anyone want some Kenta whump that doesn't involve Tony
I’m hmmmm maybe halfway through this draft and should be able to post it by the end of the week, unless I keep adding more scenes, which could happen.
Kim reaches his hand out and grabs at the back of Kenta’s hoodie, yanking him towards the window. “Give me the gun,” he growls, and this time Kenta obeys.
Kim covers Kenta’s back, firing towards the guards, while Kenta squeezes past him. It’s inelegant—Kenta struggles through the window, and Kim finds himself wishing they had special equipment with them, like in a spy movie. A smoke grenade, for the guards. A grapple hook, for a smooth getaway.
Or perhaps a partner that he could let himself completely trust. On any given day, it's a coin toss as to whether Kim is more comfortable around Winner or Kenta. Winner at least has clear motivations. He wants money, and Pete has plenty of it. But Kenta remains a closed book to Kim. He says he's not interested in redemption, or forgiveness, and Kim can't figure out what it is that he's after.
Kenta tugs at Kim’s sleeve once he’s outside, and Kim swings back out of the window. He slides the gun neatly into Kenta’s shoulder holster and watches as Kenta's breath catches in his throat. His metallic, coppery scent is stronger than usual tonight, and it fills Kim's nose in an almost unpleasant way.
They clamber downwards, holding onto the concrete ledge and dangling off the side of the building. Kim takes a deep breath, looks over at Kenta, and nods once, before letting go.
It’s a painful fall—as much as the dense bushes break the impact, Kim knows he’ll feel this for days. But his limbs are all in one piece, if not his dignity; he rolls out of the bushes with leaves still clinging to him.
Kenta is on hands and knees on the ground, breathing heavily, like the fall took it out of him. He's got one hand pressed tightly to his side, and Kim feels an unexpected, cold sense of dread trickle down his spine when the man doesn’t get up.
A car skids to a halt on the street in front of them and honks twice. Dean.
“Come on,” Kim whispers, hooking his hand under Kenta’s arm and pulling him to his feet, dragging him under the cover of the trees before the guards can spot them. Kenta stumbles unsteadily and leans into Kim, like he can't support his own weight, and that's when it fully clicks. “Damnit, Kenta, were you shot?”
“… I’m fine,” Kenta replies hoarsely.
my poor masterpiece flopped when I linked it from my youtube the other week, so I’m putting it in the tumblr video player and giving it another shot. please look at my tf2 funnie
MOVIES I WATCHED IN 2023 [29/?]
⤿ BlacKkKlansman (2018) dir. Spike Lee
I just want to leave you, Sista's and Brotha's, with these last words. If I am not for myself, who will I be? If I am for myself alone, who am I? If not now, when? And if not you, who? We need an undying love for black people, wherever we may be. All power to all the people.
Item: liquor decanter shaped like a gun; only for use by the coolest and toughest badasses, obviously, preventing anybody that's not a cool brave macho alpha from getting into your booze, because no mewling little wimp could handle such a badass tough-guy drink like Gun Juice.
One of the main reasons I don't own a gun, despite being from the south, is that a large part of my brain* genuinely believes it is Legal and Right to shoot anything making too much noise.
You might say "but foone, guns are loud!". True, but you need to think of the long term. If I let my neighbour mow the lawn every Friday, then they will be loud forever. If I shoot their stupid fucking tractor with an anti-materiel rifle, then there will be a very loud noise... Once.
Plus it'll send an important message to all other loud noise producers. Maybe that guy with the fucking hair-trigger car alarm will reconsider once stuff starts ending up with fresh .50 BMG piercings.
Anyway, yeah. That's why I don't own any guns. Because rationally I know it's wrong and illegal to start firing them all willy-nilly at stuff that makes loud noises, but for a few seconds when I'm afflicted with MISOPHONIC RAGE I am not thinking remotely rationally.
It's like how you're nit supposed to sneak up on and poke someone with martial arts training, because their training might kick in and knock you to the floor.
For my continued well-being and the safety of others, I need to not have guns because my instinctual reflex reaction to loud noises is to destroy it until it shuts up permanently.
And a message is left for the next 10 generations that some things are too loud a noise. Their heads will be put on a pike and I'll look up and silently wave, just like this!
I am Foone Turing, the right hand of sensory sensitivity and the boot that is going to kick your sorry ass all the way back to Earth, sweetheart! I am silence incarnate, and the last living thing that you will ever see. God sent me. *I am hauled off by Babylon 5 security*