For the April for April monthly prompt courtesy of @tmntflashfic, I present a collection of snippets and drabble prompts for everyone’s viewing; regarding canon events and how April coped and grew with each one. Because April’s character was just too multifaceted to restrict to a single story.
May the next incarnation of TMNT utilize this amazing girl better than 2012 did.
That’s no longer relevant.
April looks at books she hasn’t read in ages, clothes too
flimsy and light for combat, and makeup and jewels she never has time to use.
Most of these things she hasn’t spared a glance at in months.
Her sword and fan lay on her desk, along with her jumpsuit
and armor. They’re waiting for her to finish up, and then for her to don them
and escape into the night. Her friends wait for her there, and she just needs
to finish cleaning out her room so she can join them.
April moves items that used to mean everything to her into a
box for give-away, and closes the lid on what her younger self had imagined to
He can’t do that to us.
“He can’t do that to us, right?” April asks, shooting a look
at the four brothers as master Splinter shuts the dojo doors. With him out of
the room, her frustration is free to be expressed. “I mean. More specifically,
can’t do that to me. He’s not my dad. He
can’t ground me, right?”
“I think he just did,” Donnie says with an awkward,
apologetic smile. Leo shrugs, and maintains a similar expression; while Raph
just grumbles along with Mikey.
April throws her hands up in the air, and slumps onto the
lair couch morosely. “I blame all of you. I wanted to see that
“Me too,” Mikey sighs in agreement, flopping dramatically
onto the couch with her.
“And yet, you were the one who let slip we were going to
it,” Leo points out, sitting down with less drama than Mikey, but with an air
of disappointment regardless.
“I forgot, alright? Besides, can you blame
me for getting excited? The original version of Akira, playing in a theater,
like, not even twenty blocks from here!”
verse description: the first and long forgotten king of asgard, ardyn was chosen to keep the realm of the asgardian gods in peace with the other realms, and was the first protector of the aether, one of the six infinity stones that helped create the universe. and for a long time, he kept the peace, until a mysterious plague strong enough to weaken, and even kill the asgardian gods threatened the realm. sworn to protect his people, ardyn took use of the power stone and was granted the power to absorb the plague into his own body. for years, he healed sick asgardians, until the plague was eventually no longer a threat. but his cousin, buri, which would later become the father of bor and grandfather of odin, was jealous of ardyn, and demonized him by pointing out how the aether had corrupted him, which, to some extent was technically true, and ‘technically’ seemed to be enough to have the rest of the asgardians believe buri’s words against ardyn.
and so it was, that ardyn was banished from asgard to svartalfheim, and the throne was stolen taken by buri. but while buri reigned in asgard, ardyn became obsessed with the idea of vengeance, and, unable to get back to asgard on his own, ardyn helped malekith become the leader of the dark elves and planted the idea in him to bring back the darkness to the universe through the aether’s powers, which he told malekith would have to be stolen from asgard’s vaults.
and so it was, many decades later. buri, who had stolen the throne from ardyn was killed trying to protect the aether from malekith and his followers, and the aether was now finally in the possession of the dark elves. that would later cause the first battle of svartalfheim between the dark elves and the asgardians, led by bor, son of buri. though ardyn, having had the feeling all along that malekith’s plan would fail, had tried to warn him, and when malekith refused to listen, he left to roam across the other realms before the battle began. but before ardyn left, he made sure to let malekith know where to find him, if he ever found himself in need of guidance.
millenias later, malekith did indeed seek him out, and ardyn once again guided him with ideas and suggestions of how to best succeed in his goals; which lead to the events of thor: the dark world. though having spent millenias on his own, ardyn had come to realize that the aether’s powers he had used a long time ago had rendered him immortal. part of him saw it as a blessing; after all, it gave him time to come up with a new scheme to get closer to what he himself longed for most; vengeance against his family (odin, frigga, thor, etc.) however, never dying, never finding peace is a difficult road to travel when you’re fully and completely alone in the universe. and after such a long time, ardyn’s spite and dreams of vengeance is the only thing that has kept him going.
So there was this prompt a while back from a list of “AUs
for when your OTP are both assholes”: “Shouting match over the last
Thanksgiving turkey at the grocery store AU.” Which would, in the natural
course of things, lead to…
“Blame Typey,” I believe a common expression goes. More-appropriate
words were never spoken, as it’s Typey’s fault that these two ideas were put
together, and thus it is also her fault that I give you:
“Here, turkey, turkey, turkey,” Myka muttered. Some kind of
supermarket theory probably dictated why you always had to hike all the way to
the back of the store to get to the meat department. Some kind of annoying supermarket theory that didn’t
take into account the fact that it might be Thanksgiving and you might have,
oh, eight people showing up at your place in not very many hours, and you would
have been ready for that if you hadn’t been held up for almost thirty hours in the Phoenix airport and
just got home this morning. Anyone with any sense would’ve just rented a car
and driven home to Colorado Springs (only a twelve hour drive!), or bought a
new ticket and flown to Denver and then driven (an hour and a half!). But oh
no, she’d been stubborn. In an airport on the day before Thanksgiving, she’d
decided to be stubborn.
Fine, then: now she was going to keep on being stubborn,
keep on and make Thanksgiving dinner at my
house like I said I would. She added a “damn right I am” at the end of
that, as mulish punctuation.
And there at last was the big freezer, shining like… like
the extremely shiny thing it was. No time for flowery language; she was on a
mission. She looked down into the case, and just for her, wedged all alone in
the back corner, forlorn and most likely freezer-burned, was Myka’s turkey.
“Thanks for waiting,” Myka told it. Finally, finally, finally, she was going to be able to get this holiday back on
track. She reached down for her prize, this turkey that had so steadfastly held
its position, watching its friends bought by happy holiday shoppers over the
past week, knowing perfectly well all the while that Myka was on her way. And
so now, home to defrost, then cook, then serve (slightly late, but excusably
so, given the airport situation) this sine qua non of the holiday meal. She
would show everybody, particularly her mother and father, that she was perfectly capable—
“I beg your pardon,” she heard, right next to her ear: a
woman’s voice, low and extremely appealing, and was that a British accent? Myka
could have sworn she could even feel breath on her neck. A voice, and warm
breath, and she dropped the turkey, which landed with a crunch back into the
veritable snowbank of ice crystals in the bottom of the freezer.