It's your Candyland where dreamers dance (And I promise that it's safe)

by This_world_of_beautiful_monsters

Summary:

Hypnovember, even though I'm way too busy and way too late (why did no one tell me this was a thing???)

Notes:

Couldn't decide on a prompt set, so I decide to combine this one by Lee Allure and this one by Fauxpawe.

Title song taken from Devil's Playground by The Rigs.

Chapter 1: Terrible thing, you beautiful thing

Summary:

TMNT 2012. Prompt: Spirals (Lee Allure).

Title taken from the song Terrible Thing by AG.

She's a living spiral, swirling and pulsing endlessly around him. It's gotten so Leo can't quite tell where Karai's scales end and his begin, they're so tangled up. Her coils shimmer in the low candlelight as they press in around him, keeping him warm and lighting up the shadows.

"It's like you're made of stars," he whispers, running his fingers down her warm, smooth scales. She laughs, the sound rippling through her body.

Leo frowns as he looks up at her, peering into deep green eyes. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Just...." She runs a hand through his mask tails. "It's like you haven't even changed."

"Of course not," he says, leaning into the touch. Her hands are snakes right now, too, and they lap at his face with gentle tongues. He knows she could kill him if she wanted to, but he's not afraid. He'd never be afraid. "I've always been me."

"Yeah..." And her voice is--what? Distant? Sad? Confused? She's looking off over his shoulders, as if searching for something she's lost.

He doesn't want to see that, he realizes. He wants her to be happy. Leo reaches up and tugs her into a kiss, brushing his fingers down her chest. Her body ripples at his touch, scales melting away to reveal soft breasts.

"Leo-- ah..." She sighs as he toys with her nipples, curling close against his chest. The swirl and ripple of coils around them picks up, rubbing against Leo's skin until he starts to tremble.

When they come up for air her face is flushed cherry-blossom pink. Only...it's not all on her cheeks, and it's not all pink. There's blood on her chin, staining her mouth. Leo glances at her breasts and sees blood there, too.

"Karai?" He stares at his hands, at what they're stained with. "What--"

"We were hunting, love," she says, fingers shifting to human as she lifts his chin. Her eyes are like her coils, spiraling forever. It's wonderful; he could watch them all day.

And yet, he has to ask.... "Why? Why do we need to hunt"

"There was a war," she explains, sounding tired, as if they've had this conversation before. "And there's not much left to live off on. You and I, we survive how we can."

"Oh." His hands twitch at the mention of war. "Why can't I remember?"

She shrugs, reaching up to take his palms. Her hands rub over his wrists, over the old scars there. "You can't remember too much at time, or you'll leave me," she says quietly. "You'd go looking for what was lost, and I'd be alone, and I can't have that."

Her fingers trace the lines of his scars. Straight, precise lines, as if made with purpose. What was the purpose?

Karai laughs, a strange and fractured sound. "I guess we really do become our fathers in the end, huh?"

He frowns, cocking his head. "Karai?"

"Shhh....it's okay." Her hand traces across his chin, his lips, under his eyes. His head falls to the side and he stares down at the coils, watching them pulse. The spiral pulls him down, down, down, into quiet waters.

The Greeks said the river Lethe could watch your memories clean, someone says in his mind. He can't remember who.

When he straightens up he's struck all over again by how powerful she is, how beautiful. And how sad. Like a princess in a fairytale, swept up by ugly shadows. He can't bear the sight.

"Don't," he whispers, reaching up to her. He plants soft, worshipful kisses over her face, her neck, her breasts, her stomach, down to the soft pulsing heat of her. "Please don't be sad."

When he looks back up at her there are tears sparkling in her eyes, but she's smiling, a real smile. "All right," she whispers, pulling him close. "I won't, Leo. For you."

They kiss and touch, bodies melting together in the shadows of a fallen world. Leo's world is blood and scales and the scent of perfection, and he can't imagine ever wanting anything else.

Chapter 2: Head in the clouds but my gravity centered

Summary:

All media types. Prompt: Wisps (Fauxpawe)

Title taken from the song Sweater Weather by The Neighborhood.

It's like trying to hold onto mist, to gather air into a ball. An impressive task even for his impressive brain, and really, doesn't he have better things to think about?

But still, they keep drifting through his mind. Little wisps of color and sound, flickering and darting away at his touch. Donnie growls, rubs at his eyes, down another pot or two of coffee. Nothing helps.

A smattering of laughter. Light flickering through the sewer grate. The heavy weight of wood in his hand, even though he's far too important to be risked on the battlefield, can't remember ever being given on a weapon. A warm hand on his shoulder, saying "Get some rest, egghead."

Rest? He can't rest. There's far too much work to do. Master wants him to work until his hands crack and bleed, until his skin is melted away by explosions, until he can't even remember the way out of his lab. Master wants him to defeat his enemies, and Donatello is happy to provide.

It's probably nothing, really. Just the side effects of exhaustion and hunger, only the question of why he's exhausted and hungry keeps coming back if he thinks about it for too long, why he only sleeps when he collapses these days.

Enough. Don't think about it. He buries himself in plan after plan, luxuriating in the crates full of materials that are all his for the taking for the first time in--what? He doesn't remember. Shut up, hippocampus, the doctor's working.

Yet the fragments stubbornly dig away at him. They push under his skin and drift through his veins, feeling his blood with soft, strange light. Sometimes, it's almost comforting. Others it's bothersome in a way he can't quite name. He feels like he's forgotten something.

Should he ask someone, maybe? No, he doesn't want to admit there's something he doesn't know-- you never have, nerd. Besides, it's not like there's a whole bunch of people to confide in. The fly-mutant holds him at a careful distance, the robots don't talk at all, and his Master is less than welcoming.

It feels more and more like it's just him and the wisps at the workstation, alone, drifting through a world made of flashing lights and glinting steel. He closes his eyes and the world tilts sickeningly under him, lights buzzing through his head.

I should tell someone, he thinks. But he doesn't.

The wisps are getting stronger, maybe. He can feel them tugging him away from his work, leaving him staring into space as they tug him down dark paths. Dark paths...forests....there was a forest, remember? And a girl. Red hair, blue eyes....

"No one," he says aloud, digging his fingers into the metal. "Just me. That's all there is." Has to be, because, because....

He doesn't know. But that's the way it has to be. So he hunches over his latest project, gritting his teeth and humming something he can't remember in an attempt to drown out the soft swirl of fragments.

He's so busy concentrating he doesn't even hear his alarm systems blaring until the door comes crashing down.

Chapter 3: Take my tears, and that's not nearly all

Summary:

TMNT 2012. Prompt: Dance (Fauxpawe)

Title taken from the song Tainted Love by Hannah Peel & Will Burns (I know that Marilyn Manson wrote the original song, but I was thinking of Peel's version, and also screw Manson).

He tells he wants to do something he used to do with her mother.

"I don't know how to dance," Karai admits.

"It's easy," her father says, stroking her face. "I can teach you. I taught you everything else, didn't I?" And he's right. He's always right. He knows what's best.

He finds her a grown of glossy black, and she doesn't like the way it pinches, how limited her motion is, but Karai's father's eyes light up when she puts it on, and she'd do anything for that look. She makes herself figure out how to walk in the shoes, to ignore how they pinch. To be the good girl her father deserves.

He pins an emerald brooch to the gown. To match her eyes, he says.

They make their way around the ballroom (when did they get a ballroom?), old music playing from speakers. She's awkward and clumsy at first, not sure how to handle this unusually sedate style of movement. But he patiently talks her through it (he's never this patient, why is he this patient?) until she can move with her usual grace.

"So beautiful," he whispers, running his hands down her spine. "You are perfect, Karai."

"Thank you, Father," she says, arching into his touch. His hands are warm and calloused, his eyes gentle as they move over her body. He's exchanged the armor for a handsome suit, his powerful body rippling under the cloth as he twirls her across the room.

"You look like your mother," he says, and she knows it's the highest compliment he can offer. So why do her steps stutter ever so slightly when he says it?

If he notices, he doesn't say anything. "Except for this." He brushes a finger over the ragged edges of her hair (she can't remember why it's ragged), runs it across the tattoos on her face. "And these." He shakes his head. "Why would you do this to yourself?"

The artist asks her if she's serious and she nods; she's been serious for a long time. If she just stops looking like her, the woman she both loves and quietly despises, maybe he won't come into her bed at night anymore, maybe they can be normal, maybe--

"Karai?"

The memory clicks out of existence as quickly as it appeared, until she's certain she imagined it. "Nothing." She glances at the floor. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right." His voice is so gentle (too gentle). He's looking at her like he's afraid she'll disappear if he glances away, even for an instant.

Her father twirls her across the floor, light glinting off the folds of her jewels. For a second she glances out at the New York skyline, at the shimmer of towers and clouds. Something small, but significant crumbles in her at the sight.

She turns back to her father, and he's frowning. "What's wrong, daughter?"

"Hmm?"

"You're crying." He teaches up and rubs a thumb under her eye, pulling away to reveal mascara-studded droplets glinting.

"I don't..." She shakes her head. "I don't remember." She bites her lip, glancing at the ground. "I don't--"

"It's all right, Karai," he says, and that's the firm voice that's ruled her life for as long as she can remember. She looks up and he's gazing at her intently. "It's nothing."

"It's nothing," she repeats. She smiles, and he smiles back.

He whirls her around the room, slides his hands under her dress, kisses her and tells her how much she adores her. He lowers her to the floor and fucks her on the ground, skirt hitched to her waist, while she stares out the window and tries to ignore the tears when they emerge again, spilling down her cheeks like falling stars.

Chapter 4: Fallen angel, just let go

Summary:

All media types. Prompt: Headphones (Fauxpawe)

Title taken from the song Fallen Angel by Three Days Grace.

"Breathe deep. Relax."

"Shut up," Raph screams. "Just shut the fucking fuck up!" He tries, for the millionth time, to twist the headphones off his head. He can't. Can't move his fucking neck, can't try to twist free of the padded restraints, can't try to pull away from the IV they've hooked him up to. Whatever's in it keeps him from closing his fucking eyes, filling them with flashing lights from that goddamn scream.

But he can still talk. As if that's ever done him any good.

"You are doing so well, Raphael. I am very proud."

"Li..." He coughs, huffs, trying to remember the word. "Liar." What the fuck are they giving him? Why can't he fucking move? Donnie would know, but Donnie isn't fucking here. He doesn't even know if--don't think about that, don't. Donnie's alive. They're all alive, and they're going to save him.

"It's all right. We will take care of you." He can't even identify the voice, is the fucking thing. It somehow manages to sound both impersonal and completely human at the same time. "We are all you will ever need."

"I don't need you, you piece of shit! I need my brothers!"

"Why? What's the use of worrying about them? How do you know they're even coming?" Fuck, fuck, fuck. Raph never should have given it an opening.

"They'll come. They always do."

"How are you so sure? Maybe they've given up on you, at long last. Don't they think you're crazy?"

It's stupid, what it's saying. So stupid. But...he's having trouble remembering why it's so stupid. After all, he's seen the way they look at him, the words they whisper behind his back. Troubled. Aggressive. Issues. Behavioral.

And suddenly there are new memories, new voices. We should get rid of him he's crazy he's worthless he's broken he's fucked in the head...

"No." Raph's shaking his head wildly, and there are tears, since when were there tears? "They didn't say that, they didn't--"

"Are you sure?"

"Sh-shut the fuck up." It's wrong, he knows, only--only, he doesn't think he's sure. Is he sure?

If only they could turn the fucking lights off so he could think.

"Hush, Raphael. It's all right. We're almost done, and then we can turn them off." Oh shit, did he say that out loud?

Raph groans, twisting in the restraints. "L-let me go," he rasps. "Please."

"We can't do that. We want to help you."

"Liar." They don't want to help him. No one wants to help him.

"That's not true, Raphael. We do."

The lights are flashing faster now. His veins are buzzing, humming, until it hurts. "Can't..." R-Raph? sobs. "I can't, please--"

"Shhh, you're doing so well. So well, Raphael."

Doing well? He never does well. He's ugly and stupid and worthless, he hurts the people he loves (whoever they are). He's a walking mistake, broken, useless--he's nothing.

"Yes, you are nothing, Raphael. But not to me."

He stares up into the light and it looks...pretty, almost. He blinks, fresh tears streaming from his eyes. "Please," he whispers, but he can't remember why.

"Listen to my voice. Let it take you up. Let it set you free." The voice lifts him up and carries him towards the colors, murmuring gently in his ear slit. "My good, sweet boy. So good."

He breathes deep, drinking in the words, the light. Muscles that he didn't even know were tense relax, letting him sink down onto the nice, soft bed.

"That's it," the voice says, and if there's a touch of smugness there, Raphael's too far gone to hear it.

Notes:

And yes, I was quoting Kylo Ren back there, because fuck him.

Chapter 5: Talk so pretty, but your heart got teeth

Summary:

TMNT IDW. Prompt: Uniform (Fauxpawe)

Title taken from the song Teeth by 5 Seconds of Summer.

Leo dresses in the near-dark, with only a soft flicker of moonlight to glint off the mirror. Not that he couldn't get dressed blindfolded by now, so intimately does he know its ever stitch and plate. He tends to it with care and wears it with pride, as a good chunin should.

The armor settles around the upper half of his body like a cloak, rippling with his muscles as he cycles through a few morning stretches. Leo pauses to scrap a spare bit of crusted blood off one pauldron and flick it away, before pausing to tuck in some knives and lock picks here and there.

Then he shakes out the scarf, looping it around his neck. Impractical, Karai had sneered when she'd first seen it. But impractical is the point. It's meant to tempt enemies into snatching for it, so that they stumble into his reach. It's meant to show off the fact that no one's ever been able to snatch it from him, no matter how fast they think they are.

Pulling on the mask feels a lot like it did when it was blue, before the rat betrayed them, before the fire, before... Leo glances into the mirror, reminding himself who and where he is. His color is black now, the shade of relentless hearts and endless nights. It suits him.

Next, he reluctantly turns to the leg wrappings. He's suspected that there's going to be a problem since he started getting dressed, and he doesn't really want to deal with it, but there's no use in trying to put it off forever.

The foot wrappings go on easily enough, strong and secure on his feet. Leo takes his time with the leg wrappings, tugging and pulling, trying to figure it out... But no joy.

He steps back and takes a better look at himself, arms crossed over his chest. The bite mark on his thigh, small and distinct, glares back. It's at least an inch above the top of his wrappings. Scrapes and bruises fade quickly on him, but bites like these take a bit more time.

"Damn," he mutters.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he was wearing something like his old gear. But all these wrappings technically cover more of his legs, they also draw more attention to the space from just above his knees to his waist, which is now the most exposed part of his body.

"Easy access," Master Shredder had muttered last night with a devilish grin, as he'd grabbed Leo by the mask tails and flipped him onto the bed.

(And he'd wanted what happened next, didn't he? It was an honor. A real honor. And it felt good, and Master Shredder had been smiling, so it was okay, wasn't it?)

Not an issue in the thick of battle, but when he actually has to talk to people, the chances of it being noticed go up. Leo tugs harder on the wrappings, but it doesn't make much of a difference. In fact, it only draws his attention to another, smaller bite on his other thigh.

And he...he doesn't want people to see. He doesn't know why, but it feels important. The thought of... someone seeing like this makes his blood go cold. Karai, maybe? And yet somehow that doesn't feel quite right.

"Is my little chunin feeling vain this morning?" a voice teases, cutting his thoughts off. Master Shredder appears over his shoulder, smirking. Shit. Leo hadn't even heard him get up.

"M-master!" He spins, bowing awkwardly. "I, um..." His hands instinctively fly to cover the marks, which of course draws Master Shredder's eye to them immediately.

"Hmm." He crosses to Leo's side and takes hold of his hands, pulling them away. "Are you ashamed?"

Leo swallows hard, looking away. "I..."

His master roughly spins him, turning Leo to face the mirror again. "Do you want to hide who you belong to?" he whispers. "Do you think you could, if you wanted?" His eyes are bright over Leo's shoulder.

"No, Master," Leo whispers. He watches Master's Shredder brush against his leg wrappings and travel up, gently rubbing one bite and then another.

"I want them to see," Master Shredder whispers. "I want him," and Leo knows who he's talking about, although he doesn't know why the idea makes his breath catch, "to see what you are. What I've made you into." Leo can't tear his eyes away from their entangled reflections. "Don't you?"

"Y-yes, Master." He does. He wants whatever his Master wants.

"Very good." His master leans down and tugs the scarf away, planting a kiss. "Now, let's see if I can't mark you a bit more before we go." He wraps an arm around Leo's chest, pulling him close.

No. For some reason it appears on the tip of Leo's tongue, but he narrows his eyes and shoves it back down. He wants this, of course, he does. He stares into the glass and wills himself to believe it.

Master Shredder kisses him again, harder, with more than a hint of teeth. Leo lets out a soft sigh, but he can't tear his eyes away from the bite left on his neck, gleaming red like a cut.

Notes:

Like most of the lunatics in this fandom, I have an obsession with Foot!Leo's outfit.

Chapter 6: Oh, mercy me, mercy my

Summary:

TMNT 2012. Prompt: Accidental. (Fauxpawe)

Title taken from the song Bury Me Low by 8 Graves.

Notes:

What if Shredder had Raph for longer than a few hours? And the resulting scars weren't so easy to overlook?

The plate shatters on the floor and sometimes cracks in his head, legs giving out like they've been shattered. He crashes to his knees, staring at the floor, the sound ringing in his head over and over again because he's been bad, he broke it, he damaged the Master's property.

"Dude, you okay?" someone asks, and he flinches at the sound. But no, that's bad, he's a good soldier and good soldiers don't flinch. He raises his hand and starts smacking himself in the head, determined to administer his punishment before Master has to do it for him.

"Holy shit! Raph! Raph, stop!"

Raph. The forbidden name, the one that means pain and war and death. Oh God, he's in so much trouble. He curls his hand into a fist and starts punching even harder.

"His eyes, look at his eyes! Just like with the worms--"

"Shut up and help me!"

He's pinned down and he lets out a frantic sob, because the last time Master pinned him down after a fuckup he'd barely used any lube.

"Sorry," he gasps, even though begging is weak and pathetic, because he doesn't know what else to do. "I'm sorry, I--" But no, I is bad, because it means he's pretending to be a person, and that's a lie, and filthy liars get punished. "This one is sorry, Master. So sorry."

Someone lets out a shocked gasp, and he flinches at the sound. He wants so badly to look up, but he can't. Servants who look up too often get their eyes cut out, that's what Master says.

"Raph, listen to me. You're not back there, okay? You're here with us. You're safe."

Safe. Soldiers and slaves don't care about safe, and he's both. Lower, even. He's the scum on Master's heel, and he doesn't deserve to be spoken too so softly. Master knows this already, which means it must be a trick.

"This one is so sorry, please, please don't fuck this one raw again, please--" Someone gags, and he winces at the sound. He's so disgusting, what else can they do except punish him? 

He catches movement at the corner of his eye. "What is going on here?" asks a strong, commanding voice. A master's voice. He cowers into the floor, wishes he could just disappear.

"All right, everyone back off," a different voice barks.

"Leonardo--"

"Please, Sensei!"

The hands are abruptly taken away, leaving him huddled on the floor to face his fate.

"Raph, I need you to do something for me, okay?" the voice that called them away asks.

"Yes, Master." He'd do anything, everything to make this better, no matter how painful or demeaning.

A soft intake of breath. "Okay. I, um, I need you to look up and name five objects in this room. Can you do that?"

What? But no, he can't question orders. Reluctantly he lifts his head just enough to get a decent look at the floor around him.

"Plate," he says miserably, glancing at the shattered remnants of his crime.

"That's good," says the oddly kind Master-voice. "That's really good. Anything else?"

His eyes flick about frantically. "The--the stool!" A creaky wooden one, knocked on its side. Would...would someone as grand as his master really deign to sit on such a thing? 

Stop thinking, keep looking. Look for a third object. "Dust," he says, staring at the fragments between his fingers. Dust, like him, like his worthless soul, like, like....somebody blew off the chore wheel. What?

"You're doing so well, Raph. Keep going."

He blinks at the sight of a-- "Fridge." It's humming softly, and there are colorful objects on its side--magnets, post-it notes, a goofy-looking calendar. The top of it is opening, and a cat stares down at him.

"One more, Raph."

His pulse is dying down now. His eyes raise, almost against their will, to look at the turtle kneeling in front of him. Big blue eyes, bright with helplessness, and open palms waiting for him. He reaches out and takes his brother's hands with shaking fingers.

"You," he breathes. A soft sob tears free. " Leo..."

Raph slumps forward and Leo gathers him up, cooing and rocking him gently back and forth, as if nothing has changed since they were children. "It's okay," he murmurs in Raph's ear. "It's okay."

"You're safe," the others chime in, pressing back in around them. "We won't let him hurt you."

They hold him tight, and their touch is all that keeps him from breaking all over again.

Chapter 7: And spiral into the unknown

Summary:

TMNT IDW. Prompt: Fractionation. (Lee Allure)

Title taken from the song Shatter Me by Lindsey Stirling ft. Lizzy Hale

Notes:

When having one's reality undone and redone leaves its scars.

Every mirror he looks into is broken. Years of bad luck, piling onto each other, as what he's experienced so far wasn't bad enough. He presses his fingers into the cracks, but they don't bleed. Are they just not there? Or is he a ghost, dead as the dreams a blade through his neck tell him he should be?

He looks at himself and three faces look back. A pale human one, with dark eyes and long black hair. An inhuman green one, adorned with a bright blue mask. A face in a black mask, a splash of blood staining one scaly cheek.

When he raises his hand, then all do the same. He can't remember how many fingers he's supposed to have, or whether a grim metal sheath is supposed to be adorning his arm. He touches his face, and it's hard to tell exactly what it's made of.

Who are you, little one?

He is Hamato Leo, leader, big brother, warrior. He is Oroku Leonardo, loyal servant to (property of) the Foot clan. He...he is the nameless boy, the one whose identity was stolen along with his life, the one remembered mostly as a body on the ground, blood staining his blue robe.

Was he even wearing that blue, that day? Is he dreaming that part up? Or is the turtle-skin the true dream, one that has entangled him in its grip and refuses to let go? Sometimes he wants to rip off his scales, tear the name Leonardo from his soul, because it's not his name, it's the name of some old white man who's been dead for centuries.

Then again, he reminds himself, tracing the three-faced picture, so, apparently, have you.

Or that's what he thinks. Or maybe, maybe...what? He doesn't know. The puzzle must be solved, but so many pieces are missing and the remaining ones don't match. He wants to stick his fingers in his mouth and bite, chew, nibble down to the bone. That's where the truth lives.

The truth? He knows he's a warrior, a soldier. He knows that he's ninja, that he's meant to fight with honor, although his various masters, his confused memories, and even the ever-disorienting hellscape that is American media all have a different thing to say on the subject.

What else? Well, he's been told over and over again you are safe, you are loved, you are home. Told by his brothers (at least in the moments they're not dead), by the woman in his dreams, by Kitsune, by Shredder, by his loving father/mortal foe Splinter.

But for someone drowning in so much fucking love, why does it feel like he's falling apart at the seams? Why is it so hard to remember where he's actually standing in this ugly, tangled story? How can a single mirror turn into a maze?

He reaches out, touches the glass. His tangled web of selves reach back, a callused tangle of fingers pressing against his.

"Wow," he whispers, and three different voices echo back, "We really are fucked up, aren't we?"

He presses harder, harder, like he wants to reach through and grab his selves by the throat until one of them spills the truth. If there is a truth. Maybe at the end of the day he's just well and truly insane. He's been shut up in a hospital somewhere, with no brothers or witches or swords, and his whole world can be contained in a brainsick delusion.

Perhaps, he thinks, as six different eyes regard him with a kind of solemn hopelessness, that might be the easiest option of them all.

Chapter 8: Got no hope, not a sliver

Summary:

TMNT IDW. Prompt: Forest. (Fauxpawe) Inspired by the encounter between Kitsune and Alopex in issue #37, as seen here.

Title taken from the song Drop Dead by Grandson ft. Kesha & Travis Barker

The forest rustles and hums around them, the noise echoing in Alopex's ears. Her nose is heavy with the scent of life, of home, her mouth open to taste for prey. She wants to jump up and go hunting, to bathe her tongue in fresh, pumping life.

But her paws are limp and slow, tangled in leaf mulch. She's on her back, arms over her head, staring blearily up at the canopy. A little voice in the back of her head whispers something's wrong, but the wind in the trees is just loud enough to drown it out.

"Shhh, little fox." A soft, furry hand brushes down her face, across the vulnerable curve of her throat. "Look at me."

She looks, and once she does she can't tear her eyes away. There's a naked woman straddling her, delicate nipples peaked under a coat of lustrous, shimmering fur. She smiles a warm smile with pure ivory teeth (so many teeth), tongue fluttering over her bow-shaped lips

Her eyes are like stolen stars, flashing so brightly Alopex fears she might go blind if she looks into them for too long. But she wants to, almost more than she can bear.

"Do you think me beautiful?" she asks in a sweet, clear voice, like rushing water in a stream or the music of ancient leaves.

"Yes," Alopex breathes. It's the kind of beauty that turns the rest of the world to grey ash in comparison, the kind that you love and dread in equal measure. Alopex wishes she could reach up and touch her, but she's not worthy of that, not yet. It has to be earned

earned with blood and tears, with everything you are. you will burn the world for me, child, and it will be worth it

"Do you know who I am?"

Kitsune, a voice whispers at the back of her mind. And there are other things tangled up with that name, strange, disjointed images. Flashing blades, roaring fire, blood hissing in snow, a green-skinned boy whose mask seems to flicker between black and blue. Fear and pain, confusion and loss, grief and white-hot rage--

Then Kitsune waves her hand and it all vanishes, just like that. Alopex can't remember what she was just thinking about, and it doesn't really matter, because she knows who this woman is. She's known for as long as she's been alive.

"You're my mistress," she whispers. Kitsune grinds up against her and Alopex whimpers, feeling her cunt pulse damp and hot.

"That's it," and Kitsune's eyes are needles boring through Alopex's brain, ripping her open and setting her free, "And what does that mean?"

"That I love you," Alopex says, reciting the words like a prayer. "That I'll do whatever you want. That I'm yours until I die, and forever after."

"Good." The word is a balm on wounds she didn't even know she had, a blessing laid over her heart. "So good, my little fox." Kitsune's nails scrape down her sides and Alopex moans.

"I'm going to fuck you now, my pet," and the words twist something in her, but she can't remember what, can't remember how to do anything about it, and then it's gone. "Then you're going to wake up, and you won't remember a thing. You'll come home to me, and all will be well."

The grass tickles her face, like a steady, insistent finger trying to wake her up. But Alopex can't feel it. The whole of the forest is contained in Kitsune's perfect eyes, and she wants to live there forever.

Her legs open, and the trees swallow up her moans. And if Alopex cries without even noticing it, her tears trickling into the earth to water the flowers, well, there's no one else out here to listen.

Chapter 9: And I'd give it to you a hundred times over

Summary:

TMNT 2012. Prompt: Go Deeper (Lee Allure)

Title taken from the song Haunted House by Mckenna Grace.

Leo's lying on the mat with his legs spread, slick from being fucked and fingered opened, eyes on the ceiling. His sister-mistress is kneeling over him, and their master is watching them, and things feel just right enough for him not to fight.

In. Out. In. Out. Back and forth like his heartbeat, like a pendulum, like the distant thump of pain that always lives in Leo's head these days. Karai's fingers are those of a warrior's, callused and skilled, but they feel strange and clumsy inside him.

Another finger, and oh, he is full. Leo sucks in a breath, squeezing his eyes shut.

"That's it," their master says. "You're doing so well, daughter."

Is she? It's hard for Leo to tell. But Master Shredder says she is, so she must be. Emboldened, she pushes her fingers even deeper and Leo's thighs flex with a fresh spurt of pleasure-pain. His instincts are screaming at him to push run fight, but that's not allowed, so he shouldn't even be thinking about it.

Leo opens his eyes to peer up into Karai's green ones. Her face is blank the way they both get sometimes, forked tongue flicking between her lips in concentration. Flick, flick, flick, in time with her dancing fingers. No new ones seem to be arriving, and Leo's almost relieved until he realizes that must be because all five are inside already.

He looks at her and nothing looks back, and she plays with his insides, and at some point Master Shredder speaks from where he's sitting besides them to say, "Now, make a fist."

And really, what did he expect?

It hurts. Of course it hurts. But her knuckles are pressing up against his prostate, filling him with pleasure even as he heaves for air, so that probably makes up for it. And nothing's tearing, so that's good. He'll still be able to fight for Master when they get out of here

(if they get out of here).

Master tells Karai to move, slowly punching in and out of Leo's hole, fucking him with her fist. He groans, nails digging into his wrists from where they're crossed over his head, hard enough to draw blood.

But Master told him to keep still, so he'll keep still like a good boy, and maybe, maybe...he doesn't know, exactly, what he's hoping for, why he's doing this. He just knows it's worth the pain and the fear, the blank look in Karai's eyes and the empty spots in his own head.

So when Master Shredder says, "Transform your hand," Leo doesn't scream or cry. He just lies there, staring up at Karai through distant white eyes, waiting.

But there's something different in her empty gaze, something off. She cocks her head and relaxes her fingers, slowly withdrawing her hand.

"Karai." Her father's voice is a chilly wind that freezes her in place. "I won't ask you again."

She pushes her hand back in automatically, filling him up. But she leans forward as she does, until her bare breasts are brushing his chest. Leo opens his mouth, welcoming. Wanting. Needing.

Hurt me. Please. I deserve it, I.... He doesn't know what his sins are, but they must be legion. Why else would he be here, in this place?

Except, sometimes he looks up at the movements of her muscled body, the light flickering in and out of her eyes, and he feels like he's in heaven, instead. So does that mean he wants--what, exactly? What does he want?

Does it matter? It's going to happen to him anyway. And he's not as scared as he should be.

Her hand turns to scales as their lips touch. Her tongue shoves up against his prostrate and he comes screaming and bleeding, filling her mouth with his pain. She drinks his ruin down like a communion wine.

They are tangled-up puppets on her father's stage, and the strings fray as they fall together.

Chapter 10: Honey, I wanna break you

Summary:

TMNT 2012. Prompt: Bound (Fauxpawe).

Title taken from the song Desire by Meg Myers.

Also inspired by this wonderful comic by the incomparable Neofox with script by omgwtfkitteh.

"Please, Donnie."

The clinking and clanks of the chains is a slow, steady throb at the back of his head. He wishes he could put his headphones on, but he can't run the risk of Leo escaping. So he has to sit, and listen, and pretend it's the chains that are really bothering him.

"Please fuck me."

He has to hold his hand steady before he pours the beaker to keep it from shaking. Leo doesn't say fuck, never has. And his voice has never been this low, this rough, this wanton.

"I need it. You know I do. Can't you smell it?"

He can. The scent of desire hangs heavy in the air, rich and choking and so wonderful he thinks he might vomit. Just chemicals, he repeats to himself. Chemicals, manipulation. You're the one with the key to the chains. You are in control.

"You can shove your nice, big cock down my throat and call me April. Wouldn't that be nice?"

"Shut up." Donnie checks his phone; where are those idiots with his ingredients? (Please let them okay, please let them not have left him here with this insanity, with these words that make him want to cut out his aching dick with a scalpel). "Please, just shut up."

"You don't even have to let me out of these chains, you know. In fact, it's probably best if you keep me here." A soft giggle. "I've been very bad. I need some discipline to correct my wicked ways."

"You're not my brother." Donnie's fingers drum anxiously on his side as he paces, watching the mixture boil. "That fucking egg messed with your head, it--"

"Did it?" Leo the monster sounds genuinely surprised. "How? Haven't I always been the mama of the family? The one who watched over you, dried your tears, looked after your needs while Papa was gone?"

A soft chuckle. "You may be a big boy now, but that doesn't mean I stopped loving you. And now I can take care of your big-boy needs."

"I don't need anything from you except to get the fuck out of my brother."

It doesn't even acknowledge that. "You know what I think, Donnie? I think you've been working too hard. You need to take a breather, blow off some steam. Something to help clear your head, you know?"

"Shut up shut up shut up--" He needs to get out of here, away from that smell, but he can't abandon his brother, can't risk him getting loose. He's pacing, trapped, the words slithering into his brain like snakes.

"You want to pin me against the wall, Donnie darling, and shove your big, throbbing cock up my nasty little ass, give me a thrashing I'll never forget, put your big tough leader in his place." He's never thought about that before, he hasn't, so why does it feel so tempting?

"--pump me full of cum until I'm fucking bulging, make me grow round with little genius babies so that you have a nice big ass to fuck. I'll never tease you, baby, you can have it whenever you want--"

"SHUT UP!" He's across the room before he can stop himself, slamming his brother against the wall. And oh god, that scent is so much sweeter and so much more terrible here, slamming into him like a sucker punch so that for a second all he can do is stare at Leo stupidly.

Leo smiles, sweet as poison, and sinks his teeth into Donnie's neck. They go crashing to the floor and Leo lets out a throbbing churr, grinding up against Donnie's crotch.

It's so fucking good, and Donnie can't even think enough to pull away. He just lies there, letting Leo pump venom through his skin, the world growing hazier by the second.

When Leo finally sits up, mouth dripping with blood, Donnie can't think of anything except how gorgeous those night-black eyes are. He runs his hands down Leo's shell, over his ass, squeezing and pulling while Leo moans at his touch.

"Please..." The words are coming from his own throat, and it's his own hands that are undoing Leo's chains. He wants to get lost in his brother's tight heat, to be ridden hard into the ground and scraped free of impurities.

"... fuck me."

Chapter 11: I lost all my senses but I can’t complain

Summary:

All media types. Prompt: Game (Fauxpawe)

Turtle of your choice with villain of your choice.

Title taken from the song Twisted Games by Night Panda.

Truth or dare. That's what they call it, isn't it?

Yes, he'd said. Which meant he'd agreed to this, same he agrees to everything his master wants from him. So he shouldn't be complaining, and he shouldn't be afraid, and he shouldn't be kneeling before the throne with his heart twisting in his throat.

Warm hands on his cheeks, forcing him to look up. "Truth or dare, child."

"Truth." He chooses, so he has the control. The fact that both choices are equally painful in their own way is irrelevant.

"Tell me, when was the first time you touched yourself?"

He closes his eyes and tells the story is slow, hesitant terms, remember the discovery, the confusion, the strange swelling of pleasure. He ignores how wrong and dirty it feels to talk about it like this, how the scent of his master's arousal seems to grow sharper with every word.

"You really were an adventurous little whore, weren't you?" He nods, feeling nauseous. His master laughs, so it must be a good thing.

"Truth or dare." He's always the one who gets asked these questions. What would happen if he asked truth or dare instead? He knows he'll never have the courage to try.

Telling the story leaves him stained and wrong out, so he says, "Dare."

"Cut yourself. On the thigh, this time."

He does as he's told. It hurts, but in a kind of cleansing way, like justice being served. And yet at the same time it feels wrong, so wrong, only he can't put the feeling into words.

Blood gleams on his leg, somehow dark and bright all at once. He imagines his master holding him down and lapping blood from the wound. Perhaps it's not that far from reality.

He looks up. Eventually, he knows, his master will tire of this game and he'll be allowed to lower his head between steady legs and put his tongue to use. He can't decide whether he dreads that or longs for it.

(Really, he just wants to go to sleep, but that's not allowed. He's being disrespectful just thinking about it, to be honest).

"Dare."

"Stop breathing."

So he just....stops. Like that. The air escapes him in a wheeze as he sits there, perfectly still, staring straight ahead. if his master can see the fear in his eyes, see his hands trembling from terror and pain, there's no sign.

Eventually he's allowed to breathe again. He hunches over, gasping and heaving for air, while his master pats him on the head and coos nonsense. He stares at the floor, trembling so hard he thinks he might fall apart.

"Truth," he rasps, when asked.

His master says, "Tell me something you've never told anyone," And he knows he's expected to offer up something filthy, a sexual fantasy or a long-held fetish or a fixation he can't shake. Something to be taken and used against him, a flower turned into a knife.

(As if his master needs anything to use against him, really. As if this is a game he has a chance in hell of winning).

The words slip out before he can stop them. "I want to go home."

And they both go very still.

When his master speaks again, the words are steady and composed. "Truth or dare." With special emphasis on the word dare, so it's obvious which one he must truth.

He wants to say truth. He does. But the fear is poison in his gut, strangling, and worse than the fact is that he can't remember why he would risk himself like this. This may feel wrong, but how can he be sure of that if he doesn't remember what right is like?

If he says truth, he'll make his master very mad, get in even bigger trouble than he is now. And for what? He doesn't know, and the realization break him.

"Dare," he says, suddenly feeling very old and very tired.

His chin is lifted, forcing him to meet his master's cool eyes. "I dare you to go back to your room and wait for me to send some nice men for you to service. Remind you of your place, hmm?"

It's said like a question, just so he can yes. The word is cut glass on his tongue.

He thanks his master for being kind enough to play with him and leaves the room. Tears glitter in his eyes as he walks and he knows that that, in its own small and twisted way, is its own kind of victory.

Chapter 12: Trying my best not to forget

Summary:

TMNT IDW. Prompt: Program (Fauxepaw)

Title taken from the song Meds by Placebo.

The inside of his brain is a tangle of wires and flashing lights, buzzing electronics hooked up to wires that run through him like puppet strings. He shambles along until the strings pull taught, forcing him to copy his master's movements as Bishop's words burn his throat like battery acid.

Once upon a time he was a genius. He read books in several different languages, reciting whole passages from memory. He listened to audio tapes about science and math and history while he bench-pressed massive weights, so that the world made more sense with every passing day.

Now...now he's got a computer for a brain, but he's not the one at the keyboard. Fragments of once-beloved quotes and fun facts still surface from time to time, but they're engulfed all too quickly in relentless streams of harsh new code.

Attack, the program says, and he moves without thinking, lightning-quick instructions echoing through the tangled webbings of his nerves. He punches and the smaller turtle dodges with a cry, stone cracking besides his head.

The other turtles are yelling, shouting, calling him a word: Slash. It's supposed to be a name, his name, but that doesn't make sense. He's the "project," the "program," the "weapon." He's an extension of Agent Bishop's body, his fierce and relentless will, his desire to cleanse the earth of mutant vermin.

(Once upon a time he thought about changing the name to match theirs, even went so far as to flip through one of April's old Renaissance textbooks to find a great artist. But there were so many options, and none of them seemed just right.

Slash, though....Slash was a name from the time of underground battles and candy bars, from a little figure in orange who'd stared fearlessly up at him after barely surviving their last encounter. Slash was Slash...hero. Like...Mikey.

Slash was washed away in blood, burnt up by his friend's pain. He'd done monstrous things, and he didn't deserve to be Slash anymore.

DIdn't deserve Mikey, either).

The little turtle gasps for air as he's slammed against the wall, nunchucks whacking uselessly against Slash's arm. It should hurt a lot, actually, but the programming won't let Slash feel pain anymore.

"It's okay," he whispers, eyes water-bright. "It's okay, baby. I love you, Slash."

"Freaks can't love," Bishop grits out. He's using the voice box, but he's not operating Slash the body right now, just keeping it sustained with a steady pump of rage-inducing chemicals while he deals with other matters. He disengages from vocal controls with a grunt of effort, but Slash doesn't look to see what's happening. That's not his role.

Slash throws Mikey, sending him flying into a corner. He falls with a snap of bone and a wail that would break Slash's heart if it wasn't buried under inaccessible layers of code. He stalks forward, the ground rumbling beneath him, world shrinking down to Mikey's huddled form (you always were one to command attention, weren't you, my dear?)

"No escape," he growls, his words a garbled mess of poison and wires and relentless hate. "Not ever."

And the tears are streaming down Mikey's cheeks now, but he's smiling. "Oh, big guy. Why would I ever want to escape from you?"

Ridiculous, the program says as Slash bends down to wrap his fingers around Mikey's throat. "You are insane," he says calmly, mechanically, as his hand tightens in preparation to pop the turtle's head off.

And Mikey's still smiling, the smile of someone who has to grin because the alternative is going crazy. "Dude, who isn't these days?"

Behind them, the scream of tearing metal, the pop of snapped wires. The soft shush of flesh being undone. It comes again, and again, as panicked arms wail through Slash's head.

He turns, he looks, he sees the turtle in blue standing over Bishop's twitching remains as blood drips from his swords. Their eyes lock and Slash remembers the gift of claws and a black mask, a solemn ritual, like he thought he could give up the dark side of himself with it, but he can't, no one can.

The strings are cut. He falls, and now the screams are coming from his own throat.

"Slash!" Mikey's on top of him, holding his face. "Shh, sweetheart, it's gonna be okay."

And he wants to scream nothing's okay, I'm not safe, get away from me, but his tongue isn't working right and really, would Mikey listen?

Slash's eyes roll up in his head, and he falls.

Chapter 13: Like they ain't even there

Summary:

TMNT IDW. Prompt: Procasination (LeeAllure)

Title taken from the song idfc by blackbear.

Leo's going to tell them about the dreams. He will. Just--not yet.

Mistress Kitsune and Master Shredder are both very busy running the clan, after all, he takes up enough of their time as it with training and planning and...other activities. Bothering them with something as silly as a dream is ridiculous, downright selfish.

Chances are Karai's no doubt told tales about the dreams, but Master Shredder hasn't said anything, so it must not be important. Really, if he goes to them, he'll just be drawing more attention to an inconsequential problem and possibly fueling her attempts to undermine him.

But Karai doesn't know what you're dreaming about, a little voice whispers at the back of his mind. She doesn't know about her.

There's nothing to know, he shoots back. It's just some dreams he's been having about a garden, and the woman who lives there, and the scent of cherry blossoms that stays in his nose for hours after he wakes up. Dreams of her hand on his face as she tries to hold back her tears, as she whispers words that buzz strangely inside his head.

Dreams about blood, and dirt, and his brothers dying on his knees, and the ache of rope around his wrists, and his master calling him traitor as he raised his sword--

"Shut up," Leo whispers, slamming his foot down with too much force as he cycles through a kata. "Just shut up." He catches Alopex looking at him out of the corner of her eye, but she doesn't say anything.

After today's lesson, he tells himself. He'll get Master Shredder alone after today's lesson, maybe ask for some time to go talk to Mistress Kitsune, and everything will be fine. He'll get this all straightened out and they'll give him something to help him sleep.

Leo wins all of the day's training fights except for the one with Master Shredder, and even then he does a decent enough job. He's proud of himself as he goes through his cool down exercises and exchanges his traditional dirty looks with Karai, his nod with a still-quiet Alopex. Master will be in a good mood, he hopes.

He's still working up the courage to approach Saki when the man beckons him into his office. Leo swallows, straightening his back as he approaches the door, telling himself they're just dreams, don't blow things out of proportion, it's just dreams.

"Master, I--" he says as the door closes behind them, and then he's being shoved to his knees. Saki locks the door and turns to Leo without a word, pulling out his cock.

Oh. He was right, in a way. Master Shredder is in a good mood.

Leo leans forward without complaint and takes Master Shredder in his mouth, hair tickling his face as he gets to work. He's gotten very good at this, worked hard on managing his gag reflex and using his tongue when he sucks. 

Master Shredder ends up fucking his face again, hands snarling in Leo's mask tails as his hips snap and jerk. It's kind of uncomfortable, but Leo sternly reminds himself not to complain.

When he closes his eyes, Leo sees a garden. Shredder's seed fills his mouth, and he could swear that the fresh smell of sex in the air has a hint of cherry blossoms.

Afterwards, he spits in a trash can and stands up carefully. Master Shredder starts to turn back to his notes, only to pause, eyes narrowing with recollection. "Did you want something, Leonardo?" he asks.

Leo blinks. Say it, he thinks. But Master Shredder's mind is already on other things, isn't it? And right now, a little thing like a bad dream feels irrelevant in the face of his master's needs, his  all-consuming will.

"No, Master," he says honestly. To be honest, all he wants to do right now is go gargle water, and maybe track down some mouthwash.

"Then you are dismissed."

He bows and leaves, slipping back out in the dark halls of the clan. I'll tell him later, at a better time, he tells himself firmly, and he more or less believes it.

Chapter 14: Saying that I probably shouldn't be so mean

Summary:

TMNT 2012. Prompt: Arrows (LeeAllure)

Title taken from the song Castle by Halsey.

The room is dark, but that doesn't bother Karai. The mutagen enhanced her already impressive skills as a ninja, so that she can stand perfectly still and track the faintest creak of bow strings, the way metal and wood rub up against the air.

An arrow comes whistling out of the dark and her hand shifts into a serpent's jaw, plucking it out of the air with sharp teeth. Karai breaks it with a soft snap before tossing it to the ground.  Another, and another, and she's whirling through the black room, feet steady and sure.

Her eyes glow bright green, flickering across the faces of the Footbots as she takes them down one by one. She has no sword, but her fists are strong and precise, her feet melding together to form a tail that snaps with deadly cracks.

Karai plucks an arrow out of the air and rams it through a Footbot's throat, flipping over its shoulders as she snatches another one out of the air. She sprints towards the door, kicks it down, mind buzzing with buzzing because she's so ready to get the fuck out of here--

The lights click on and Karai stops dead.

"Good job, daughter." She turns, slowly and reluctantly, to face the man standing at the far corner of the room. Oroku Saki approaches, surveying the carnage in the room with his eyes gleaming as if he'd wreaked it himself.

"Forty seconds faster than your last time," he says, glancing at his stopwatch, an incongruous in his steely metal glove.

"T-thank you, Father." Her eyes dart around the room, the smoking bots. It was a training exercise, just a training exercise. And the object had been to defeat them all, not get out of the room. She's not quite sure why she thought otherwise.

Her father draws near, lifting her chin to make their eyes meet. "Is everything all right?" he asks carefully. Something about his searching gaze makes Karai tighten her grip on the arrow, which she didn't realize she was still holding.

"Yes, Father," she says. "Just making sure they were all down." He smiles; he seems to believe her.

Karai smiles back as she flips the arrow around in her hand and lungs, tail extending to match his height. She thrust the arrowhead through the narrow gap in his helmet, through his helmet and into his brain.

The Shredder falls and Karai falls around with him, coils wrapping around his limbs as he twists and grunts. And she's smiling, smiling, smiling, smiling so hard her lips split and blood runs into his open mouth. He screams

"Karai!"

and she's on her knees, gasping and trembling. His arms come around her and he's rocking her back and forth, cooing gently in her ear. Karai clings to him because there's nothing else to hold on to, her breath coming harsh and raspy in her ears.

"Shh," he whispers, and he sounds far too gentle, far too afraid.

Her breath slowly dies down, her death-grip relaxing. "What--what happened?"

"You started shaking and collapsed." He shuffles back, allowing her to sit back and look at him. "Do you remember what happened?"

She tries to, but--" No," Karai says quietly, looking at her hands. "I..I'm sorry I lost it. Do you want me to run the drill again?"

Her father shakes his head. "It's not your fault, Karai. It's all right." He stands and extends his hand. "Now come, let's go talk to Stockman."

Karai blinks up at him, caught off guard. Maybe it's the cold shiver of fear in her gut at the idea of Stockman's name, although she's never been scared of him before. Or maybe it's the fact that he's being so nice about this, even though the Shredder she knows would never have stopped training over a little collapse. He'd have barked at her to pull herself together and keep going.

Relax, she tells herself firmly. He's just taking precautious. His eyes are full of real worry, real affection, and she shouldn't let herself get sucked down into weird thoughts when he's offering such a rare, precious display of emotion.

She lets herself be helped to her feet, dropping the arrow as she follows him out the door.

Chapter 15: He hit me and it felt like a kiss

Summary:

TMNT 2003. Prompt: Pleasure (LeeAllure)

Title taken from the song Ultraviolence by Lana Del Rey.

"You want this."

The turtle groans groans, twisting desperately in his restraints as the breath comes hot and heavy in his chest. A hand brushes across his crotch and he lets a desperate churr, his desire thick and heavy in the air.

"Fascinating," the man in the suit says, clucking his tongue as he traces a finger up a trembling green thigh. "You're responding very well." He casually reaches up to unbutton his suit, exposing the rippling planes of his glorious body.

A fresh whine comes from the turtle's throat and he blushes, even while his muscles strain every harder to reach out, to touch. His owner is so big and strong, so beautiful. Then there's a massive cock brushing over his face and oh, the smell. He sucks in a breath, frantically lapping at the tip.

Agent Bishop chuckles, reaching out to squeeze the turtle's cheeks together. "Fascinating," he says. "You really are just a stupid little whore now, aren't you?" He nods as best he can; anything to get that perfect cock inside of him.

"Do you even know your name?" Bishop asks tenderly. He shakes his head now, and maybe that should bother him, but it doesn't because the feel of Bishop's skin on his makes his heart sing.

Bishop laughs some more. He has such a pretty laugh. It makes the turtle even harder just thinking about it, and he can't remember a good reason to keep his cock in his shell, so he drops down.

"Now this is very interesting," Bishop muses as they watch his purple cock emerge, flaring out into soft petals. He runs a finger across the side and the turtle cries out, eyes rolling with pleasure as he spasms and shakes.

As the stream of cum dies down the turtle comes back to see Bishop staring down at him and for a moment he tenses, caught off guard. Did he do something wrong? But then his owner smiles, a razor-edged smile that gleams so prettily.

"I suppose I'll just have to adjust the dose to compensate for oversensitivity," he says thoughtfully. "But that doesn't mean we can't have some fun in the meantime." And the turtle knows that everything's all right.

He watches Bishop slick his strong, callused fingers with something from a bottle and then he's being opened up. It's fast and rough, sloppy, almost painful, but he loves it so much. By the time Bishop fits his dick inside he's already on his way to a second orgasm.

His owner fucks him fast and hard, fingers digging into the turtle's shoulders. It's the most brutal kind of heaven and he's crazy for it, gasping and wailing and thrusting his hips like a goddamn porn star. He wants to be perfect for his owners, wants to share all the wonderful feelings swirling in his veins.

Words flow from Bishop's lips, bitch, whore, slut, a ragged mess of tangled syllables. The turtle doesn't even remember what half of those words mean, but the idea of his owner addressing him in any way means he's doing something right.

The turtle comes again, and again, and again, until he's slick with his own cum. He orgasms until it starts to hurt, starts to burn, but it's still so good, so he keeps orgasming even as tears start to trickle in his eyes.

Bishop has a monstrous stamina, pounding away like he doesn't notice the sweat slicking their bodies, the way blood stains his fingers from where they scrape at green scales. He goes so deep and hard the turtle thinks it might tear, and he knows he'd orgasm anyway.

"Look--look at you," his owner whispers, voice rasp. "A ruined, f--fucked-out bitch." He grabs the turtle's throat, dragging sharp nails down his neck. "Maybe the other cretins will rescue you, but it's too late, is it? I'll live inside you  until the day you die."

The turtle smiles at that, because the idea of his owner being with him forever sounds pretty good. Agent Bishop rolls his eyes and smacks him; the pulsing, pleasure-torn mass that is his brain flares with joy.

He's still smiling when his owner finishes, letting out a roar of triumph as he comes. The sensation brings the turtle to yet another orgasm, and this one hurts so bad his churr sounds more like a sob.

And yet never felt so loved. Because this is love, right? It must be love.

Bishop pulls out with a soft squelch and walks away, muttering to himself about initial findings and semen collection. The turtle is left shivering on the lab table, staring up into the painfully bright light, trying to remember how to breathe.

Chapter 16: I just want you for my own (more than you could ever know)

Summary:

All media types. Prompt: Break.

Title taken from the song All I Want For Christmas Is You by Mariah Carey, although to be honest I was really thinking of this version by Chase Holfelder

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Their hips are moving in time with her soft sighs, with the crack of a bone between her elegant fingers. Tang Shen sucks down the marrow, chin glistening, eyes sharp in the dim light. She smiles at him and Yoshi smiles back, wincing at how sore and filthy his teeth are.

But she just smiles. Smiles, smiles, and her teeth are filthy too. Filthy with dull, cracking red and sharp like so many knives. She rakes her nails down his shoulders and Yoshi can feel blood swell up in her wake.

Her plump stomach rubs over his belly, shifting back and forth with her movements. Swollen and taut, just like it was with Miwa, only then...then she was not wriggling. Little lumps pulse and shift under the surface, stretching the skin until it seems on the verge of tearing.

"Here." She offers him a broken piece of bone and he laps at the marrow without tearing away from her dark eyes. There are black holes drawing him in, drowning him. (Oh, well. At least he won't be alone anymore).

The marrow tastes too sweet on his tongue. He eats it anyway, because somehow he is still hungry, even though his belly is full of torn meat and his fur is slick with blood

and there is a scrap of clothing tangled in his claws

He shifts his head and something crinkles under him. Shen hums and reaches down, fingers scraping under his back as she wishes out a little clump of bloodied green needles.

"Mistletoe," she says thoughtfully. "Must have fallen off the delivery truck." She smiles, glancing up into the darkness above their heads. "Funny, isn't it? All that talks about god and saviors, and then the world really came to an end on Christmas Day. Now the Kraang are just partying away."

She picks up another bone with her free hand and breaks it, the sound echoing in his aching brain. "Have you ever kissed someone under the mistletoe, Splinter?" she asks, lips glistening far too brightly.

He frowns. Has he? His thoughts feel sluggish and slow all of a sudden, twisted inside his skull. And...and Shen never called him Splinter, did she? She thought the nickname he'd received in the Self-Defense force was ridiculous

(And 'Shredder,' oh, that one made her laugh)

She leans closer, her stomach pushing against his, and he doesn't want it anywhere near him, but his limbs have forgotten how to work. "No one's ever kissed me under the mistletoe before," she purrs, and there's something very wrong about her smell, something that chokes him.

"Shen," Yoshi rasps, and then, because he can't think of anything else to say, "Shen, where are the children?" He swallows, not able to look at her stomach. "The other children."

Shen smiles, and it's exactly as he remembers while not being anything like her at all. "Why, they're dead, darling." She breaks another bone and chews it thoughtfully. ""Or they just left, decided they didn't need you anymore. Does it really matter?"

Her finger brushes over his cheek. He can hear squeaking and scuttling ringing in his ear, can't decide if it's coming from around them or her stomach.

"You have us."

She puts a bone in her mouth and leans down to kiss him, grinding down his cock. Their lips touch, and the bones break in their mouths, filling Yoshi's mouth with meat.

He looks up, up at the mistletoe and something breaks inside him. Yoshi--Splinter--can feel it snap inside his head. He can hear the animalistic growl rumbling up around his throat as he grabs the body (which body, he doesn't know or care) and pulls it close, thrusting deep inside.

The darkness swallows him, and he welcomes it.

Chapter 17: How lovely are thy branches

Summary:

TMNT 2012. Prompt: Cozy (LeeAllure)

Title taken from the song O Christmas Tree by Unknown.

Notes:

FYI, the Christmas carol thing is not going to get any better from here on out.

The green is a blanket settled in around him. It rocks him back and forth gentle, humming lullabies of rustling leaves and creaking wood. Steady arms pull him close in a warm embrace, sap pumping through the bark around his head like a heartbeat.

You are warm, the tree tells him. You are safe and loved. And he believes it. How could he not? His memories of the outside world are fractured reflections of pain, rage, terror, grief. He doesn't know why he felt this way, or who made him feel it, but he knows it hurt, and why would he want to go back to that?

The vines press in even closer around him and he relishes the tough, enjoying being held so tightly it almost hurts. They rub the red mask off his face, toss it aside, but he barely notices. The only color he wants is green.

He doesn't remember how to speak, but he can feel the hum of light whistling in his veins, read the movements of sugars and chlorophyll, and hear the rum of water in nearby roots. What else does he need?

His tree says I want to be closer to you and he likes that, yes, he likes that very much. He feels it push between his legs, vines slithering over his skin, and it hurts a little, it scares him a little, but he tells himself it's not as bad as the fear and pain outside as they slowly start to pump between his legs.

You are perfect, the tree whispers. I felt you tread the earth and I knew before I even touched you that you would be special. I love you so much.

He wants to say it back, but there are vines down his throat by now. He settles for thinking it as hard as he can, letting it fill up every segment of his body. I love you. I love you. I love you as the sapling loves the rain and the bee loves the flower and I love, love, love--

He's trembling. Why does it hurt this much, this love? Why does it burn as it drags out of him? Or is that just the quiet pain of the vines sinking deeper, fucking him so hard it feels like they'll tear through his stomach.

Hush, child. Just let the forest do what it needs to.

Threads of greenery weaving through his veins, snaring him. He churrs in pain and pleasure and it sounds like the growl of creaking wood. He trembles, and it is the rustle of grass in the breathes. He weeps, not knowing why, and it is the glisten of sap like fresh-spilled blood.

His...his cock is out. The tree plays with it gently, running careful vines over its surface. You look like a flower, it muses, petting the purple head so that the world flashes white with pleasure. Another vine slips into his cock and he lets out a muffled wail like roaring leaves. Perhaps I will plant daisies here.

Green on him, in him, sinking into his soul. It protects him like a shell--a real shell, one that never breaks or cracks or shatters as he goes flying through a window, as you sit alone with his body and your own madness, as you almost he'd just die and get it over with and you must be a monster for thinking that--

Hush. Hush. The tree lifts his chin, petting his skull inside and out, soothing the bad memories away. It's all right. It's over. He nods, even though he suddenly can't remember what it was. I love you, it says, and fucks him harder.

I love you, and he's spasming, whining, trembling. It drinks him down, turning his pleasure-pain into nutrients. It caresses his trembling face, lapping down his tears, calling him perfect. He sags into its arms and everything is alright, everything is warm and gentle and kind.

He might have fallen asleep in its arms, drifting off to a land of impossible and endless dreams, only, only...there are voices ringing outside. Shouting a name, a name that begins with an R and cracks through the peace like a gunshot.

He stiffens, trembling. It's all right, the tree assures him. We can fix it. I won't let anyone tear us apart. He clings to the words, desperately trying to keep out the fear, the outside world creeping into their precious place.

The vines pull straitjacket-tight, sealing him in. He's lowered to the ground, but he's still got the tree humming through his veins, singing in his ear, teaching him how to move his new body. Beautiful, it says, and he trembles, because he knows he's never heard that one before, not from anyone, and it feels so wonderful he can't breathe.

He staggers forward to meet the enemy, the vines still sending heat and light pulsing through his skin. He raises his head high, feeling strong and fierce and loved with the force of a thousand suns, a force strong enough to conquer arms.

The tree is with him, in him, now. The green is woven through his muscles, his flesh, piercing towards his heart. With his tree by his side, he can do anything.

Later on it will turn brown and his brother will have to tie him down and peel it off of him and that will hurt more than words can say, but it will be like paper cuts compared to losing this love.

Chapter 18: As we dream by the fire

Summary:

All media types. Prompt: Experiment (Fauxepawe)

Title taken from the song Winter Wonderland by Michael Bublé.

There's a fire.

There shouldn't be a fire. This place is all shining white and painfully hard corners, straps and whites and machines that go hum, bright white like icy hearts and the coats of the people who work here.

And it's cold, so cold. His body aches for phantom bodies to cuddle with him, warm him, even though he knows a freak like himself doesn't deserve anything like that. The cold is his birthright.

But there's a fire.

He's sitting at the table. Sometimes he's on the table, and they cut him and poke him, shock him and touch him in ways that make him uncomfortable, but that he doesn't know how to resist. Sometimes he's at the table, where they ask him questions and hit him when he gets them wrong.

These are on-the-table days. He likes those a little better, even if he's probably not supposed to "like'' things. His green hands are steady as they're folded neatly in front of him, his back straight, obedient, attentive. Worthy of love.

The fire hums and flickers in front of him, like...a candle? Is that what it's called? Where has he seen candles before? But it's not quite a candle, it's some metal thing issuing a small jet of flame, the light brighter and sharper than the candles at the hazy edges of his memory.

"Today we're going to try something new." He looks up, at least as much as he's allowed, because staring directly as his superiors is disrespectful. That's not how respect works. He can see hands clasped in front of him, the cuffs of a white lab coat.

"Put your hand over the fire, please."

He stiffens. His instincts are screaming no no no, but he can't listen to that, he's been given an order, but he doesn't want to do this, but--but--

"I won't ask again," the doctor says, voice tinged with steel. And then, a little softer, "It's alright. It's only a test."

A test. He can keep his shit together for a test.

He takes a deep breath in out, breathe, relax, my son  and holds out his hand, placing it carefully above the reach of the flame. That's what 'over' the fire means, right? Please please please.

Apparently not. "Lower," the doctor says, the tangible impatience scraping his brain.

Now it starts to hurt, the flames scraping delicately over his scales.

"Lower."

And lower. And lower, until he wants to vomit from the pain of it, until a trapped scream is wheezing in his throat, until he can smell his burned scales in the air. Turtle soup.

"Now...hold it. That's good." The warm praise settles around him like a blanket, and he clutches at desperately, holding on for dear life as his entire body screams at him to run.

Stay, he tells himself firmly. Stay. Be good. It really doesn't mean that much to sit in a chair, does it? It means everything.

So he sits, and he sits, while his hands scream and the scars on his temples throb, for what feels like an hour. And he's sure it's going to burn straight through the nerves at any second, leaving him numb and useless, and maybe it'll be okay if he can't do anything for them anymore, maybe then they'll let him d--

"Okay, take it off."

He pulls his hand back to his side lightning-quick and the man chuckles. A soft hand pats him on the head. "Good boy."

Good boy. He repeats that to himself over and over again, a victory chant, while the doctor calls for one of the technicians to tend to his turn. It's over, and he's a good boy. Everything is fine.

He hears the clatter of tools on the table. "Test one post-rewrite complete," someone says. "Let's take a quick break and then set up for test two."

Everything is fine.

Chapter 19: Follow me in merry measure

Summary:

TMNT 2012 Prompt: Nightclub (Fauxepawe)

Title taken from the song Deck The Halls by Bing Crosby.

Continuation of chapter 16, as per a request by Popcornchicken. There will be probably be a third story from this particular nightmare scenario somewhere down the line.

“You know,” Falco says thoughtfully as they weave back and forth across the floor, “When I was a young, stupid lad, I used to dream about taking a pretty girl out dancing.”

They’re in an empty nightclub, Splinter’s usually silent feet rasping awkwardly against the dusty floor as he’s led around the room. There’s red splashing the walls around them, and Splinter can’t focus enough to tell if it’s holiday decorations or human guts.

“We’d flirt, we’d laugh, we’d do all the meaningless things meaningless people do in meaningless films.” Falco twirls Splinter slowly, moving him to silent music. “Then I’d take her back home and pound her within an inch of her life, until she was screaming my name like the little slut she was.”

A cold smile splits Falco’s face—for it is Falco’s face, the mask of Tang Shen tossed aside like so many old clothes. Splinter can’t bring himself to care.

There’s the distant thunder of metal feet outside, the hum and grind of inhuman bodies marching. Splinter still doesn’t know what they’re here for: He wonders if they do, either.

"But alas." Falco's still talking. "It was not to be. I was too....odd, I suppose. You understand?"

Does he? You weren't odd as a child. Saki was. And he was lonely. Splinter cocks his head, frowning.

"Of course, it was all for the best. Being with any of those trollops would have been a waste of my time--" Falco stops, and even though Splinter knows that Falco can't see, that it's the rats from the corner of the room that are watching them, he still feels like he's being pierced by those dark sockets.

"You're bored." He shakes his head, chuckling, and Splinter swallows hard. He wants to...he doesn't know. Deny it? Protest? Hit Falco and run? He doesn't even know where he is, where he would go. He just knows he doesn't want to hear that chuckle.

"I'm not--" he says weakly.

"Hush. It's all right." Falco rakes his nails down Splinter's shoulders. "Perhaps I should slip into something a little younger. Would that help?" And before Splinter can say no or ask why, Falco's face ripples and shifts, skin darkening to an unmistakable green.

“What’s wrong?” Leonardo asks, smiling up at him as Splinter gasps for air. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s good to spice up a relationship?”

“Don’t.” He doesn’t know much, but he knows that he doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to see blue eyes looking up at him with such trust and love.

“Are you all right, Father?” Leonardo asks, licking his lips and grinding up against him in a way that’s far too wrong . “Am I not satisfying you?”

Leonardo smiles, far too wide. “Or perhaps the problem is a lack of accuracy.” His head snaps to the right with a sickening crack, and the world drops out from under Splinter’s feet. Three jagged slashes erupt across his plastron, dripping vicious red.

“No!” Splinter desperately scrabbles at the wounds in Leonardo’s chest, but blood pours through his fingers, hot and vicious. He feels awake for the first time in days and it hurts , it feels like burning-hot daggers peeling off his fur.

“This is what you wanted,” Leonardo says, only now his face is melting into Tang Shen’s burnt, stinking face, into Miwa’s twisted with scales and madness, into Saki’s blind with hate. “You wanted to reminisce .”

Splinter falls to his knees, sobbing, heaving. “I’m sorry,” he babbles. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I—“

“Shh…” A hand, blessedly cool, brushes across his face. “It’s all right, I forgive you.” A soft chuckle. “I guess I just can’t help myself, hmm?”

Splinter blinks up through weeping eyes at Falco’s face—Falco, who is unmarked and unwavering and here, which is more than Splinter can say for anyone else right now.

“That’s it.” Falco rubs a hand across Splinter’s forehead, and all the bad thoughts seem to slide away. “Doesn’t that feel better?”

“Yes.” Because it does, even if he can’t quite remember what it’s better than. The Rat King smiles, and Splinter smiles back.

“I knew it.” He’s pulled into a sharp, hungry kiss, sharp nails digging into his shoulders. Splinter kisses back, letting his King’s hands slip between his legs.

He pushes his King onto his back, growling playfully, and Falco giggles. They make love right there while the city burns outside, and Splinter forgets about the sounds of destruction almost as soon as he hears them.

Chapter 20: I oughtta say no, no, no

Summary:

TMNT 2012. Prompt: Stare (Lee Allure).

Title taken from the song Baby It's Cold Outside by Esther Williams and Riccardo Montalban.

April's eyes are pretty. Raph's not sure how come he never noticed this before, but they are, they're so pretty they take his breath away. They're brighter than the stars, brighter than the Christmas lights they haven't taken down yet, brighter than her amused smile. He can't look away.

She runs a gentle hand down his shell and his breath hitches into his touch. Raph leans forward, drinking her in, hoping he won't fall off the couch and make an idiot of himself.

"Raph," she says, oh so gently. "Why don't you fuck yourself a little harder with that dildo, hmm?"

And her eyes are white, white, white.

He blinks, looking down at himself. There's...there's a thing in him. His legs are spread and the two of them are alone in the Pit together and there's a toy pushed up his ass, where he's never had so much as a finger.

"I--" He glances around wildly, heart pounding. His family, if they see, he doesn't even want to think about Casey and Donnie and what the hell--

"Relax," April chides. "I sent them all out to play in the snow. I'll know when they're even thinking of coming back." She's smiling, but there's something about her smile that's wrong. "Now, how do you like your toy?"

Raph squirms, wincing at how that makes pleasure-pain flare up in his guts. "It hurts," he says honestly, cheeks flaring. He hates acknowledging weakness.

"Mmm," April says, wagging her fingers. The toy shoves a little farther inside him, and Raph cries out.

"It is rather big," she muses. "Maybe push it in a little deeper? That might help."

He really, really doubts it, but he's already doing as he's told, unable to look away from her even as fresh tears of pain spark in his eyes. She brushes them away, cooing softly, and he relaxes against his will when she kisses him on the cheek.

"So beautiful when you're needy," April says. "God, I can't believe that poor girl never let herself play." There's something deeply wrong with that statement but Raph can't focus enough to make sense of it.

"I mean, Donatello was the most obvious but really it was all of you, wasn't it?" She gives the toy a vicious twist, wrenching a groan out of Raph's trembling mouth. "So desperate to be loved, to be told you weren't a dirty little freak by someone who wasn't a dirty little freak themselves."

He's crying, and he's not sure if it's from the pain or the truth of her words. B-but they're not true, are they? They are people who love him, people who don't think he's a freak, like, like...

"....Casey..." he breathes. "Mona."

He stiffens, suddenly feeling like he's spilled something he shouldn't have. Their names are precious, they shouldn't--but April already knows-- but it's not April --

But she's smiling, and he instinctively sags in relief. "You miss them?" she asks, settling back onto the couch. She cocks her head, and then there are hands on him, even though she's not touching him, and some of those hands are scaly, and some are callused with old burns from playing with explosives.

"Steady, Raphael," Mona breathes in his ear.

"That's it, dude," and that's Casey breathing on his face, but he can't see Casey, just April's burning gaze. The dildo is--it's moving again, but it doesn't feel like a dildo, it feels like a cock splitting him open, stabbing at his core, and Mona's laughing and pushing him farther down onto it

Itt feels good as much as it hurts, but the pleasure is another kind of suffering. He's hard, but in a way that makes him sick and scared.

"No," he rasps, because he doesn't understand much right now, but he is fully aware that he shouldn't want this (whatever 'this' is) to be happen this. He's choking on the wrongness of it, but he can't move, can't fight. "N-n-no..."

"Oh, stop whining. It's fine," April says, sounding bored. "This is just a test. Now that I know that even a whiny little brute like you is no matter for my power, I can proceed with my plans accordingly." She smiles at him, and her eyes, her beautiful eyes, are swallowing him whole. "So really, it's all for the greater good."

Mona's claws trace fire down his side. Casey's got a finger inside of him, painfully dragging Raph open. He doesn't think he's bleeding, but how is that possible? How can something be so terrible and not bleed?

"Perhaps I think I'll keep you around after the end," April says, half to herself. "You're more fun to play with than I expected." Raph wants to reply, even if he's not sure what he could say to stop all this, but it doesn't matter because all that comes out is a strangled rasp.

"Just relax." She plucks a tear from his cheek, sending whirling through the air. "It'll be over soon, and neither of you will remember. You won't even be sore."

He wants to protest that he'll remember, deep in his bones, in his scarred and battered heart if nowhere else. But the last of his will crumbles under the weight of her white fire gaze, melting into the twisted heart of a body dragged toward desperate orgasm.

So instead he sits, and simply waits for her to look away.

Chapter 21: If I give you my heart, If you tear it apart

Summary:

TMNT IDW. Prompt: Spirals (Lee Allure).

TMNT IDW.

Angel's spinning, dipping, falling, her hair slipping free of her armor to swirl around her head as the Toad's Baron palace folds at the corner of her village. She falls and falls, but she never manages to touch the ground, and she feels so light it's hard to tell if she's touching the ground at all.

You're trippin', babygirl, a voice croons at the back of her head. Or maybe it's the music, pumping loud and wild in time with the flashing lights and the stamping feet and the pulse of bodies around her and hey is that a mouse pegging a fox in the corner? Like a really real mouse, not furries or anything?

Drugs. Probably drugs, according to the fragment of her mind that still manages to somewhat care. Nice girls don't do drugs, but she's not a nice girl, is she? No Angel at all, ha ha. The streets she grew up on chew angels to pieces and spit them out.

Whatever. She wants to sing, but her brains are scrambled, words from English and Spanish tangling up together to create a meaningless noise. But she can throw her head back and howl, she can dance like nobody's business, she can feel like that perfect balance of pretty princess and glorious knight which she's been chasing since she could talk.

Bodies pressing in on her, the heat and nose making her legs shake. If she wants she could let them crush her, push her to the point of supernova. It's the hot fiery edge she's chased as delinquent and vigilante both, the heat of bullets whizzing past her head and blood roaring in her veins, distilled and purified and ready to consume her.

But no, not yet. Because...because...right, because it's no fun burning alone. It never has been. Something's missing, silly girl, you need to go searching before you lose her too.

She pushes through the crowd, humming and giggling. More people fucking in the corners, good for them. A person covered in scars and glitter screaming in perfect Latin, a three-headed pig cackling in a suit, a figure swooping through the ceiling and crashing into walls on real wings. The Toad Baron may be an asshole, but he throws a hell of a good party.

Angel reaches out, vision tunneling, and lets out a yelp as her fingers brush white fur. Then the world snaps back to something resembling clarity and she's tripping, crashing in a heap of limbs and clanking metal

"Aaaaaaaaal," she groans as she forces herself upright, because that's the best way her fucked-up brain can communicate Alopex, dude, I could have broken my fucking nose. What happened, are you okay?

And then she freezes, because that is Alopex curled in a ball, shaking. That is Alopex with her eyes rolled back until the whites show, her teeth chattering so loud they seem ready to break, her claws digging into her own head.

"No," Angel rasps, because she's still falling, but she's also hit the ground hard. "No, no, Alopex, baby......" Alopex isn't looking at her, she's just babbling in Japanese, her paws shaking, and a name swims up from the depths of Angel's skull: Kitsune, Kitsune, Kitsune.

The demon of bitter snows and dark stone eyes. The memory of her falls into Angel's hazy, gauzy mind like a thunderbolt. Something's gone wrong in both their brains, but while Angel has figured out how to ride the waves, Alopex can't because she's remembering.

Her fingers are numb and stupid, but she manages to wrap her arms around Alopex and drag her out of the fray. Feet slam into her armor, people yelping and cursing as they bounce off her, but the words slip past Angel's buzzing brain like so much colorful lights.

They somehow make it into a dark hallway, blood staining Angel's cheek from a cheek she doesn't even remember. She cradles Alopex close, stroking her fur, struggling to keep her from scratching her own head again. Alopex's moans, legs pressed desperately together in a way that has all sorts of dark implications Angel can't fixate on right now.

Whatever they've been exposed to, it's wearing off just enough for Angel to know there's something she should do, something involving breathing and touching and a million little techniques she's schooled herself in (for Alopex, for Casey, for her cousin who got beaten up by cops, for every broken person in her life and herself).

But she doesn't remember. The fog is too fucking heavy and she's changed her mind--the Toad Baron can fucking rot in hell.

"Alopex," she whispers over and over again, trying to say it in a way that means I love you, and you're safe, and come home, sweetheart, please. She clings to her as they plummet together, crying the way she almost never does, letting her tears drip onto Alopex's fur so at least she knows that however far she's gone.

And she keeps using Alopex's name and her own tears, her only weapons, until the spell starts to fade. Until their minds begin to clear, until Alopex's trembling slowly dies down, until she looks up at Angel with eyes that are lucid and sharp and a little bit more broken than before.

Even then, they cling on. And perhaps that's just enough to keep them both from shattering completely.

Chapter 22: They bottle it, call it medicine

Summary:

TMNT 2012. Prompt: Silly (Fauxepawe).

Title taken from the song High Enough by K. Flay.

Mikey's silly. Of course, he's silly, he's always silly, that's his role in the family (to make his brothers laugh when they're feeling low, to draw people's attention to his smile so they won't see his weapons blur, to give his family a place to release their tension). Silly, silly, silly, that's Mikey.

But this is a special silly, a super-duper kind of silly. This is pretty lights flickering around his head and a cackle twisting in his throat, this is cool metal buzzing beneath his fingers as he slumps on the floor of a--oh, a ship? A space ship?

Oooh ooh ooh, he's gotta get his brothers! Leo would lose his shit and so would Raph, because he's a Space Heroes fan too even if they're not supposed to talk about it, and Donnie and Casey would want to take everything apart, and--

"Shut him up," someone growls, and Mikey yelps as a wad of cloth is stuffed into a mouth that he didn't even know was moving. Uh-uh. Rude, man, so rude. He tries to tap the big, muscular chest of the big, muscular figure looming over him in reprimand.

Only, his right arm isn't moving that well. It kind of, uh, hurts? Like it does when Donnie makes them get their shots? And his head kind of hurts too, like really ow bad. And his skin is tingling in a funny way, and what's that weird shiny contraption they're putting away, and oh are those bruises on his arms--

Ooooh! Those are stars outside the window, real stars! Mikey reaches for them, giggling through the gag, but strong arms grab him and pull him away. Aw, drat. He whines in protest as he's hoisted up onto a massive knee, batting his feet at the air like a child.

"Hush," a voice rumbles, hands on his thighs. "It's all right." It's a big, deep voice, edged with something Mikey doesn't really understand. A dinosaur voice, cool!

"Sir--" someone says.

"Relax, Captain," and um, are those like, hands under him? On his butt? Is that--is that a thing that's supposed to happen? And they're squeezing, and poking, and it's just a game right? A prank? Yeah yeah yeah, it's gotta be, so it doesn't matter that his breath is coming a little fast?

"We have a bit of time to indulge." Do we? Does he? There's the sound of something opening, and slick, cold fingers touching him--inside him--Mikey whimpers, twisting and huffing for breath. It hurts, and it feels super weird.

"So tight..." A soft, shocked breath. "Are you a virgin? Truly? No one ever took the opportunity to indulge in this loveliness?"

Lovely? Is that a joke? It must be, so that--that's a good thing, right? It's just a joke, a sweet, silly game, and that means everything's all right, fine and dandy, yes sirree. Mikey just needs to relax, maaaan....

Only, that's hard when he's being touched like this. Fingers outside of him and inside of him, and it feels really good in such a weird way. They rip out the gag, and fractured moans spill from him as he whimpers and shudders, and now his special private place is bulging in such a funny way.

"Sir," someone breathes.

A chuckle rings out. "Come on, you two." And whoa wow what, there are suddenly more hands on him, touching him and turning him until he's shaking, and breathless, and his cock is out. Should they...are they supposed to see this? He's blushing so hard, and they see, and they laugh.

"It's all right, little one," they say. And--and their cocks are out, big and shiny and thick, rubbing over his skin. Maybe that makes it better, then, like seeing the audience in their underwear?

"Legs together," he hears the first one murmur, and he does as he's told without thinking, because Mikey's not a total cut-up, he can follow orders. And then there's thrusting, thrusting, between his legs, rubbing against his shaking tail and his hole which is still full of finger and Mikey's bouncing, hey, whoa Nellie, ow....

"You'll need a bit of training before we can stuff you full," one of them says, sounding regretful. Training, training? He's okay at training, except where it's hard to pay attention, and--oh, fuck one of them's rubbing a soft sensitive place deep inside Mikey. He yowls, head snapping around until it starts to hurt.

Things sort of melt, a blur of sensations that are really good except when they're not, but he can't really tell them apart at this point, and what does it matter? It's just a silly, silly game, and they know, they're laughing, and so is Mikey, or at least the sounds they're all making sound a bit like laughter.

Heat. Stickiness. There's a bunch of stuff splattering on him, and then more stuff, and more. He's gagging on it, drowning. In space no one can hear you scream, and he giggles, only none of this is that funny, not really.

But it is! It has to be! Otherwise....

Anyway, the dinosaurs are moving away now, buckling themselves back into place. And Mikey? He's just dumped back onto the floor, stiff and sticky--stick, stiffy, funny dick jokes, stiff, stiff and dead and cold and not having to think about this anymore. Or something.

And now, new voices? People are yelling, running, there's the distant rumbles of explosions, like a war movie on TV. Maybe that's it, he's asleep and none of this is happening. That might be...nice. Yeah.

The door crashes open, and Mikey whimpers at the noise, curling into a ball. He hears someone gagging, cursing, screaming. The dinosaurs are going for their weapons, and there's a sound a bit like Mr. Murakami teaching him to cut up meat, nice and careful.

When he sits up, the dinosaurs aren't moving and things are very, very red. Except for the splotches of green moving towards him--ooh, he knows them! Mikey waves, or tries to, but he's shaking all over and he's aching from bruises that he's just not realizing have been left on his hips, his thighs, all over his body.

He tries to smile, because that's what Mikey does. Smile, smile, and it's funny, isn't it? Mikey's always funny? Mikey went and hurt himself. Mikey's all covered in icky goop.

They're holding him now, which is weird because he's such a mess, and they're...crying? Weird. Mikey tries to keep smiling, to cheer them up, but it's harder than it should be.

"We're sorry," he hears Leo whisper. "We're sorry, baby, so sorry." Sorry for what? Mikey doesn't know (doesn't want to know).

He's scooped up and carried out, and Mikey's not sure how far they are into the escape before he realizes that he's crying, too.

Chapter 23: But your trigger finger's mine

Summary:

TMNT 2012. Prompt: Corrupt (Fauxepawe).

Title taken from the song Copycat by Billie Eilish.

She's in the bathroom, blood dripping around her feet, a bit like her period except there's so much. And it's not coming out of her, which is good, although also not because then where is it coming from?

"Not a big deal," says the girl in the mirror. April tilts her head, because she's the girl in the mirror, isn't she?

The mirror shrugs. "Not always." She's smiling, arms hanging over her sides, exposing her naked flesh. Because yes, April's naked, except for the crystal around her throat (she knows the crystal's still there because she can feel its reassuring weight, but she can't see it it the mirror).

April instinctively covers her breasts with her arms, but the other girl doesn't move. She just smiles, teeth bared, her hair fluttering in a nonexistent wind.

"Black Swan vibes, yeah?" One hand reaches out and drums on the glass thoughtfully. April winces at the sound. "Only I'll assure you, it's very real." There's blood in other-April's teeth, and when April licks her own lips, she finds blood there, too.

Red. Red as their hair, red as lipstick, red as a kiss--

"There's a man," she says suddenly, and yes, when she turns to look at the half-open door she can see into the larger room, see a person, or what used to be a person. She's not sure how she knows it's a man, because once someone's been...unraveled like that, and spread out over the walls, it's hard to tell.

Her heart stutters. "I need to call someone--"

"Oh really?" Her reflection quirks an eyebrow, unimpressed. "And what will you say when you ask them who did this?"

April's world tilts, and she grabs the bathroom counter for purchase. " No ."

"Oh, yes." And she can see it in her--their?--mind: the smoky lights of the bar, the man smiling at her from the counter, the plastic smile she put on in her return. Following him to what he said was his house, hips pressing together in the darkened room, their lips met, and then she closed her eyes and reached--

"Why?" Her voice is a cracked rasp.

The creature in the mirror looks at her levelly. "Because he was a monster. We read his mind, didn't we?"

His mind.... A blur of images hits her like a punch. Women and girls, forgotten souls lured off the street and into his home. Hurt. Damaged. Killed.

He hadn't even wanted to take April in particular: she was healthy enough and rich enough and put-together enough and sane enough and white enough to attract attention. She'd made him bring her home, in a way she didn't even know she could do, and then she'd taken revenge for all the terrible things he'd done.

It was glorious. She remembers the lightning pulsing through her veins, remembers the terror in her eyes, remember how she'd trembled with power to undo the very fabric of the universe. It was the kind of thing you could get drunk on, addicted to, if you only held on long enough.

"But I don't kill." Her voice is a whisper, trembling in the stillness. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, that's how it gouges, and she doesn't want that--right? Right?

"You do what you have to do, April," her doppelgänger says. She brushes a hand across her hip and April stiffens, feeling the touch on her own skin. "You always have."

Her teeth glint like fangs. Her eyes are jet black one second, burning white the next. "Now, come, let me take care of you."

April's breath hitches as a bloody hand dips between her legs. Only she's not touching herself, but the girl in the mirror is, her free hand teasing at her own nipples. April gasps at the sensation, knees locking while hands far more skilled than her own toy with her cunt.

"Stop..." she rasps, trailing off into her moan. She--she needs it to stop, right? But it feels so good, good enough to burn away the sense of blood crusting on her skin, the steady dripping from the next room. "Stop?"

"That's not what you want." The voice is deeper now, and something about it makes April think of humming stars and fluttering wings. The thought vanishes before it can form, and then the fingers at her cunt are moving deeper, the ones at her breasts pinching harder and faster.

"Let me take care of you, child," and she's staggering away from the mirror, not looking back to see if her reflection is still there. The first shudders hit and the hands keep touching her, all through the orgasm and then dragging her towards the next one.

"We're going to do amazing things, you and I." April can't speak, all she can do is pant and tremble and moan. At some point the shower clicks on seemingly by itself and then the blood is flowing off of her body as she spasms on the ground.

(She wakes up at home, dark memories wiped clean, but she feels something vicious and ugly marked under her skin anyway. She can't name it, but she knows it's here to stay).

Chapter 24: Like some kind of sadist

Summary:

TMNT IDW. Prompt: Long-Distance (LeesAllure)

Title taken from the song 911 by Ellise.

Inspired by this glorious nightmare of a post.

Come home.

Leo sucks in a breath and presses himself farther back against a tree trunk. "Not real," he repeats to the frigid stillness, the suffocating quiet. "Not fucking real."

You wound me, chunin, His hands twitch against his will, pressing between his thighs, and Leo whimpers. Hmm, that's it. You missed me, didn't you?

"Get the hell away from me, Kitsune." It's the first time he'd said her name without any honorifics, and he hates how much it feels like sacrilege.

She just chuckles. I missed you too, kit. Her hand brushes across his shell, even though it's still pressed against the back of the tree. Leo squeezes his eyes shut and he can see her smiling at him, like they're just having another quiet conversation over tea.

"I'm n-not coming back." The words tremble when he says them, so Leo grits his teeth and repeats himself. "I'm. Not. Coming. Back."

Oh? Are you going to stay with them, then? After getting such a warm welcome home? Raph's angry face flashes into his mind, and Leo shakes his head with a grunt. "That's not--he was just angry about Alopex."

A low chuckle. Was he? Convenient. His hands push deeper, rubbing and toying with his slit. Leo struggles to muffle a sob in his shoulder, tears stinging on his cheeks. And what would he say if he knew everything you'd done? What we'd turned you into?

"Please," and he's shaking, teeth chattering. "Don't--"

"Tears?" A cold hand tightens on his chin and Leo's eyes snap open with a gasp. There's a woman kneeling in front of him, eyes sharp and hard--but, but he's imagining things because it's not her, it can't be her.

Tang Shen lifts his chin, fingers biting at his scales. "You've trampled on this family's good name, and now you have the audacity to cry about it?"

Leo swallows hard. "You're not real," he rasps. He tries and fails to twist his head out of her grip, but her fingers just tighten. "Kitsune--"

"Shut up." His mother--not his mother, please no--slaps him so hard there's a crack and Leo tumbles, sprawling across the ground. His hand still keeps moving relentlessly between his legs, and to his horror he can feel himself spilling free.

Not-Shen raises an eyebrow. "Look at that. You really can't help yourself, can you?" She clucks her tongue. "I should have realized what a dirty little slut you are long ago." The words sound so wrong coming from her, far too crude, but Leo can't focus on that right now.

She's pinning him, hand wrapped around his throat, crushing the life from him with an impossible weight. His limbs are stiff and useless all of a sudden, and even if they weren't, what would he do? Attack his own mother? She's not your mother she's not your mother she's NOT--

"Does it matter?" she asks, cocking her head. Her fingers drag down his chest, pressing hard enough to hurt, and Leo groans. "You know you deserve this. You let yourself get fucked by the man who murdered me, didn't you?"

"It wasn't--I didn't want--"

"Oh, yes you did." His hands stop working, but that's only because she's touching him now. "All you needed was an excuse."

"She came for me," Leo rasps. "My mother, she--"

"Only because I hadn't realized what a bloodthirsty little whore you'd become." He bucks as her hand tightens on his cock, and she spits in his face. "I shouldn't have wasted my time."

It's Kitsune it's Kitsune so why does he feel so ready to believe her? Why do her words strike him in the gut, peppering his heart with glass shards?

She's shifting now, moving her skirts, and it takes Leo a heartbeat to realize what she's doing. "No," he rasps. "No, please, Mother--"

"Oh, stop fussing," she huffs. "You're no son of mine--you've seen to that." She sinks onto him, and the world flashes white.

God, it's so good, and that's the truly terrible thing. He's sobbing and terrified and feeling completely insane, but it's still perfect in a way that burns through his nerves and sets his head ringing. It's like the first time with Kitsune all over again, only then he felt loved and cherished, and now he feels like he's being trampled into nothing.

The-thing-that-can't-be-his-mother moans his father's name, circling her hips, and an awful little part of Leo feels jealous. She touches herself as she fucks him, the smell of her pleasure seeping into the air, and it smells so real. More real than the greenery around him, more real than the tears stinging Leo's eyes.

"This is what you're for," someone whispers, someone who sounds a bit like Kitsune and a bit like Shredder and a bit like his mother and a bit like Raph and a bit like the dark little voice that lives deep in Leo's head. "No good to anyone unless you're on your knees or your back." And he's crying too hard to protest.

She shudders around him, and that's enough to pull Leo over the edge. He spasms, coming inside his own mother like a beast a slut a goddamn freak.

"Mmmm," Shen murmurs, rolling off of him. "You're a good fuck, for a used-up little streetwalker." He buries his head in the grass and trembles, coughing up drool, snot, and vomit.

She pulls away, but then new arms are wrapping around him, pulling him close. "Do you see?" Kitsune breathes in his ear. "That is all they think you're good for. You're dirty in their eyes, and you'll never be clean, not until you come back where you belong--"

Leo slams his head against the ground, jarring his eyes open. He looks up at the silent trees from a tangle of leaves, real cum dripping between his legs, and screams.

Chapter 25: You don't want to run away

Summary:

All media types. Prompt: Skeptical (Fauxepawe)

Title taken from the song Hypnotized by AVIVA.

"Yes," someone says, drawing out the yes in a way that doesn't sound very positive at all, "But are you absolutely sure it works?"

He's on his knees, legs pressed together because you're a slave, not a student, they'd told him. Whatever that means. But somehow it leads into there being a certain way for him to kneel. And he likes certain ways. They help add a touch of order to a life that doesn't seem to make a lot of sense.

The people over his head are talking, saying how sure they are, it'll do anything you want, and would you like to test it? It takes a few seconds for him to realize he's the it they're talking about. He doesn't know how he feels about that.

A low huff. "Very well, then. Turtle, come here."

He starts to rise to his feet, but he's cut off by a low chuckle. "No, no. Crawl."

And he stiffens because he doesn't--he doesn't know--he looks down at his green hands and the curve of his plastron and the idea of lowering himself to the level of a real animal feels so wrong--

A disdainful sniff. "I knew it wouldn't work." His gut twists at the words, at the idea of messing up (he's hated messing up, always has). He grits his teeth and starts to crawl.

" Well," and the approval in that voice wraps him in soothing warmth. "This is very interesting. Very interesting indeed. Come closer."

So he comes closer, and closer, until his hands brush against two feet planted solidly at the ground. He comes to a halt, wincing as a cool hand wraps around his bruised chin and yanks him up to face unblinking eyes.

"I have to admit," that steady voice says, now sounding like he's trying to contain his own excitement. "It looks very impressive." Fingers slide down to grip his throat, just tight enough to hurt. He swallows hard, and there's laughter.

And....rustling. He hears soft gasps, and then there's--there's a cock brushing over his face. He stiffens, lurching backward, and hears more laughter. A hand grabs the back of his head and he goes still, because he's not allowed to fight his master.

"Hmm." The cock nudges at his lips and he tries to twist away. A sigh. "Open up, boy. I don't have all day."

He really, really doesn't want to open up. But...but the idea of being a disappointment. It burns him up, leaves him weak and frightened and unable to resist.

It's like his mouth opens on its own. The cock slides inside, warm and wet and heavy on his tongue. He sucks in a breath through his nose, trying to keep it from sliding back down his throat, frantically sucking at it just to get a bit more control.

"That's it." He's patted on the head, and it's cruel and condescending and so nice that he just has to suck harder. A low moan. "Oh, look at you. T-those idiots really didn't have to do much, did they? You've a-always wanted to obey, deep down."

That feels wrong, somehow, but so much of his world does and it's not like he has any idea what right is supposed to look like, or what he would do if he found it. So he shoves it away and keeps sucking, hollowing his cheeks or bobbing his head when he's told to.

He's got a little bulge in his own slit by the time his master pulls out and comes with a groan, splattering his face and chest. The feeling is sticky and uncomfortable, but he keeps his head high, because something tells him that's what his master wants.

"Did it get you hard, slut?" He nods, because he wants to be polite and answer questions honestly. "Do you want to touch yourself?" He blinks, then shrugs, because he kind of does and kind of doesn't, but really it doesn't matter because want doesn't come into play for creatures like him.

"Good boy. You learn well." And his head is going light with how happy those few words make him.

His master looks away, addressing the watching scientists as he puts his cock away. "Well, it looks like you haven't managed to make a mess of this yet." They nod their heads like dolls, still looking a little shocked.

And a little hungry, too, if he's being honest, like they hadn't yet realized the true potential of what they've done. He looks away quickly, hoping he won't be sent back to them.

He's not. Instead his Master smiles down on him, warm and kind. "You can come now, little one," he says gently. "But no hands--I want you to rub that greedy little cock of yours off on the floor."

He smiles back, because he's getting a reward, which means that Master is proud. And everything else--the muffled screams at the back of his head or the way that the come on his face feels just a bit like it's burning or the shaking in his hands as they press against the tile--is burnt away by light of Master's pride.

So he humps the floor, churring and purring like a little cat, looking up with big pleading eyes. His master murmurs yes, the real kind of yes, and that's enough to make him come with a wail of pure bliss.

Chapter 26: They're only toys

Summary:

TMNT IDW. Prompt: Road Trip (LeeAllure)

Title taken from the song Devour by Shinedown

They're in a diner, Leo thinks. Mistress Kitsune told him to drive, so he's driven, occasionally stopping to eat her out by the side of the road when she needed to clear her head or steal a fresh set of maps for directions. Eventually they came to a building that he's pretty sure is a diner and Kitsune told him to stop.

Gods don't really need to eat; technically they're just here to "borrow" a fridge and one of the trucks in the parking lot for Master Shredder's body, which is starting to smell from the back of the car. But Kitsune still likes to indulge in taste from time to time, and Leo's hungry and exhausted enough that he's just grateful for a rest.

Kitsune's eating raw hamburger, daintily cutting up and nibbling at raw, bloody pieces of meat, apparently as comfortable with a fork as she is with chopsticks. Leo doesn't like to look at the meat. It reminds him a bit too much of Master Shredder's body.

He'd cried when he remembered Master Shredder was dead (the rat, he's going to fucking kill the rat) , but Kitsune had told him to hush. She had told him that as soon as they were able to shake their pursuers, they'd find a way to bring him back, and she sounded so sure that Leo couldn't help believing her.

(Then why couldn't she just bring back your brothers, a voice whispers at the back of his heads and he does his best to push it away, because she obviously has her reasons)

Loe's not entirely clear on how Master Shredder died, to be honest. In fact, he's not one hundred percent sure how he'd ended up here, driving her across the country in what he's pretty sure is a stolen car with blood on his knuckles and a neatly bundled corpse in the backseat. 

His memories are a blur of light and blood, screaming, fighting, clashing swords. He thinks there might have been an alligator? And there's a lot of blank space, hazy and confusing, starting around the night Master Shredder killed Victor the Savate.

He knows there were a lot of people screaming his name, voices familiar and unfamiliar folding in on each other. Sometimes he thinks he can still hear them. Sometimes it sounds like they're calling for him, begging him to come home.

Once Leo asked Mistress Kitsune where Alopex and Karai were, and got slapped in the face for his trouble. He'd bowed his head, murmuring an apology, and tried not to think about it. Or the fact that he sometimes swears he can Alopex whispering to him, saying "Come on, you bastard, I got away from her, so can you, please ."

But anyway. The diner. Leo hasn't done anything to disguise his mutation, and Kitsune's kimono and floor-length hair aren't very subtle either, but nobody says anything. Their eyes are all blank or dull, like the cop who'd tried to pull Leo over.

They babble nonsense to each other, tapping their utensils against their tables in time with the music. A little girl stares at Leo with blank eyes, an empty smile on her lips. He smiles back, and she just stares a minute before looking away.

Kitsune's looking out the window in silence, expression unreadable. She made some of the store people bring out an industrial fridge before they ate, and Leo helped them respectfully store Oroku Saki's mutilated remains and store him in the back of a truck.

Leo's on his knees by Kitsune's seat, gratefully nibbling the occasional bit of cold meat from her hand. People keep having to step over him, and he's sorry for that, but he can't really fit under  the seats to kneel at Kitsune's feet properly, and god forbid he try to eat across from her. They both know he's not worthy of it.

He doesn't say anything when a few of them accidentally bump or kick him, doesn't even pay attention. And so maybe it's his fault, maybe he could have stopped it, because he doesn't see the man awkwardly step over his shell and plant his dirty foot on Kitsune's skirt.

Leo freezes. Kitsune's head whips around, a hair too fast and a hair too far to be human. The diners stop eating, even though most of them aren't even looking at what just happened.

Kitsune delicately tugs the hem of her robe out from under the man's boot and slowly, carefully rubs it clean. Then she plucks a fork and holds it out; he takes it without a word.

"To the brain, please," she says gently.

The man stabs himself in the head without flinching. A sharp red spray bursts out, filling the air with a metallic scent that cuts the nose. He shoves deeper and deeper and deeper, until you can't even see the fork at all, until it looks like he's just clapped a hand to a bloody eye socket.

And then he's falling, hitting the ground with an air-shattering thump. Leo flinches at the sound. No one else does.

He's left staring at the body in silence, when another fork and a knife clatter down by his hand. Leo jolts.

"Eat," Kitsune says, not looking up from her food. She waves at the dead man, making her point clear. "You'll need your strength."

And Leo--

His head is full of screaming his mother and father and brothers and friends saying come home come home come home and his world is spinning and he wants to take the knife and--

"Leonardo?"

He blinks. The music is playing. The diners are mumbling nonsense and poking themselves with their forks like nothing ever happened. Kitsune is looking at him, eyebrow raised (he doesn't see the tension in her hand, fisted on her knee).

This is a punishment, and one he deserves. He should have protected her better. He won't make the same mistake next time.

He bows his head, and turns to his meal.

The knife she gave is too dull, so he uses one of his own blades to open the man's stomach instead. The scent is foul, the taste worst, but Leo grits his teeth and powers through, stubbornly cutting up little bits of entrail to shove down his throat.

By the end of it he's bloody, dripping, and trembling. Kitsune sends him to the kitchen to the wash, and the dead-eyed workers gaze at them silently as he scrubs off in their massive sink. "I'm sorry," he tells them before he leaves. He's not sure why, since he knows they won't even remember what happened today.

When he heads out back to the truck there's a man sitting behind the wheel. Kitsune leads him into the little room where the trucker usually sleeps and tells Leo he needs his rest (She doesn't mention who the driver is, or what's going to happen to him when they're done. The first is irrelevant, and the second Leo already knows).

"And later," she says, reaching a gentle hand along his cheek. "We'll have some real fun, won't we?" Her eyes are bright in a way that makes him a little hard, and a little nauseous, although that's probably just indigestion.

Leo leans into her touch, savoring it. He reminds himself yet again that everyone's all right. That he is safe, and loved, and free. They're going to bring Shredder back, and he's going to help them take on the world, and everything is going to be alright.

They drive away into the night, leaving the diner full of puppets to slowly come back to life. Leo curls up on the little bed and strains his ears, trying to catch distant screams on the wind. He thinks he hears some, but maybe they're all in his head.

Because the desperate begging voices seem to get louder with every turn of the wheels, no matter how hard Leo tries to push them away. By the time Kitsune climbs on top of him, they've built to an endless, devouring roar.

Chapter 27: So what, I'm the devil herself

Summary:

TMNT 2012. Prompt: Reversal (Fauxpawe)

Title taken from the song Alpha by Little Destroyer.

Notes:

Feel free to imagine this conversation in Japanese.

He wakes up curled on the ground, naked and raw as the day he was born. His head throbs as he tries to lift, colors flashing before his eye. One hand comes up to rub his temple as he uses the other to brace himself, gingerly pushing upright.

"He's down," someone says. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see olive-green bare feet walking away. "Just--call me when you're done, okay?" A door closes quietly, but the pain in his head still flares at the sound, and he hisses in pain.

A pair of boots approach him, silent on the polished floor. He looks up at fine armor, black hair, eyes as fractured and deadly as shards of dark glass. She's wearing an elaborate metal helmet, and something about it makes his hands twitch at his sides.

"Hello, Saki," she says. "Do you remember me?"

He opens his mouth and a soft, strangled rasp comes out. "K-Karai?" The name feels precious to him, unbearably so, but he's not sure why.

"Interesting." She crouches down to his level. "You know, I was wondering what it felt like to remake someone like this. Thought it'd be some kind of power rush, y'know? Make yourself judge, jury, executioner, and God as the cherry on top." She taps him on the side of the head, jabbing him with another sharp slice of pain.

"But I don't feel much of anything, really." She holds out her hand. "C'mon."

He--Saki lets himself be helped to his feet. Karai looks him up and down, expression thoughtful. "Does it hurt?" she asks.

"Yes." In his head, and on his arms, which bear the marks of cuffs, and up and down his torso, which is marked with a swirl of bruises. He flexes his fingers, unable to ignore the feeling that something's missing, some sort of weight from a weapon or shield on his hands.

Karai nods, a look of satisfaction on her face. "It hurt when I woke up, too. You told me I'd gotten a concussion fighting the turtles." Saki tenses at the word turtles, without knowing why, and she laughs. "That still gets you, huh? Even after everything else is gone."

Everything else. He looks at his body, at the tangle of scars there, and realizes he can't remember where he got a single on. His breath catches, heart fluttering with a wave of wrong wrong wrong, and he staggers backward.

Karai chuckles. "Like it, huh? See, that's the difference between you and me. You were looking for a weapon when you played around in my brainpan, a toy. A return to the golden days of yore, as it were. Me, well..." She reaches out, rubbing her hands over his head in a soothing gesture. "I prefer scorched earth."

Is this what falling feels like? Saki doesn't know. He doesn't remember stability.

"Who," he holds out a trembling hand, fingers flexing and closing like a mad flower. "W-who, what, I don't--"

"Stop sniveling," she barks, and his jaw snaps shut. For a second, Karai looks as surprised as he feels, but then her face relaxes, even as her fingers tighten on the back of his neck.

And then she whispers, "Kiss me."

Saki's leaning in before he can stop himself and she kisses him hard, dragging her teeth along his lip. He almost instantly wants to pull away, but he can't, he can't, and when she finally pulls away he sees from the glitter in her eyes that Karai's all too aware of his helplessness.

"You were Oroku Saki," she whispers. "You were the Shredder, the Master of the Foot Clan." The names somehow manage to mean everything and nothing to him. "And for as long as I remember, you have been my monster."

The denial tears up out of him. "I love you--"

"Shhh," she whispers, planting a callused finger on his lips. "I know. You just did it in the worst way possible." She shakes her head, looking tired. "You've got a habit of that."

Abruptly she pulls away, leaving him standing to reach into nothing. He wants to chase after her, but his feet feel stapled to the ground.

"I thought about torturing you," she calls over her shoulder. "Make you fuck yourself with a broken glass bottle, watch you cut off and eat your own nuts with tabasco sauce, have you eat me off on the throne while everyone watched."

Karai picks up something from a desk and heads back to him. "But I don't think that would really make me feel better." She shrugs. "Wouldn't make me feel worse, I suppose, but it'd still be a waste of time. You're not really him anymore, are you? Just a sucked-out shell."

She looks him in the eye, gaze level. "You're not my monster anymore, just a loose end that needs to be tied up. And that's why I can give you this."

And she holds out a gun.

He takes it slowly, carefully, turning it over in his hands. The grip and weight are familiar, but there's something distinctly...uncomfortable about holding it, nonetheless. It doesn't fit him.

Karai must see the distaste on his face. "Not your weapon, is it? But you learned how to use it in the Peace Corps, and I told Donnie to leave you your motor skills, even if you don't have the will to use them anymore."

She runs a careful finger along the barrel. "I thought about seppuku, but that's really far too good for you." He tries to gather himself, to protest, but--but she'd said shhh.

When she looks back up at him, her face is cold and professional. "I'm going to leave now," she says. "And when I'm gone, you're going to put this barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger. If that doesn't work, just keep shooting until you can't anymore, okay?"

Saki stares at her. It dawns on him that maybe he should protest, but all of a sudden he just can't summon the energy. If he shot her and ran, where would he go? What would he do? The only solid thing in his world is Karai, whom he loves--and who, more importantly, he doesn't know to resist.

"Okay?" she repeats.

"Okay." The word is small, shrunk, worn-down. It seems fitting.

She nods. "Well--goodbye, then." She lets out a little laugh and turns away again, walking to the door without a look back. He can see the tension in her spine, though, knows that she's just waiting for him to level the gun at her. Waiting for him to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.

He doesn't, though, because he's right. The warrior's spirit has been drained from him now, reducing him to a pale body with a loaded gun and no way out.

The door clicks shut. There's something almost comfortingly final about the sound.

He raises the gun.

Chapter 28: The only way the roses bloom

Summary:

TMNT 2012/TMNT IDW. Prompt: Color Change (LeeAllure)

Takes places in the 2012 universe, but with the turtles-wear-red-after-losing-Raph plotline from the comics.

Title taken from the song Rain by Grandson.

They've changed colors.

It's a small thing. Irrelevant, really. It's just...in the beginning the Kappa's enemies were purple, orange, and blue. It was how he distinguished them from one another, how he distracted himself from how much the shine of their green scales resembled his own.

Now, they're all red. Like Christmas trees, the ones he can see humans taking down as he makes his way through dark streets. Falling, falling, and he wants to tell himself his enemies will fall, too, but he feels like the one getting fucked over by gravity right now.

His own mask is black. He'll find himself picking at the ends from time to time, convinced that they're too smooth, even though he doesn't remember wearing anything different. Most of his gear is, with only the faintest accents of red.

He looks at the black mask framing his own white eyes in the mirror and rubs his eyes, head throbbing from keeping his third lid closed too long. He's only allowed to open it every once in a while, and even then for just a few minutes. He doesn't know why--it's just something that is.

His enemies have bright, jewel-colored eyes. He doesn't like to look at them. They make his headaches worse, like the insistent whine and scrape of their voices. He lies curled up in his cold little corner of the master's room, heads pressed to his temples.

A wicked, traitorous part of him wants to throw the mask away, but he doesn't dare--it was a gift, after all, a gift from his Master, the only person in the world who's ever bothered with a bad little freak like him. He can't be bad now, can't add even more marks to the endless tally against him.

Besides, Master likes the mask. Likes to play with it while Raphael kneels at his feet like a good pet during meetings. Likes to use it to bend him over the nearest flat surface to be spanked like a child or fucked like a whore. Likes to tug on with it the fervor of horse reins while Raphael chokes on his cock.

Likes to play with it when he's bouncing Raphael on his lap or, as he's doing now, just holding him, fondling him. Raphael's naked except for his mask, and his cock is out, leaving him feeling small and vulnerable compared to the armored bulk of the man holding him. Master likes him that way.

He plays with Raphael's cock, and he makes all the requisite sounds, but his mind is unfocused, his gaze drifting out the window. He's thinking about the day's fight, about the clash of blades and the desperate screams from his enemies, the things he didn't understand. He's thinking about red, and red.

Master notices his distraction, of course, the hand tightening ever so slightly on his cock. "Is something all right, little one?" he asks.

(It's slut or whore or bitch when the Master's angry, pet or little one when he's not. Raphael can never explain why the supposedly gentler words always make him feel worse).

"I..." His instinct is to say nothing, but Master knows, Master always knows, and he doesn't want to get in trouble. "My enemies. The green ones." Turtles isn’t exactly a forbidden word, but he's careful not to use it much anyway.

His master tenses, ever so slightly. "Oh?"

"They've changed colors. Uh..." He shrugs, suddenly feeling stupid. "They're all red now. I dunno. It's different."

Master hums, stroking his cock once again. "That's a good thing. It means we've made them afraid, made them desperate. They're trying to scare us with promises of blood and fire."

Blood and fire. Right. That's all red is, and it was stupid of Raphael to forget it. Red's just a mean, angry color, not good for anything other than fighting....

"No it's not!"

He frowns, looking down at his hands. They're his hands, big and callused and cruel--but at the same time they're also small, trembling, clutched around a tear-stained mask in a color that's familiar and familiar all at once. A pair of even smaller hands, dotted with freckles, wrap around his.

"It's--it's like roses, y'know? Those pretty ones from TV? And rubies, like that storybook? And strawberries, and cherries, and apples, and so much stuff--yeah, we haven't eaten it, but it looks so tasty! And--and hearts! Hearts are red! That means you're the heart of everything, R--"

"Raphael?"

His Master is looking at him again. The hand on his cock is tightening just enough to start to hurt, to very fully direct his attention away from vague wisps of memory. The child's voice fades to the dark, dusty corners of his mind again.

"Nothing, Master," he says, rubbing his temple. "Just...my head hurts, that's all." And it does, now that he thinks about it. Did it ever really stop?

"Mmm." His master slides a hand under him, pawing at his bottom, flipping aside at his tail. Raphael obligingly wriggles at the touch, sucking in a breath as Master's finger nudges at his hole. "I know just the thing to distract you."

He lets himself be carried off to bed, black mask tails swinging around his head as he slumps back in Master's arms. He closes his eyes, suddenly wanting to hide from the darkness, if only for a little while.

So he lets himself dream of red. And it doesn't frighten him at all.

Chapter 29: If you play your part and I play mine too

Summary:

TMNT 2012. Prompt: Waiting On (LeeAllure)

Title taken from the song Sweet Little Lies by bülow.

Sequels to chapters 16 and 19.

The two of them huddle in the dark, bodies slapping together as his King's claws rasp over his skin. Splinter opens his mouth, hungry, seeking, desperate.

"Soon, my love," his king says, planting a soft kiss on his drool-streaked jaw. "Soon."

But he's hungry, is the thing. The Rat King has stripped so much from him--his intellect, his reason, his sanity--but all of that only made the hunger shine brighter, dig deeper. And while fucking is good, even that is not enough to distract him from the need.

They're tucked away in a little alcove, hiding from the latest Kraang patrol that's taking even longer than usual to make their way out of the sewers. The vibrations poke at Splinter's sensitive ears, and he squeezes his eyes shut with a soft whimper.

"Hush, darling," the Rat King says, circling his hips. "Isn't this nicer?"

It's nice, but it's certainly not nicer than food . Splinter reaches for a passing rat with a greedy hiss.

"No!" his King barks, slapping his hand away. "We need them for the army." His eyes blaze as he starts babbling about it again. Hunger’s no concern of his; if his wasted frame ever cries out for food, he doesn't show it.

It’s all about the army. His king discusses it at length, sighing over how he’ll lead a heroic force up out of the dark and stake their claim amidst the ashes of humanity. Talks about rewriting society, shattering the old world order and rewriting it anew.

For Splinter, who doesn't remember anything about the old world, it's a lot of noise. In fact, a lot of the things his King says are a lot of noise these days, after said King remade him as someone without the faculties to disagree--or comprehend--his teachings.

Ironic, his old self would say. But his old self is broken shards at the back of his mind, occasionally scratching just enough to cause him a bit of discomfort. The hunger drowns it all out, now.

It's the hunger that turns the steady grind of his King around his cock from a pleasure into a chore. It's the hunger that makes the aches and pains of hard living feel even harder to bear. It's the hunger that makes him feel suffocated, both by the distant Kraang and by the bodies of man and rat pressing in around him.

It's the hunger that tells him to reach out, ignoring his King's panting and moaning about conquering civilizations, and scratch his claws along one pale arms.The King sighs, trembling around Splinter's cock.

It's not until the scratching goes harder, deeper, that it starts to pass from pleasure into something else. The Rat King frowns, glaring down at him. "What are you doing?"

Splinter blinks. What is he doing, exactly? He's just reaching for moving, shuddering, babbling meat, just like the Rat King taught him to. It's just...a bit closer that's time, that's all. And in the end, why is that such a problem?

Why is he even hesitating? Beasts don't hesitate, and isn't that what his master told him he is?

The Rat King's mouth opens, and Splinter sinks his fangs into his throat. It's not until the first spray of blood scalds his tongue that he wonders if, maybe, his master was ordering him to stop.

But then the hunger tastes the blood and screams more more more, wiping everything else away. So he decides to give into his instincts, like a proper rat.

He bites and bites, tearing off pieces from his King's heaving shoulders. His master gasps for air and writhes desperately, jerking about on Splinter's cock. It's more than enough to stir his flagging libido back to life. He begins to thrust away as he eats, humming in pleasure.

Perhaps the other rats would be a problem, but they're too busy humming around in circles, banging up against each other. They're lost and confused in the haze of their master's pain, and the King can't gather himself enough to summon them.

He can't really scream with his throat torn up like this, but Splinter covers his mouth as he works, anyway. He wouldn't want to have such a fine meal disturbed by an ill-timed visit from the Kraang.

The last vestige of humanity in him (the cruelest, darkest, most vengeful part) remembers to start jerking Falco off as they approach the climax of the meal. He's barely alive when he finally shudders, but it's enough to pull Splinter over the edge with him, letting out a groan muffled by a particularly juicy chunk of meat plucked from the King's (Falco's) side.

Somewhere during the last few shudders, he realizes he's fucking a corpse. Splinter lets the limp, bloody body slide to the floor and stare down at it. The rats, jerked to a halt by the severing of all those invisible puppet strings in their brains, look too.

Splinter wonders if someone should say something. A victory speech, maybe, or a sad tribute to their fallen King. Something noble and poetic, worthy of a life like his.

But really, he's still hungry, and he needs something to do before the Kraang can leave (he's not himself again, not yet, can't hear the ghosts that will follow him up when he finally returns to the light). Besides, is there any greater tribute he could give his fallen King than following his instincts?

So he hunches over the body, hissing at any smaller rats who dare approach his dinner. The first spring rain begins to fall in the city overhead as he starts to feed.

Chapter 30: Don't fret precious, I'm here

Summary:

TMNT IDW. Prompt: Aftercare (Fauxepawe)

Title taken from the song Counting Bodies Like Sheep To The Rhythm Of The War Drums by A Perfect Circle.

The hardest part is the end.

Leo's good at holding together during their "sessions," as it were, good at gritting his teeth through pain and humiliation. He'll moan, he'll cry, but there'll be that place inside him that stays intact. He can convince himself that it's another kind of training, even when logic and memory assure this nothing like what happens in the dojo.

And then, the aftermath. When they've both had their orgasms and Leo's left burnt over the table, or on his knees, or resting under Shredder in a tangle of blankets. When he's covered in fresh bruises and has more cum dribbling down his thighs, dribbling in time with his beating heart.

That's when the trembling usually starts, brutal and relentless in an earthquake. He'll hold himself if he's able to, but otherwise he'll just quiver in his fixed position, wracked with frigid cold and strangling numbness all at once.

Shredder usually leaves him for the first few minutes, focusing on wiping off his own cock, changing his clothes, and getting a sip of water. He'll be left alone, and that will hurt, even though Leo knows that he shouldn't demand to be looked after like a child. He should just be grateful for the kindness he's given.

But still, he feels himself going limp, breaths coming fast and painful in his heavy chest. The sense of wrongness that sometimes pushes in at the edges of his consciousness hits Leo like a tsunami, driving the breath from him.

Someone touches him and he whimpers, twisting away as much as he can. He's wearing the blindfold again, and it feels far too heavy on his tear-stained face, to the point of causing pain.

"Leonardo." He curls in on himself, because he doesn't want that name, he wants his brothers, he wants to be Leo, the leader, laughing and defiant as they fly over the rooftops like nothing could ever touch them, like he could never touch them.

( He? Which he? Who is your monster, child, the rat or the--)

The blindfold is pulled away and he blinks, eyes watering. His Master kneels before him, composed and serene, not a hair out of place. Leo blinks, feeling the ugly thoughts clear away just enough for him to breathe.

"You've done well," Master Shredder says, planting a soft kiss on his forehead. The soft touch is a balm soothing away his dark thoughts, at least a little, enough for him to breathe. Leo lets a soft moan of gratitude as he's unbuckled, picked up, and carried off to the bathroom.

He's lowered into the tub, wincing as his bruised skin touches cool metal. Leo aches all over--his limbs, his torso, his poor spanked bottom, even his cock throbs wearily as he tucks it back into its protective slit. The warm water cascading from the taps is sweet relief.

Master strips and climbs in after him, and as always the sight brings to mind hazy memories of a tangle of bodies in a tub, people whose names Leo doesn't know. But he always finds himself thinking of them as a family, bathing together according to the traditions of their culture.

He doesn't know why he thinks of this, of them. His life with Saki is the only one that matters, and there is nothing familial or traditional about the way Saki looks at him as he picks up the sponge.

Master cleans Leo off, occasionally planting a soft kiss on a particularly nasty bruise or welt. The brush stings a little, especially when Master Shredder doesn't remember to be gentle, but Leo doesn't complain.

Saki parts his buttocks, letting the cum flow out of him. Leo squirms, embarrassed, while Saki chuckles. Leo knows it's silly but sometimes he has dreams

nightmares

about Master Shredder's seed taking root in him, creating...something. He doesn't know. He'd never want to replace Mistress Kitsune, but sometimes he thinks it would be nice to grow and tend a part of Saki, close to his heart.

Master Shredder takes his time cleaning Leo's intimate parts, his slit and the curve of his ass, with a washcloth. It hurts, sometimes, especially when he spends more time there than strictly necessary. That's okay, though. It's just how Saki shows his love.

By the time Leo's clean his mind is sharper, cleaner, his limbs better able to move on their own (with a bit of effort, with a bit of pain).

He washes Saki, even though he never really gets that messy after they "play."  He rubs his cloth over his master's large, muscled body, careful and efficient, tracing it over the web of scars that have piled up there over the years.

Leo treats the large pink cock between his master's legs with special respect, fascinated as it always is by its testicles. It twitches when he rubs it and Leo freezes, trying to disguise his knee-jerk free with a giggle.  Saki just smiles, patting him on the head. "Not yet, chunin," he says. Leo reminds himself not to be relieved about that.

Master Shredder helps him out of the tub, handing him a towel. Leo leans against the wall, drying off as Saki wrings out his hair and runs a comb through it, shaking out the dark strands. It's so normal Leo wants to laugh (or cry. or scream).

Afterwards, he follows Saki out of the bathroom, but hesitates at the door. "I..." he pauses, hands fidgeting at his sides.

Saki glances over his shoulders as he goes to put the night's toys away. Leo swallows, knowing he shouldn't push his luck.

Because at least this time he didn't mess up. At least this time he didn't make Shredder angry enough, to shove him, slap him, say stop whimpering, you little whore, get out. At least he didn't have to wriggle out of the restraints on his own. At least he'd didn't have to stagger down the hall, praying he wouldn't be seen or drip cum on the ground like a slut.

At least he didn't have to wash off, alone, in the too-cold shower. At least he's not crying and shaking worse than ever, drowning in his own skin, wishing that he could go back ho--

He shouldn't push his luck.

But Master Shredder knows him so well, he just smiles. "Yes, Leonardo," he says, generous as ever. "You may stay."

Leo lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and bows his gratitude. He climbs into bed beside Saki, snuggling up under his arm and breathing in his arm scent. He lets himself enjoy Saki's heat, the reassuring rise and fall of his chest. He tries not to calculate the probability of waking up tomorrow with a cock already inside him.

The important thing is that tonight, he won't dream of severed heads and haunted gardens (he hopes). He's warm and protected, curled up besides someone who loves him (he's sure). This is exactly where he belongs, and he will always be safe here.

(Probably).