Fanfiction Progress, Ahoy!
I really should wait to post this until I have the first chapters of my incredibly self-indulgent Rise of the TMNT fanfiction up on A03 (Iâm WeavingStars on there, I just havenât posted anything yet), but I got way too excited about this chapter and wanted to share.
For those of you who havenât read my first drabble, Iâll link it here.
For simplicityâs sake, Iâll tell you that the story is focused on my Ragamuffin cat mutant OC (who is quite heavily based on myself), her interactions with the cast, and her eventual romance with one of the boys.
Without further ado, here it is:
Warnings: Mentions of phobias, anxiety, mild self-destructive behavior, some naughty thoughts on the part of Donatello.
Scene: Donatello catches Michan watching a nature documentary in the projector room.
A narrator with a British accent was describing the hunting behaviors of a lioness. Michan was seated on one of the overstuffed bean bags, watching the projected images against the wall of the lair with interest. She didnât even seem to register that Donatello had entered the room.
âAre youâŚwatching a nature documentary?â
The Ragamuffin jumped a bit, startled. She turned to the purple-clad genius and after taking a breath, she smiled. âYes! I am! Do you want to watch with me?â
He paused for a moment, considering the offer, before sitting down on the floor beside her bean bag.
âIâŚwas not aware you enjoyed these types of programs.â He turned to her, face betraying his confusion.
The pink-haired mutant blinked for a moment, cocking her head slightly.
âWhy wouldnât I?â She asked, sounding almost as confused as he felt.
âI mean, Itâs justâŚâ He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. ââŚyouâve never displayed any interest in anything of an academic nature before.â
Michan frowned slightly, her large ears lowering a bit. Even with his difficulty with social cues Donatello could tell he might have said the wrong thing.
âFirst of all, I havenât shown any interest in front of you.â She clarified, holding up her index finger and pointing at him. âI talk about art with Mikey literally all the time. Not just cartoons and street art, either. Art history is something Iâm very interested in and actually know something about.â
Donatello was doing his best not to show how surprised he was. He knew sheâd been spending quite a bit of time holed up in his artistic brotherâs room working on secret projects, but he hadnât thought theyâd been talking about anything on that level.
He also wasnât used to her speaking to him this way. Her speech had changed. Ordinarily she was either painfully shy or bubbly and silly. This was different.
âOkay. So, you like art history.â He ventured. âAre you interested in any other subjects?â
Her expression changed from one of irritation to one of pride. Her ears raised, and the tip of her tail twitched in excitement next to him.
âLots of them! Iâm really good at English. I read a lot and I love to write.â She beamed. âThatâs probably my best subject. But I also love history, and science, and languages, and music, and psychology, and theater, and folklore, and mythologyâŚâ
She counted off each listed subject on her fingers, and Donnie found his eyes growing wider with each entry.
âTo be honestâŚthe only subject Iâm abysmally bad at is math. Like, you have no idea.â She admitted, her ears drooping a bit. âItâs always been my weakest area and it kept me from doing a lot of things I wanted to do in science and music. Even basic math is hard for me. Itâs why I keep my calculator app ready on my phone.â
Donatello found it incredibly difficult to relate to someone struggling in an area that came so easily to him. However, that wasnât at the forefront of his thoughts.
âWhy havenât you ever talked about this in front of me? I havenât even heard you mention any of this to the others!â He asked, genuinely flabbergasted at this point.
Michanâs ears pressed nearly flat against her hair, and she didnât meet his eyes, looking at her hands with a downcast expression.
âIâŚI donât really make a habit of showing off unless something comes up in conversations. And so far, it hasnât. So, I havenât, I guess.â
Again, Donatello couldnât understand where she was coming from. âWhy not?â
She rubbed her forearm, something he was beginning to realize was an anxious habit of hers.
âI want them to like me. I donât want to get on their nerves. If I show off too much, they might not want to hang out with me anymore.â
Multiple emotions sparked through the resident genius at once. He was confused as to why their opinions mattered so much to her. He was angry and frustrated that sheâd been suppressing what was obviously a large part of herself in order to please everyone.
Most of all, he realized once heâd taken a few seconds to process, he was hurt that she didnât feel comfortable enough to share any of this with him. He was the academic. He was the one who would have understood, even encouraged her.
What kinds of conversations could they have had by this point? What could they have learned from one another?
What could they have shared?
âYou could have told me!â He protested, pressing both hands against his chest. âWhy didnât you?â
Michan finally lifted her eyes to meet his. She looked on the verge of tears.
âYouâre a genius.â Her voice was too heavy, too shaky, too small.
She was rubbing her arm to the point of bruising at this point.
âI donât understand. What does that have to do with anything?â He was trying hard to resist the urge to grab her hand and stop the destructive behavior.
âIf I annoyed the others by being too smart, I would annoy you by not being smart enough. Iâm not your equal. Iâm not even close.â
Tears did fill her eyes at this point, and she squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to stop them.
Donatello stared at her in shock. He had never been put into this position before.
Heâd debated with countless experts (and those who only professed to be) in various fields of study online, of course. Heâd won most of said debates, and while they reacted to said victories with varying degrees of maturity, none of them had seemed intimidated by him.
At least at first. Afterwards was a different matter.
Then there was the matter of his brothers. Sure, they loved him, but they were largely dismissive of his interests and attempts to discuss them. April was quite good at listening to him and the two often had decent conversations. Sheâd never shown a lack of confidence when it came to speaking her mind about something.
This was the first time he could recall someone being so frightened of his disapproval. He realized that his opinion of her was important to her. That somehow, she felt unworthy of even attempting to hold more than a surface level conversation.
Memories of having to âdumb downâ his own explanations for his father and brothers flooded in. He did it for years before giving up in frustration. Deep down, he wanted his brothers to listen to him. He wanted his father to pay an interest.
Now there was someone in front of him who he might have been able to share those countless ideas and rich conversations with, and she was afraid of him?
âStop that.â He finally reached out to still the hand pulling at her arm. âYouâre going to hurt yourself.â
Pale blue eyes looked down at his hand on hers, before looking back at him in a mixture of surprise and shame.
âIf you say youâre sorry, I will get upset at you.â He warned, and she closed her mouth before she repeated her bad habit of over apologizing.
âFirst of all, thatâs nonsense. Do you have any idea how refreshing it would be to have someone to engage in decent conversations with around here?â He released her hand to gesture with his own as he spoke.
âI mean, Newtonâs sake, Michan! Do you see Leo, Mikey or Raph ever take any time to talk about anything other than comics, skateboarding or pigeons with pizza in their mouths with me? Do you?â His hand movements were agitated now.
âWhat makes you think Iâd care whether or not you can discuss mathematics with me? Does it really matter if you canât match my knowledge of a subject perfectly? Iâm happy to have literally anyone to talk about these things with at all!â
He threw his hands in the air in frustration, before folding them over his chest.
Michanâs eyes widened almost impossibly, traces of tears lingering. She put a hand over her mouth, pressing her fingers against her lips.
Had he gone too far? With her it was difficult to tell at times. He didnât regret speaking his mind, but should he have tried to put it more gently?
Finally, after a few seconds she lowered her hand from her mouth and spoke.
âYou really donât mind if I donât know as much as you do?â
âOf course not. I donât expect anyone to know as much as I do about anything. I stopped that a long time ago.â He wasnât bragging, it was simply a statement of fact.
âWhat matters is that you try. As long as you make an attempt, Iâll be happy.â
She lifted her hand again to press her knuckle into her lips, looking down at a crack in the floor. Donatello realized that putting pressure on her lips seemed to be a soothing gesture for her.
An unbidden image of him pressing his own against hers to soothe her sprang into his mind.
He felt his face grow hot under his mask and he attempted to dispel the thought by concentrating on literally anything else.
The coldness of the concrete underneath his folded legs. The flickering of the hunting lioness projected on the wall. The slightly damp smell of the lair.
It wasnât working. His eyes kept returning to her lips, and the knuckle against it.
Heâd never felt so jealous of a personâs index finger in his entire life.
Eventually, she released her mouth again. To his relief, a small smile appeared.
âYou really want to talk to me about things?â She asked timidly, hope in her voice.
He sighed. âI literally just finished saying that. Please donât make me repeat myself.â
The Ragamuffin nodded, finally accepting his words. âOkay. What do you want to talk about first?â
Donatello pondered for a moment, rubbing his chin. Sheâd listed quite a range of subjects she had some interest in, if not expertise. Where should he start?
âTell me, what do you know about lions?â He asked, pointing at the wall where the moving image of the lioness pouncing on the haunches of some sort of antelope was projected.
Her expression brightened, and her ears perked up considerably.
âWell, for startersâŚâ
Donatello found himself pleasantly surprised at how much she knew about the subject. He listened to her excitedly describe the cooperative habits of lion prides, pointing out that it was the females that did most of the important work (a fact that made him curious about her views on feminism, though he had a good guess).
She knew about tidbits such as males being given the right to eat from a kill first, male lions recognizing all cubs in the pride as their own, the brutal dangers of rogue lions encroaching on territories to take over existing prides, and even affectionate behaviors such as nuzzling and grooming to establish bonds.
The last part made his cheeks grow hot again, and he was grateful for the dim lighting in the projector room. He wondered for a moment whether a feline cat mutant might exhibit such behaviors, then considered banging his head against the concrete.
The conversation carried on long after the documentary was finished. The video feed on the wall switched to another show about storm chasers, then one about the rainforest. Michan chatted animatedly about what she knew and listened to his expertise where hers lacked.
The soft-shell couldnât recall ever having so much fun talking to someone, and for so long. April was a very close second, but even she tired after so much of his info dumping and changed the subject. It was never malicious, he knew that.
But Michan wasnât just humoring him, she was engaging him. She offered her input and opinions, excitedly sharing her knowledge and absorbing his own. He found himself feeling practically giddy as they took turns speaking, each one of them occasionally apologizing for speaking over the other in their enthusiasm.
It was only until Michanâs eyes suddenly grew wide with fright that the conversation stopped. Donatelloâs drawn-on brows furrowed in confusion, until he looked to where she was staring at the wall.
A swimming great white shark was projected there, knifing its way through the clear blue water. The camera then drew its focus on the cold dark eyes, then the jagged rows of teeth, and finally to the side-to-side movement of its caudal fin.
âTurn it off.â She begged, her voice barely a whisper. âTurn it off, please.â
Donatello complied, switching off the projector and returning to her. Even in the dimmed lighting he could see how distressed she was. Her arms were hugging her torso and she was visibly shaking. Her ears were flat against her head and her tail fur was on end.
âMichanâŚâ He knelt in front of her. âDo you have a phobia of sharks?â
She nodded vigorously; terror reflected in her eyes. âIâm scared of a lot of things. But they scare me the worst.â
He didnât enjoy seeing her like this, but his curiosity got the better of him. âWhy do you think that is?â
She made a move to start rubbing her arm again but stopped herself.
âIâm not 100% sure, but I think it started when I was really little. There was a shark week special on TV and I made the mistake of watching it. I donât know how old I was exactly. All I remember was seeing blood and teeth and how cold and evil those eyes looked.â
She glanced down. âItâs weird. Tigers are deadly too, but Iâm not afraid of them the same way. Thereâs something about how sharks almost seem like machines, like they donât have any feelings other than hunger. I know theyâre important to the ecosystem and that the ocean would suffer without them, but I hate them.â
Donnie listened. He was impressed that in spite of her fear she acknowledged the need for such creatures to exist in nature. Her terror was also quite rational.
He contemplated for a moment, then realized there was a way he might be able to reassure her. But it would require him admitting something he was ashamed of.
Michanâs eyes raised to meet his, but Donatelloâs were cast down to his knees.
âWhat?â
âIâm afraid of beach balls.â
She tilted her head, confused. âWhy?â
He shook his head. âHonestly? Iâm not entirely sure. But I do remember being pummeled with them relentlessly once when I was small. I recall my glasses being broken. Pa-pa was not happy.â
âYou used to wear glasses?â She asked, surprised. âWhy donât you wear them anymore?â
âMy eyesight improved with time. I canât quite explain it. By the time I was ten I didnât need them anymore.â
âHuh.â She paused. âI used to wear glasses too.â
âYou did?â He glanced up from his knees to meet her eyes.
âYup. Purple ones, in fact. They were kind of pink in the light, but they were purple.â She replied, pointing towards her eyes.
She wore his signature color? He felt his heart beat a bit faster.
âWhy donât you wear them anymore?â He raised a brow, repeating her question.
âFunny thing. After I mutated, I didnât even realize I wasnât wearing them until I reached for them on my nightstand the morning after you all gave me my room. Maybe itâs the fact that cats have good eyesight, but I can see better now than I ever have. I see really well in the dark, too. Itâs actually super cool.â
âThatâŚactually that is super cool.â He admitted. âAre there any other advantages youâve noticed now?â
âYeah! I mean, there are things that suck, like having to deal with all this fur and a tail and all. But I used to have bad back problems and I donât anymore. My spine is like a slinky.â She laughed, stretching. He flushed a bit as he watched her, hoping that in spite of her darkvision she wouldnât notice. âIâm a lot more agile, too.â
An odd thought occurred to him, and once again his curiosity won out over tact.
âDo you have papillae on your tongue?â
âWhat?â She asked. The Ragamuffin looked a bit flustered.
âDo you have spines on your tongue? Is it rough like a domestic catâs?â
In response, she stuck her tongue out. He squinted a bit in the dim lighting to see the surface of it. There were, in fact, no visible papillae. It was smooth, like a humanâs.
For some reason, he felt relieved.
Then more unbidden images flooded into his mind, all of them involving said soft tongue, and he felt himself turn absolutely crimson.
âDonnie, are you okay?â She looked at him, concerned. âYou got super quiet.â
âIâm fine!â He jolted upright, still in a sitting position but his back was rigid.
âAre you sure? Did I do something wrong?â Anxiety creased her brows, and he mentally kicked himself for reacting in a way that would make her worry.
âN-no. You didnât do anything wrong.â The soft-shell reassured, getting up from his cross-legged position and standing. He reached out a hand to her.
âActually, Iâm starving. Do you want to see if there are any decent leftovers? Mikey doesnât ordinarily cook lunch.â
She blinked, then gave him a smile, nodding. She reached her hand out to take his, and he helped her to her feet.
âThat sounds good. Iâm pretty hungry too. Weâve been talking for ages.â
âIs that a problem?â For a moment, he felt a twinge of anxiety.
âNo. Itâs nice. Iâm just ready for food now.â She laughed.
He breathed what he hoped was a subtle sigh of relief, then gestured for her to follow.
âCome on, then. Letâs see whatâs available.â
As the two of them made their way to the kitchen, Donnie let Michan walk slightly ahead of him. He didnât want her to see his expression in case it betrayed how happy he felt.
Yeah. He could definitely get used to this.
 ââââââââââââââââââ
Tagging @mitsurikanroji23, @purple-flagz, and @acutiewithagunâ.
Purple-flagz and acutiewithagun are more familiar with me by my RP account @megumi-sensei. This is where I post most of my art and fiction snippets! Let me know if you donât want to be tagged.
