in this dining room that need cleaning while you sit around bothering customers, mijo.â
âIâm not bothering anybody!â Junior gripes back. âAnd youâre not even paying me! Child labor is illegal, you know.â
âYes, yes, no one has ever suffered more than you, I am well aware of this.â Hueso sets his sharp eyes on Gio in turn, who sits up straight. âAre you ready to order, or has Junior wasted your time as well as mine?â
His son makes a wordless, aggrieved sound. Gio says, without thinking, âGarlic bread.â
Junior grins. Hueso rolls his eyes and says, âI will bring you both the lasagna and you will eat it without complaint.â
He picks up the discarded bus tub and leaves again without another word.
âSee? Heâs a softie,â Junior says, digging something out of his waist apron pocket. âThe lasagna is the house special. If he was actually annoyed it would have been chicken fingers or something.â He finally finds his phone and shoves it across the table. âHey, whatâs your number?â
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