#splinter is so hard 2 draw

[turtleblogatlast]

Leo learns something about himself 🏳️‍⚧️

Based roughly on this old post.

Bonus:

[Leo is taking the fact that he was born biologically female simultaneously very well and also not so well but overall he’s mostly coping with the fact that it was Draxum that just essentially gave him the turtle equivalent of ‘The Talk’.]

[peggyao3]

Night Crawler - Pt. 2

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x f!reader / can be read as OC

SUMMARY: Feyd's companion is forced to witness an unfair spectacle and utilizes the means he gave to her to sway the situation.

WORD COUNT: 2,341

TAGS: 18+, smut, graphic descriptions of violence, lactation kink 🍼‼️, pseudo pregnancy, breastfeeding (no baby involved only a big sexy egg man), public breastfeeding, public sex ❗, subby Feyd, she/her reader, AFAB reader, ambiguous relationship status, non-consenting drug use, dark undertones, stockholm syndrome-ish, dubious consent, vaginal sex

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist under construction ⚠️

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Part 1, Part 2 ↓, Part 3

The human head lands wetly on the stairs and rolls down with a thud thud thud until it comes to rest by the knees of the next supplicant, a middle aged man with thin lips whose muscles are so tense, a vein coils visibly around the curve of his bald head.

“Next!” Feyd-Rautha inspects the blade of his kukri; the edge has lost some of its sharpness in the past hour after splintering spine after spine. Servants scurry by quickly and grab the corpse by the armpits to drag it to the pile where a dozen already lie.

Meanwhile, Feyd’s companion hovers invisibly behind the na-Baron’s chair, observing this unjust spectacle of slaughter. This audience with the na-Baron is a farce. These people walked in the court room thinking they have a fair chance, but the entire function is a killing game. The only who live are those who will die anyway, no matter if their request is granted or not.

“Lord na-Baron.” The thin-lipped man kneels and his badly tailored suit wrinkles around his back. “I am here to humbly request… P-Paid leave from the factory. O-Only for two months, na-Baron.”

“Hmm.” Feyd pretends to ponder and a wave of cautious laughter rolls through the spectators, noblemen and women who draw amusement from the na-Baron’s cruel judgment of the poorer folk. “And what kind of factory would that be, civilian?”

“Bhergshimar Corps, Lord na-Baron. We p-produce supplements for medical products”

“So what do you do there? Stir up some ointments? Is that too hard of a job for you?” More laughter swells in the stands of spectators who are lined up against the walls of the elongated court chamber, framing a corridor of hubris around the waiting line of supplicants.

Feyd’s companion regards the scene with growing unease and sickness in her chest that has nothing to do with her condition. She holds her slightly distended stomach which is a product of the amniotic fluids that gather in her womb despite carrying nothing in there. Another side effect of the drug the Harkonnen Suk Doctor injects her frequently upon Feyd-Rautha’s wish. The faux condition serves no purpose besides his pleasure.

The quivering man elaborates: “C-Certainly not, Lord na-Baron! I would never ask if it weren’t necessary and I haven’t taken a single holiday for the past twenty years, except for your Holy Birthday, of course. I’m a diligent worker. But now my wife has fallen ill and I-” The man struggles for words.

“How touching,” the na-Baron sneers and tightens his grip around the kukri handle. His companion quietly shakes her head. Feyd-Rautha is  a megalomaniac child, playfully cruel. Empathy could never find a grip on his black, slippery heart. An evil soul beyond redemption.

A trickle of warm blood from the corpse pile at the top runs steadily down the stairs and suddenly touches her bare foot. Disgusted, she pulls her toes away, ankle-length skirts swishing. Bile rises in her throat and she cannot suppress the retching sound as she presses a hand further up on her stomach. Feyd turns in his throne-like chair and regards her scrutinizingly, a tilt to his pale head.

“Are you unwell, my darling?”

A rustle rolls through the crowd and every gaze is set on her, one hundred and fifty pairs of coal-black eyes in white-skinned alien skulls. She takes a deep, shaky breath that lifts her plump bosom. Feyd’s gaze dips to her cleavage and a dreamy filter settles over his eyes for but a moment.

“Actually, I am.” She tries to lower her voice to a whisper, but the silence renders the court room into something of an echo chamber.

“What’s wrong?”

“I-” She must tread carefully. He brings her to these court hearings to teach her something about politics and she knows he enjoys the horror in her eyes. Her dread will be no sufficient reason to make him stop. For a second, she meets the pleading gaze of the thin-lipped man. Sweat glistens on his forehead and his fingers are twisted into his palms. She makes the decision then, and it is surprisingly easy. “It has to do with my condition, my Lord.”

Feyd’s ears perk up and he scans her all over. “Would you like to sit?” The crowd whispers and stirs.

“I would… appreciate it. 

“Come here then.” Feyd-Rautha reaches out his hand and she feels the callouses on his palms when she takes it, letting him guide her around the chair and between his legs which he spreads so she can sit on his thigh and lean her side against his chest. “Don’t be shy,” he whispers quietly in her ear and a shiver rolls down her spine. “Get used to the view.”

She settles in his lap, controlling the cringe that creeps up her skeleton when Feyd’s arm slides around her waist and he rubs over her slightly distended belly.

“Now back to you, pathetic civilian.” The na-Baron sneers with midnight teeth. He has shifted the blade to his non-dominant hand, as the dominant one is splayed over her stomach. The poor man’s face pales with dread and he glances at the woman like she is his only hope. His fear hangs over them both like a suffocating veil and she takes a shaky breath.

“Actually, Feyd…?” She whispers quietly to the na-Baron whose gaze sways back to her, a wary edge to his jaws and eyes which can look so pretty in the right light. “I’m so uncomfortable.” She glances down at her own breasts. She doesn’t ask him often. Most of the time it is he who takes, he who crawls over her body and nips at her from ankles to chest until his lips latch around her nipple, no matter if she wants it.

Naturally, his plump lips part at her suggestion and his lashes cast long shadows down his pale cheeks as they lower.

“Now?” He presses his lips back together, briefly glancing towards the spectators. Distinctly, she feels his cock hardening against her thigh.

“Yes. Now.” It is not a request and she confidently unlaces the front of her dress to reveal her left breast. A many-voiced gasp runs through the crowd, but who are they to say a word? Or laugh or leave? This is Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, the beloved na-Baron of Giedi Prime. If he wishes to drink from a woman’s breast, he will, and his reputation will not be harmed.

By some miracle, Feyd obeys without further question. In front of many eyes, he bows down to her chest and gives into the sweet temptation of humiliation. Hotly, the shame sinks into his pelvis and he subtly bucks against her thigh, moaning quietly when he latches onto her nipple and the first droplets of colostrum spill on his tongue.

Everyone feels the power shift, when the na-Baron’s head bows to reach her breast.

The woman glances over the crowd, noble spectators and lower class supplicants who all see her bare chest. It takes grace to disgrace oneself so fully. She breathes deeply, wincing just slightly because of how greedily Feyd-Rautha suckles. His taller, muscular frame twitches and he reminds her of a prehistoric reptile whose maws are latched onto a carcass. She gives him a minute.

“Don't neglect court, they're waiting for you.” She feigns nervousness and pinches his chin, taking the calculated risk to try and urge him away from her breast. Feyd, as expected, snarls in response and pinches her nipple with his teeth, probably by accident. A slight tremor possesses his jaws as he drinks.

She gives a watery, apologetic smile at the gathered people, and curls her hand around Feyd’s head, scraping her fingers softly over his smooth scalp. Another minute goes by and she knows a certain sleepiness will soon settle in his bones. Cooing softly, she caresses his scalp until her left breast is as good as empty. Carefully, she detaches his mouth from her teat before they reach the stage when she is really empty, which usually sparks anger in Feyd-Rautha until he moves on to the other breast.

With only a little effort, she pries his face away from her chest and smiles at his dreamy black eyes. His features look entirely soft, jaws relaxed. His lashes serm a little damp, which happens from time to time. She’s never commented on it. Feyd-Rautha slowly swivels his head back towards the crowd. A trickle of milk runs down his chin.

“You…” He points at the waiting supplicant. “What was it?”

“T-Two months of paid leave, my Lord.” The man bows deep.

“Only two months? Fine then. Next."

“Thank you, my Lord, oh thank you. Thank you!”

A guard grabs him by the arm and shoves him aside, where the exit gate is. “The na-Baron said next.” 

Perplexed, the man stumbles into freedom and still wordlessly mouths ‘thank you’, eyes locked with the woman in Feyd-Rautha’s lap. Yes, we understand each other, she thinks and sees the man off with an earnest smile.

While she still has milk in her right breast, three more people make it out the exit gate, most of them dismissed with a lazy wave of the hand. She can tell he has lost interest in the supplicants, his little killing game no longer fun. He has even discarded the blood-stained kukri on the side of the seat, so he can grope at his companion better. She can also tell he’s growing needy, the hard ridge of his cock humping against her thigh quicker and more urgently.

Oh well, she thinks as Feyd sifts through her skirts and tugs down his trousers. The crowd may not see how his cock head breaches her and sinks into her pink center that is unprepared save for the slick which always gathers when he drinks from her, but they can very clearly tell from the way he lifts her and her features scrunch up with pain.

It could be much worse. These people could be dead. Briefly he releases her nipple and cups her breast so any spilled droplets land in his palm.

“Next!” Feyd barks, then softly rumbles in her ear. “Ride me, woman.”

How? She is awkwardly seated diagonally in his lap, facing the crowd, barely a way to use her knees or feet for leverage. Still, she tries to please him, more grinding than riding him, but he seems satisfied nonetheless while he continues suckling on her teat. Her cunt is able to relax around Feyd’s obscene girth and more wetness trickles down past her folds and gathers on his trousers.

A knot of arousal somehow grows in her belly and it could either be the compound of artificial hormones or the power she knows she holds over him from inside her gilded prison. Her right breast is empty and Feyd’s hips buck up in frustration, cock slamming against her cervix. She hisses loudly and the sound reverberates from the chamber walls.

“I’ll have more in the evening, you greedy-, ahh!” Black teeth bite her sore nipple and draw a bead of blood. “You just drank all that and dare bite me?!” She hisses quietly, but a few guards in the vicinity can hear her certainly. A grey blush breaks out on Feyd’s cheeks and ears upon being chided. Oh, he should cut her up for that, his kukri lies right there.

But the milk is heavy in his tummy and he is too lazy to move. So, he just nips at her throat, just above the bejeweled metal collar. His bite is softer there, almost apologetic.

Since there is no more milk, she attempts to pull her dress up, but the na-Baron sloppily covers her breast with his hand instead, absentmindedly kneading and pinching the sensitive nubs while his hips thrust upwards with quick rhythm. With his feet planted on the floor, he has the momentum she is missing.

“Don’t cum until we’ve made it through this line.” She gestures at the waiting supplicants who all try to wall up their hopefulness behind a stoic facade, staring at their shuffling feet.

“Why?”

“Because I’m angry at you.”

“Why?!”

“You bit me and it hurt.”

Feyd lets out a rabid snarl and kisses her shoulder, black eyes peering around her neck at the waiting men and women. There are about two dozen left and his hands are wrapped around his Lady, kneading her hip and her breasts. He can make it through two dozen. How long might that take? Five minutes if they speak quickly?

The Lady smiles quietly to herself as supplicant after supplicant leaves through the exit gate and the blade remains untouched, Feyd’s hands busy on her body. She too has a hard time keeping her composure, walls squeezing Feyd-Rautha’s cock until he can barely control the pitch of his voice.

The last supplicant states his humble request and Feyd lets out an unintelligible sound, teeth sinking into her shoulder. His cock throbs palpably against her walls and his hips squirm, a stifled moan in his throat as he holds back.

The supplicant pleadingly looks at the Lady. “What was that?” He asks.

“The na-Baron said yes, your request is granted.” She speaks in Feyd-Rautha’s name and in the same moment the na-Baron climaxes, drooling all over her shoulder as his cock releases inky semen that luckily has no effect on her altered body. 

By the time the last supplicant has staggered out of the audience chamber, happy and alive, the Lady has almost gotten used to the view.

Panting, Feyd mouths against her neck and shoulder, pushing a hand under her dress to catch some of the leaking cum and smear it over her bundle of nerves. Her skirts are partially ridden up. A few noblemen and women might just see her bare cunt and how it still hugs the na-Baron’s cock but for some reason she is not ashamed. It only takes a minute until she comes undone, her reward, because victories don’t have to feel dirty if you accept them with grace

[eroselless]

PATO - ONE

series masterlist | part 2 | part 3

[charles leclerc x reader, carlos sainz x reader]

warnings: angst, fighting, mentions of pregnancy

note: I don’t listen to Billie Eilish all that much but my best friend got me hooked on her latest album and for some reason, Wildflower inspired me to write this. Might not have any correlation but ya know, when life give you lemons. Also here Charles and Carlos aren’t as close as they seem to be in real life. Hope you enjoy it!

MONACO, DECEMBER 2022 

You stand in the dim light of your living room, the soft glow of the lamps casting long shadows across the floor. It’s a wasteland of memories—two years of them, scattered like broken glass across the carpet. You feel the ache of them pressing in, and for a moment it’s almost too much to bear. 

“I feel like I’m drowning here, all on my own,” you breathe, your voice splintered and fragile. You can barely hold his gaze, not when he looks so unfazed, so unmoved. His face is a mask you can’t seem to decipher. “You’re always gone, Charles. What are we even doing?”

Charles rubs his temple, a motion that is almost rehearsed, this conversation feeling like it's been had far too many times. “This isn’t just some passing thing,” he snaps, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “Racing is my life. I thought you understood that.”

“I do understand that!” The words tumble out, tangle with all the things you’ve been trying so hard to ignore. The sting in your eyes returns and you blink hard, but the tears come anyways, seemingly falling at a never ending pace. “But passion shouldn’t come at the expense of our relationship. You could come home, but you don’t!”

He shifts uncomfortably from across the room, his eyes darting away from yours to the carpeted floor below. His nostrils are flared in anger as you continue. When he finally speaks, it's veiled in frustration, as if he’s trying to be gentle but not quite succeeding. 

“When you do come home, which is hardly ever, it’s like you're not even here. You’re closed off, cold. We barely spend any time together, and when we do, it’s like you're trying to hide me away.”

Charles’s eyebrows furrow, his jaw clenching as he shoves a finger in your direction. “I keep our relationship private to protect you from the media circus, you know that!” he interjects.

You let out a heavy breath, your shoulders sagging with exhaustion. It's an excuse you’ve heard time and time again, and there's only so much of it you can handle. Your resolve wavers, your voice quiet but firm as you speak.

“I don’t care about them,” you say, voice barely a whisper. “I can handle whatever comes. But I can’t handle being invisible to you.” 

You turn and make your way down the hall, to your shared room, Charles following close behind you. All he can do is stand and watch as you start to shove things in a backpack. The silence between you is heavy, suffocating. 

As you pull on a jacket and prepare to leave, he reaches out to stop you, his voice small with confusion. “What’s happening?” he asks, his voice is softer now, vulnerable in a way that almost hurts to hear. His hand reaches for yours.

You swat it away, your own hand trembling as you do. “We are nothing but strangers bound by memories. But if you can't even be here for that, then what's the point?” you say softly. 

“You don’t need to worry about keeping us a secret anymore, Charles.”

There’s a tense silence as he struggles to process your words, tears beginning to prick at his cerulean eyes. You meet his gaze, searching for something, anything–a plea, a reason to stay. But you see none, whatever you had been hoping to find isn’t there. So you turn and slip out the door, leaving him behind in the empty silence of your once-happy home.

The train rattles forward, each clack of the wheels like a heartbeat, steady and relentless. Raindrops pater slowly against the glass, a mess of gray against the darkening world outside. Outside, the trees and grass blur together, mirroring the jumble of emotions swirling inside your chest. Your hand falls gently to your stomach, feeling the faint swell there, and you can't help but glide your fingers over it tenderly. 

With trembling fingers, you reach into your bag and pull out the pregnancy test, its plastic casing cool against your skin. It sits in your hands like a ghost, a reminder of a truth you hadn’t planned for, a future you never imagined facing alone. The two bold lines glare back at you, a stark reminder of the life beginning to grow inside you. Fear and uncertainty fill the cavities of your chest, threatening to overwhelm you. You close your eyes, tears tracing silent paths down your cheeks once again. 

Leaving Charles before telling him about the baby feels like abandoning a ship in the middle of a storm. Guilt gnaws at your chest as the train hurtles further and further away from Monaco, the distance between you and Charles widening with each passing moment. Yet the truth burns as you find yourself repeating it over and over to yourself—Charles may have been physically there, in body, but his mind has been somewhere else, somewhere distant, somewhere that was never you.

As you watch the landscape continue to blur past, your reflection in the glass is a haunting echo of the life you thought you had built.  At 21, you never expected to face the daunting prospect of motherhood on your own. It's not the path you imagined yourself on at all. You thought you would marry Charles and share the joys and challenges of this baby with him. You thought there’d be laughter, shared glances, maybe even late nights in nurseries painted with dreams But those dreams were a faint memory now, belonging to a different girl, someone you weren’t anymore. 

Charles had a way of making you feel like the world around you faded when he was around, his passion for racing a fire that burned so bright, you wanted to stay close to it and feel its warmth. You couldn’t help but love how passionate he was about racing, and admire the fire in his eyes as he chased victory on the track. But in his relentless pursuit of glory, he seemed to have left you behind with nothing but his silhouette, a mere afterthought in his quest for greatness. His fire left you feeling cold, with nothing left to hold on to but memories, shadows of a live you weren’t even sure were real. 

In that moment, you realize that in many ways, you would’ve had to raise the child on your own regardless of Charles's presence. His absence has left you feeling isolated and alone, grasping at the fragments of your fractured relationship. If you'd stayed, who knows if he would have changed? The uncertainty weighs heavily on your heart, threatening to drag you under.

With a sigh, you feel yourself sag further into the train seat, the weight of your decision pressing down on you like a leaden blanket. The ticket inspector’s voice cuts through your thoughts and you hastily produce your ticket, handing it over to him with a shaky hand. Your fingers feel numb as you watch him scan it, barely managing a polite nod.  

Across the aisle, you catch the gaze of a woman's eyes full of unspoken sympathy as she watches your fingers tighten around the pregnancy test. You give her a tight-lipped smile as the ticket inspector hands back your ticket before turning back to the window, your gaze fixed on the blurring landscape outside as you hurtle toward an uncertain future.

a/n: a little short for the first chapter but they’ll be a little longer in the future, hope you guys enjoy this first one :) also if you made it this far, I just wanted to share that the word pato means duck. It's not too important for now but it will be later! As always, thank you for reading!

[ghostf1ux]

Shock Therapy

Day 12: Shaking

Word Count: 3.8k

TW/CWs: Electrocution, non-con touching/biting/kissing (referenced, not shown), medical inaccuracies (probably)

Part 1 (here) || Part 2

-------------------------------------------------------

Jason groaned as his body was tossed unceremoniously onto damp concrete floors. His teeth sank further into the gag that had been shoved haphazardly into his mouth, muffling a string of curses aimed at his captors. Some of them only laugh at his attempt to take stock of his surroundings despite the blindfold and his lack of usable fingers to pry it off.

Not for lack of trying.

Okay, so, assessment of the situation. There are at least four guys in the room with him, heavily muscled but potentially not heavily armed. Pistols, most likely, if he had to judge just by the amount of noises they made while moving him. Metal shackles around his wrists with a chain attached and sharp little pronged spikes on the inside to keep him from struggling too much, he can already feel the welts and scratches made by them, and soon he thinks they'll start drawing blood. Blindfold means they don't want him seeing them, which means they can be tracked. Gag is because Jason managed to bite a chunk of flesh out of someone that resulted in his face getting a nice, warm spray that made something inside him sing. His thoughts and movements are still a little fuzzy and weighted, courtesy of whatever drug they used to knock him out with. Him waking up sooner than expected is what prompted his ability to start running his mouth, so to speak. 

As fall as injuries go, he mentally catalogues general scattered bruising from the rest of his patrol and the uncaring moving of his body throughout the kidnapping process, as well as a broken left foot and ankle from his attempts to actually fight back. Because of this, they decided his feet didn't need to be tied together once he was thrown in here.

It's almost insulting, but with the current situation, he can't actually find it in himself to be insulted.

The metal shackles cuffed way too tight around his wrists are tugged upwards by a connected chain, a snarl of protest blocked by the gag. Instead, he throws his good leg out in the direction of whoever had decided it was safe to stand above him, relishing in the sharp crack and shriek of pain following it.

“Oh you little bitch!” One of the men roars before there's an angry shuffling of footsteps and–

Jason curls back in on himself instinctively as the blunt object slams down on his midsection, biting down hard on the gag to prevent any noises from coming out. He won't give them the satisfaction. Not from the first hit to his ribs, or the second to his uninjured leg, or the third to his shoulder.

He sneers up at them as best he can from behind the gag, grinning. If that's all these chumps have, he'll be fine. They're not even using a crowbar, they're using a boring old baseball bat. Not even creative.

“Boss isn't gonna be here for a bit,” one of them proposes to the others, the sound of dragging wood across the cement following it, along with a couple slaps against what Jason would wager is a leather-gloved hand. “He said we had to get him here in one piece, but he never said we couldn't have some fun of our own while we waited.”

Jason can almost hear the evil grins spreading across their faces, and decides that curling up further is probably the best course of action right now. 

That doesn't stop him from tensing, bracing at the approaching, circling footsteps.

He grits his teeth at every blunt blow of a weapon, not letting out a sound even when he can feel his bones grinding and splintering under each hit. His eyes squeeze shut in some attempt to block out the pain, because even if he's experienced far worse than this, at least it's not a crowbar and at least there's none of the trademarked insane, maniacal laughter from the fucking clown.

He can survive this, if this is all they've got.

He can survive this.

Jason flinches violently into a curl impossibly tighter when one of them lightly kicks his shattered foot.

He can survive this. He just needs the Bats to figure out his location. Either that, or find an opportunity to escape. 

The latter is looking like more of a distant idea than actual possibility with every bat or kick to his battered body.

Then, with the creaking of a door, the mounting pain stops, along with the mantra Jason had been reciting mentally. Shoes click against the floor, but not like heels, not sharp enough, like dress shoes. He's intimately familiar with that sound due to Bruce. Weight tells him it's a person lighter than the ones circled around him. The shuffling of fabric is familiar enough of a sound to not be anything but expensive.

“I presume you've had your fun?” An accented voice asks, clipped with… disappointment, maybe? Jason furrows his brow at the question, jaw grinding against the gag.

“Uh– yes boss,” one of the nameless men answers quickly. There's a click of a tongue.

“Jacket, shirt, shoes, gag. I want them gone. Dispose of them along with the rest of his gear,” the accented man orders. “I want to hear him sing.” 

So this is the boss. Something about him sounds vaguely familiar, but Jason can't put his finger on it. He doesn't have the time to figure it out before his limbs are being yanked around and the remainder of his gear, the only thing keeping him even relatively safe, is cut off and discarded like trash.

That shit's expensive, damn it.

The gag is removed before his shoes are, and something tells Jason that was on purpose because it takes everything in him not to scream when they roughly jostle his broken foot in an attempt to get his boots off. They succeed eventually, but not without Jason jerking away at the slightest movement and biting his cheek and tongue so hard they bleed. It's only the paper-thin thread of self restraint that stops anything but a groan from being audible.

By the time they're finally done, Jason's teeth are watering uncomfortably, but he swallows down the bile that threatens to spill at his pain. His vision is white and blurry, even with the blindfold.

I can survive this. I've had far worse.

He's panting and cold-sweating profusely when those shoes click to a stop next to him and the man crouches down, grabbing Jason's jaw and tilting his face with an appraising hum. Sparks dance across his skin, making him prickle uncomfortably and he tries to yank himself out of the contact, only for the fingers to dig further into his skin in a bruising grip. The tingling under his skin sends an almost-pleasant warmth through his body, if it weren't for the fact that it rubs his nerves the wrong way. Something niggles the back of his mind, but his thoughts are too hazy to get a solid grasp of what it is.

“You're just as stubborn as they say, Hood,” the man praises. Something dark settles in his gut. “It'll make it all that much more fun to break you down, and build you back up. Doesn't that sound fun to you?”

Jason spits a glob of blood and saliva at the man. “Fuck you,” he snarls, finally tearing himself out of the man's grasp. It's then he notices how fucking cold it is in the room. He shivers, failing to suppress the wince at the way it aggravates his grinding bones.

The man just chuckles lowly, rising to stand up. A moment later the shackles around his wrists are being tugged up up up– dragging Jason up with it. The most he allows to escape is stuttered breaths and a few short, silent gasps when weight is put on his bad leg. It hurts like a motherfucker, but Jason doesn't let him know as much, instead grinning a bloody grin down at him once the machine lifting him settles. Because even with how he's hanging from his wrists and standing on his foot (the other one he keeps lifted gingerly away from the ground in some meaningless effort to keep it from hurting further), he can tell he still has a height and weight advantage on whoever the fuck this guy is.

Of course, that advantage is lost due to his restraints and general state his body is in.

“Mm, what a pretty bird you are,” the man croons, trailing a finger across Jason's jaw. With the position he's in, with his head trapped between his arms, he can't do much, but he takes the opportunity to lurch forward with snapping teeth.

Fangs clack shut over empty air, a disappointment to Jason. Seemingly unconcerned, the finger traces over the artery along his neck, and then the whole hand closes over his throat. The other rests over his sternum, that same fleeting warmth emanating from the touch.

“Or perhaps ‘mutt’ would be a title better suited for you.” He squeezes, nails gouging into the sensitive thinner skin of his throat and Jason can feel warm blood streaming down his frame, he can the way his breath becomes blocked, and it's strange because Jason knows from firsthand experience that choking someone one handed is a lot hard than you think it is but he's clearly got the strength to do it and the warm tingling under his skin where the hand is touching him is getting hotter and sharper and–

A scream is trapped between his jaws as his body convulses and then locks, his legs jolting out from under him at the sudden shock of fiery electricity coursing through his muscles. His nerves are alight and his throat is constricting, his lungs have stuttered and are struggling to try to get oxygen to the rest of him. Muscle spasms send his pain receptors into overdrive, and it's too much, he can't fucking do anything except feel pain, he can't breathe, I can't breathe–

It disappears. Jason forces himself to heave in a breath even with how his ribs protest to it. His head hangs briefly while he regains his bearings, slowly getting his uninjured foot back under him so all his weight isn't on his shoulders and wrists. Each subtle shift makes him wince, and he fully flinches with each shiver that wracks his body. The new layer of freezing sweat and streams of blood only serve to make the cold worse, and he fucking hates how he can see what this guy is trying to do to him.

“You handled that well, mutt,” that accented voice praises after about thirty seconds of letting Jason recover. It comes from behind him now, but he doesn't bother turning his head to pay any obvious attention to it. That is, until there are hands on his waist that radiate that tingling warmth, stopping the shivers from agitating his injuries further. He growls, low in his throat, far more animalistically than any human has any right to sound. Thumbs trace the lines between Jason's muscles and across the scars littering his body without a care in the world.

He snarls venomously. “Get your fucking hands off me.”

“I'm sure you'll be begging for them soon enough,” an easy reply murmurs, and Jason can hear the nasty fucking grin in his voice as they grip harder, enough to bruise, to bleed, and it's just enough warning for him to brace himself for the next wave of–

He can't help the guttural shriek that rips itself from his mouth, legs spasming before his body drops sharply onto his wrists. His throat constricts, gurgled screams still trying to escape him. The hands, the fingers, the nails stay embedded in his skin as they drag– scratch– gouge lines up towards his ribs, around his front, right over his diaphragm and if he could even get a hint of a breath before he definitely can't now– not with the way his ribs creak, the way his muscles contract, the way his back tries to arch and bend and twist away from the cause of his pain, the way his body practically locks in a never-ending existence of drowning in the constant agony–

The warmth is swept away by a near-blinding chill that wracks his body with shivers so bad he nearly doubles over again just as he had regained his footing, but only just. Tears spring freely from his eyes at the next bout of shaking, a sob trapped in his throat and it hurts, everything fucking hurts–

“Say the magic word, and this'll go away,” the man's voice lilts and when the fuck did he get so far away? When did he end up in front of Jason, drumming his fingers against a shitty metal chair? When did he start hearing the soft clinking of metal against metal, a chain being fiddled with?

When was there a quiet, dangerous buzzing from somewhere vaguely above him?

He doesn't have the time to get his thoughts together enough to prepare himself for the rolling wave of stabbing, burning pain so hot it's cold starting in his wrists and spreading down his shoulders, enveloping his chest, through his thrashing legs and curled toes– he can't– he needs to move, to get away, but all he can do is jerk involuntarily and hear something crack and something tear and something break–

And then it stops, and Jason practically goes limp, his breaths coming in heaving, panting, wet gasps that make his ribs grind in protest but he needs oxygen, he needs air and it's right there, it's surrounding him, he's practically downing in it but it doesn't matter because he still can't breathe.

“We have all the time in the world, yknow,” that voice mentions. “I'd be dismayed if this is how we spent it.”

Jason tries to make his mouth and throat work the way he wants them to, tell the guy he can fuck right off because he is nowhere even close to the line that marks when he starts begging for anything, especially something that would just hurt him more in the end. But all that comes out is a wet, raspy growl in dissent. Something wet and painfully cold trickles down his arms.

“Your choice, mutt.”

------------------------

It's…how long is it? It could've been twenty minutes or two hours when the first whimper escapes him. He's almost constantly shivering now, when he's not being overwhelmed with crackling pain that rips through his insides and makes spots dance across his extremely limited vision.

The shocks are frequent and long, each one feels like hours even if Jason logically knows they can't be more than fifteen minutes at the longest.

Unfortunately, logic isn't something he has access to right now.

------------------------

It's an even shorter amount of time when his thoughts finally finish drifting away and all that's left is pain and hurt and cold and he whines– he fucking whines when the man who's been circling him like a shark– so close but never touching, his warmth just barely out of reach– pulls away. He can't stop it, he can't even try. Not when he's been hanging here for hours that feel like days, not when there hasn't been a single sound aside from his own sobs and keens and rivers of blood cascading down his body drip drip dripping onto the floor into an ever growing puddle and that fucking asshole's perfectly poised honeyed words slipping in his ear in the times between vague awareness and overwhelming agony.

So when his head is lifted just enough for a warm hand to pet through his sweat-soaked hair he lets it, just this once. He lets the other rest on the small of his back, digging into his skin until he bleeds and it's okay because then that warmth, that tingling bounce of mini shocks travels under his skin and eases through the rest of his body and somehow he manages to slump even further. He slumps into the man holding him here, expensive silk and some shitty floral scent taking over his senses and for a moment– for a moment it's just so nice. He can just forget, for a moment, but only for a moment. For a moment, forget about the excruciating pain of his bones cracking under his skin, forget about the cold, the blood, the–

His mouth flies open in a silent scream when that sparkling warmth flares into a blazing inferno and it has his burning, aching muscles spasming to life when they just want to rest, he just wants to rest–

------------------------

I'm so tired… please, anyone–

------------------------

I– I can't– it's too much, it's too fucking much–

------------------------

“Look at you, mutt, already breaking so well for me,” that voice purrs along the shell of Jason's ear, running his hand gently, softly, delicately up and down Jason's side, over burned in handmarks, smeared blood, and distinctly cracked ribs that make every labored breath rattle through his chest. His heartbeat is fast and erratic in his ears, nearly as loud as the persistent ringing that's accompanied him for so long.

How long has it been now?

Something in his gut twists at the blank space filling the answer to that question.

Too long, maybe. A while. Does– Does anyone know I'm here? Are they even looking for me?

They're whispers of feelings rather than full thoughts. His mind, fractured in some attempt to maintain some sanity for later once he's out– if I get out– 

That honeyed voice, too sweet to do anything but set muffled alarm bells off in Jason's fog-clouded mind, coos against his raw, torn skin, right against his pulse where blood seeps steadily out from a past wound there. “Just divine. You'll be the perfect little pet mutt for me, won't you?”

A broken little whimper falls from limp lips as teeth tear the gouges on his neck open further, another cascade of blood rolling down Jason's chest. The man's grip on his hips turns hotter, brighter, bruising, and it's low, too far down, enough to send some layers of his fog away giving way to panic and fear and no that's not right I don't–

And then it's all washed away in layers upon layers upon layers upon fucking layers–

There's a crash Jason's body instinctively flinches at, even with his spasming body protesting and fighting against him at every turn. There's voices, multiple voices, and they're so loud, it hurts, he just wants to stop hurting, and suddenly his head it yanked back by his hair and a stuttered, broken cry escapes him but he can't even begin to be quiet, to understand what's happening, so he tries to close his mouth, maybe, but blood and saliva is dripping out of the corners regardless and he can't move, he can't think, he can't even fucking scream when the pain gets worse and somewhere, distantly, he feels like maybe he wants to die again. That would be better. Same way, too. The crowbar would be better than this everlasting torment that comes with every unwanted, gut twisting touch and caress and kiss and bite–

And maybe he'd prefer that horrible laughter instead of the sugar-dipped tooth-ache inducing litany of low words and promised peace if he just bends a little, just cracks a little, just breaks a little–

“–ood? Hood!” A voice fades in over the ringing, tinged with something akin to… worry? Or panic? Hm. They sound familiar. “Fuck, Nightwing, hold him– Wing! Hold him up, I need to get the shackles off.”

The first warmth leaves and Jason doesn't hold back a despaired keen, weakly trying to search for it despite the fact that he's long since lost the strength to even twitch his head in any direction.

Someone makes a wounded noise, footsteps rushing to shuffle towards him. Jason flinches when arms wrap around him, holding him to their chest. His breaths were already raspy, fluttering little things, but the additional pressure on his ribs makes him choke on a wet cough he doesn't have the fucking air for and it hurts so god damn bad, he just wants to not hurt anymore, please–

“Shh, shh, I've got you, we've got you, little wing, it's okay, you're gonna be okay, you're safe now,” a new man whispers into his hair, voice hushed and strained with something Jason can't really identify, but he sounds familiar, so familiar, and the name rattles around in his head like he should know who it refers to–

“Little wing, it's time to go!”

“Cmon little wing, I'll catch you if you fall, I've done this before!”

A flash of blue, and a blinding smile to light up a room. The familiar scent of a particular laundry detergent, the man's favorite cologne, and kevlar.

“Take it, Jason. You've earned it. I'm passing on the mantle of Robin to you, little wing.”

Jason tucks his face in the crook of Dick's neck, trying not to be overcome with sobs. A gloved hand runs smoothly over the back of Jason's head, through his short hair and threading through his curls, smoothing the fringe off his forehead. Dark words are muttered somewhere behind him, swears, threats, plans, who's–?

His first wrist is unlocked and gently lowered to his side, but that doesn't stop the sharp, cut off gasp that escapes him, or how he goes entirely, bonelessly limp in Dick's arms.

It forces him to use both hands to support his weight, but it doesn't matter because he's here. They came for him. That's all he needs.

The next wrist slips loose from its shackle just as it's unlocked, sharp stabs of pain barreling through his arm straight to his chest and he flinches, jerks, spasms for just a moment before his quiet, panting breaths are the only movement his body makes. He's moved, and then laid down on someone's lap, head cushioned on both sides by bent legs.

“Hey, hey, open your eyes, Jay. Come on, stay with me here,” the voice from before is pleading now, voice higher in both pitch and volume. Jason furrows– or tries to furrow– his brow in confusion, because didn't he…?

With effort– too much fucking effort, he's so tired, he's exhausted, he just wants to go home– he manages to peer blearily up through tear-clumped lashes at the vague forms above him.

The first one, closer to him, domino lenses blown wide with worry is Dick. The stark blue against toned skin gives him away immediately. He smiles down at Jason, and it's a strained, worried thing but it's there nonetheless.

Off to Jason's other side is a red and black form, glancing at him with more properly disguised worry between wrapping something around his wrists. He seems to soften when Jason meets his gaze though, nodding to himself. Or maybe to Jason. Then turns back to his work.

Jason's eyes drift shut again, head lolling listlessly to the side, pressing closer to Dick. He briefly feels him tense, and maybe he starts panicking, but Jason just can't bring himself to care. He's with his brothers. They'll get him out. They have him. They came for him.

[redsrooftopprincess]

Assassin

Raphael x Fem Reader

No warnings, just pain

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

...

He's always had a sixth sense about his children. Perhaps it is part of his mutation, perhaps it is fatherly instincts, but when his more emotional son went missing late into the wedding reception, he went looking.

He finds Raphael sitting on a secluded bench by the house, sheltered from the moonlight by branches overhead. When he approaches, his second son looks up at him with tear filled eyes. He places a soft paw against his cheek.

"Will you tell me what is troubling you?" He asks, knowing that pushing will get him nowhere. His son looks up at him with a lost expression, before shame and anguish turn his features.

"I can't..." He says, looking away.

Splinter frowns, now more concerned. This must be serious. "Take your time..." He reassures, as he sits beside him, placing a paw on Raphael's shoulder. The internal conflict is clear on his face, and he can't meet his father's gaze for several long moments.

"I love her, Dad... I love her so damn much..." he finally responds, breath hitching at the confession, needing a moment before he can continue. "And... every time I think I got a handle on it she goes out with some jerk... or she does something really sweet... or she just... looks at me. And I'm right back where I started."

He grips the bench hard, wood cracking under strong tridactyl hands, "God, I haven't hated it this much since I was a kid," he laughs humorlessly. It took him so long to find peace with himself. With all the things he could never have.

"I was good, you know? For *so long* I was good... Then she turns up and suddenly I..." He shakes his head. You'd come into his world and he'd started *wanting* things again. Impossible things.

He'd walked down the aisle with you as Best Man and Maid of Honor, and the whole time his friends were getting married, he was looking at you. And when the bride was being kissed and you turned to smile at him from the other side of the archway...

"What I'd give for a chance, you know? Just a shot. Just to see if we *might* work..." His voice cracks as if, if he were insistent enough, the Gods would let him have this one thing, "because I think we would. I think we..." His voice choking off into a sob as Splinter pulls him down into a hug.

Tomorrow, his gratitude for you will return. He really does love you, and wouldn't trade what he already has with you for anything. But tonight, as the party winds down across the lawn, Raphael weeps into his father's shoulder, mourning the love he can never give you.

...

Less a lover, more a fighter

But I'm tired of fighting to hold on

Got too many scars to hide them

So it's easier being on my own

But you

Shoot first, draw blood, before I know

Yeah you

One shot, one touch, and I let go

How did this happen?

My walls were up and

You moved without a sound

Never imagined, like an assassin

One look took me down...

Assassin, Sultan + Shepherd

...

Tag list:

@thelaundrybitch @the-cauldron-witch

(let me know if you want in on the tag list ♥️)

[poptart-arts]

In honor of being almost done with season 2 of 2012, have a Splinter sketch

Why is he so hard to draw I had to use so many references

[solarmorrigan]

69 + 27 for steddie :)

I got really stuck on this one for a bit, but it ended up being one of my favorites. Thank you for the prompt!

From the Fanfiction Trope Mash-Up list: 69. Flirting Under Fire + 27. Sick/Injured Fic

cw: canon-typical violence, mentions of injury

-

It’s a little bit like date night, really.

Like, in a twisted sort of way.

They get some time away from everyone else, they’re doing something together, they get to appreciate each other’s skills and competency – so what if the activity in question is patrolling Hawkins’ cracked and monster-infested streets? Times are tough, they take what they can get.

In any case, Steve has found he very much appreciates the chance to watch Eddie snipe demobats out of the sky, or take demodogs out with a well-aimed shot to what could dubiously be called the head (curly-haired brunets with guns; apparently Steve has a very specific type. Go figure). Eddie, in turn, has made no secret of how he enjoys seeing the power and strength in Steve’s swings when he takes on all manner of beasts with his trusty nailbat (Mark 2. Nailbat Mark 1 had unfortunately splintered some time ago, may it rest in peace).

And if they decide to go to bed immediately after showering off the muck and ash once they’ve gotten home, it’s because they’re tired from patrol. Obviously.

It’s possible, though, that they’ve gotten a little too complacent. They’ve had a string of easy patrols, picking off single demobeasts or taking out small groups with the ease that comes with practice. There haven’t been any surprises or mishaps, almost like the monsters have fallen into an easy pattern of their own.

Or maybe thinking like that is where Steve slips up.

Eddie whistles as Steve follows through on a swing that crushes the ribcage of the final demodog in the small pack, effectively taking it out of commission.

“Nice form, Harrington.”

“Right,” Steve drawls, turning a warm smile on Eddie that takes any of the sting out of his teasing, “because you know so much about baseball.”

Eddie’s smile turns wolfish. “Who’s talking about baseball?”

Steve snorts, shaking his head, still smiling. He’s never had someone lay it on so thick with him – he’s never had the blatant flirting and the silly nicknames and the entirely unsubtle once-over glances, and he kind of loves it. He loves Eddie, really, but even in the midst of a mini apocalypse, it’s probably too soon to go around declaring that.

Instead, he glances around at the monsters strewn on the ground, and then at his watch. It’s nearly midnight; they’ve been out for hours, and this is the only encounter they’ve had.

“Think we’re done for the night?” he asks

To his credit, Eddie does a quick check of the area before stepping in close to Steve. “I’m nowhere near done with you for the night, sweetheart,” he purrs, and a shiver runs down Steve’s spine.

“No?” he asks, gaze flicking down to see the way Eddie’s lips curl into a smirk.

“Nope. Let’s go home and I can show you what else I have in mind.”

Steve is so distracted by the idea, by the thoughts Eddie’s words conjure up, by Eddie himself, that he almost misses it – the movement right in the periphery of his vision.

Almost, but not quite.

As it is, he barely has time to bark out, “MOVE,” at Eddie and give him a hard shove, getting him out of harm’s way. He doesn’t have time to follow.

The pain of the demodog’s claws raking across his side is so sharp that it burns cold, and the force behind the blow winds Steve and knocks his bat from his hands. He can see it drawing back for another swing—it’s the one he thought he’d killed first with a solid blow to its gaping maw—but he can’t move, can’t force his body to cooperate, and he’s about to die–

The sharp report of Eddie’s shotgun rings out, and the demodog jerks. Its head is gone, black ooze splattered all over everything (probably up to and including Steve’s wound, Steve realizes with a shivery sort of distaste), and then Eddie is at Steve’s side.

“Shit, shit, baby, sit down, you look like you’re about to–” Even as Eddie’s saying it, Steve’s legs start to shake hard enough that they practically go out from under him, and Eddie just manages to catch him before his knees hit the pavement.

Looking back on it later, Steve really only remembers snatches of what happens next: using Steve’s jacket as a compress (it’s ruined anyway), Eddie speaking frantically into the walkie to call for a pickup, Eddie talking to him low and soothing until Hopper’s truck pulls up, Hopper’s many varied and colorful swears as he helps bundle Steve into the back. Steve definitely remembers that he passes out sometime around when they dump the heavy-duty, Upside Down-grade disinfectant over the slashes in his side, and he’s grateful he does.

Eddie is there, sitting by the bed when Steve wakes up, looking like he’s aged about ten years in the grey light of what could either be dawn or dusk.

“Hey,” Steve rasps, aiming a tiny smile at Eddie.

“Steve, what the fuck,” Eddie demands, and it only makes Steve’s smile grow.

It isn’t exactly the first thing he’d wanted to hear, but it’s a very Eddie thing to say all the same.

“Wasn’t gonna–” Steve breaks off with a hiss as he tries to sit up a little further against the headboard, and Eddie darts forward to help support him, to rearrange the pillows and get him a little more upright. “Wasn’t going to let anything happen to you.”

“Steve–”

Actually, fuck ‘too soon.’ Fuck waiting.

“I love you,” Steve says, and Eddie falls silent.

Steve doesn’t regret saying it—he could never, he’s pretty sure—but Eddie is quiet just long enough for Steve to get nervous before he’s pressing forward and kissing Steve, hard and full and insistent.

“I love you, too,” Eddie murmurs, the words almost lost inside Steve’s mouth, like he can’t even wait long enough to get them out before taking another kiss. “Never do that again.”

Steve kisses back, matching the passion as well as he can with what little energy he has, and makes no such promise.

He loves Eddie, after all. He could never lie to him.

[theyhavetakenovermylife]

Could we maybe get a part two of TLR Mikey x reader where she confesses her love to him as he’s dying and they have one last kiss 👉👈

Even Better: part 2 (Angst) (18+)

TLR!Michelangelo x reader

Part 1

----------

A/N: You certainly can!🧡 But given the nature of the first part, I just had to add smut into this one as well, and once again, my smut breaks weren't working. I was all cuddled up in bed, but then had to turn my heating off, only to start crying right afterwards. Anyway, hope you enjoy, even if you cry😭��

----------

The reader is at least 20. Mikey is in his 40’s.

Warnings: Loss of loved ones, age difference, groping, mutual masturbation, pornstar-ish fingering, dirty talk, manhandling, hard sex, suicide mission, description of blood and death, reader my experience what can only be described as an emotional rollercoster.

----------

After that first night with Michelangelo, everything had so much better than you could have ever dreamed of. Sure, Mikey was still his gloomy self during the day, brooding and training, talking to himself, laying a plan for the day he would take down Oroku Hiroto. Heck, he even became your sister’s sensei, training her in the ninja arts that he and his brothers had been brought up with.

But that was what happened during the day. Night was much different. Every night, once you were sure that your mother and sister had gone to bed, or left for the streets of New York City above your head, or gone to black market during the night, you would make your way to the Splinter’s old room, which Mikey now called his. That or he would already be standing outside of your door, waiting for you to let him in.

Every night was the same. Mikey would hold you close, and ask you about the dreams you used to have about him. What thoughts had been through your mind, as you touched yourself with his name on your lips. He wanted to know. And once he knew, he would make sure that it would become reality, doing anything you asked him to do, his big hand covering your mouth as he fucked you through out the night, drawing one earth shattering orgasm from you after another.

Each night, after Mikey had made sure both of you had been more than satisfied, he would rest down beside you and hold you close, his thick fingers running circles on your skin as he looked at you. In this position he would slowly open up to you, and tell you all the things that had been plaguing him the past 20 years. The faces of those he had lost, and the many things he had to do in order to survive. You would forever remember that night, where he wondered out loud, how his hands, the hands of a monster, that had taken so many lives, was able to bring such a beautiful creature like you so much pleasure. That comment had stuck with you, in a way that you had not expected it to, running through your head, whenever you saw him walk through the lair.

But as the days passed by, and you and Mikey’s nights became more and more. You could not deny the feelings you had been growing for him. It was more than just physical attraction, stemming from an old fantasy. No, it was stronger. On a short period of time, you had developed strong feelings for Michelangelo, and with each passing day, they only seemed to blossom further.

Then came the day he, your sister and your mother went to Stockman’s island. You hated every minute of it, staying back with a few resistance members, trying to keep up the communications, while making sure the base of operations stayed hidden. But when you lost communication with your mother you almost broke down, and in the short time you lost contact with Mikey and Casey Marie you almost fainted. You feared the worst, remembering how Mikey had said he hated the plan.

And then the power went out, leaving all of New York City in darkness. Whatever they had done, it had worked. And once you heard their voices on the intercom once more, you were overjoyed to know that they were alive.

“I think we won”, Casey Marie said.

“The battle, not the war”, your mom answered her.

“And not at a price I’m willing to pay anymore”, Mikey growled, his voice vibrating through the intercom. At that moment you were too relieved, knowing he was alive, to think about what his words meant. Looking back, you wished you had taken the time to think about what they meant…

You raced to the lair in order to find your family, wanting to celebrate their safe return home in some shape or form. But they were nowhere to be found. Your sister was not in the dojo and your mother wasn't in her lab. But what you did find was a bunch of water, creating small puddles on the floor.

You stared at the water in confusion, wondering where it came from, when you heard a familiar low vibrating sound from Mikey’s room. Your heart started beating fast, as you ran to his room, bursting through the door to find him standing by the bed, wearing his overalls, his body covered in small bandages. He showed no reaction when you came in, instead moving some of his things around, his shell turned to you, walking through the small puddles that had formed on the floor, as if they never were there.

“Mikey”, you breathed out, holding back a sob from pure relief, watching as he slowly turned towards you, his face as scolding as it normally was. “Oh, Mikey, I’m so happy that you’re alive! I was so scared, I thought-”.

He caught you off with his hand wrapping around your neck, before pulling you in for a hungry kiss. You gasped, fumbling to grab onto his overalls as his tongue made its way into your mouth, his other hand roughly grabbing onto your ass, pulling your body against his large firm one, with such ferocity, that you would not think that he had ever touched you before.

“Mikey!”, you gasped, pulling from the kiss, your breathing heavy. His eyes were dark, so deep and dark. “My mom could be here! Casey too!”

“Like I care”, he growled, moving his hand from your throat to your chin, forcing you close to him once more. You yelped as he smacked your still clothed behind, making him growl at the sound that left your mouth. “I need you now, (Y/N)”.

You shivered at his words as they shot straight to your core, all thoughts and worries about your mother and sister disappearing, leaving only the thought of Mikey back. He noticed the effect his words had on you, feeling as you subconsciously started rubbing your thighs together, coupled with the strong aroma he had grown familiar with, ever since that first night with you. You smelled just as amazing, as the day he caught you staring at him, and the night he walked in on you touching yourself to the thought of him.

Mikey pulled you in for another hungry kiss, and this time you returned it with just as much need and hunger. Your lips moved together, as if you had thirsted for years, and the only way to quench the scorching desert in both of your mouths, was by the tongue of the other.

Any other night, Mikey would be calmer, almost back you shiver in anticipation as he asked about your dreams of him. But not tonight. His hand on your ass groped you, pushing you up against his clothed cloaca, grinding onto you. But you could not complain. It was exciting to have him growl and groan against your lips.

Suddenly Mikey let go of your neck, in order to place both of his hands on your rear, roughly lifting you up off the ground. You instinctively tried to wrap your legs around his broad torso, your arms hanging on to him for dear life, still deeply engaged in the wet and sloppy kiss.

Without looking or letting go of you, Mikey moved towards the metal spring bed. He stopped just before the bed, once again moving your hips against him, drawing a needy moan from you. Then suddenly, once against catching you totally off guard, Mikey dropped you onto the bed. The old springs creaked under you as you hit the mattress, falling onto you, staring up at the large terrapin, as he towered over you. You bite your lower lip at the sight of him. Even when he just stood there, still clothed, the very sight of Mikey just did something to you, making your stomach tingle in ways you had never felt before meeting him. And now as he stood over you, it reminded you of that night, where he pulled your blanket off, revealing your naked lower half to him. It did not matter how many night you and Mikey had spent together, that one would always remain at the forefront of your mind.

“Take it off”, Mikey grumbled, nodding towards your clothing. You were stunned for a moment, shocked by how three words could get you so hot and bothered. The way his dark hooded eyes watched you, made your skin feel as if it was on fire. It was becoming too hot with your clothes on. You stared into his eyes as you started undoing your top, another rush of excitement washing through you as you saw his own hand move towards his clothed crotch, slowly tracing over his cloaca as the fabric left your skin.

Mikey hummed as your shirt hit the end of the bed, watching as you started opening your pants, his hand now flatley rubbing against himself. “That’s my girl”.

You sucked a breath in as you pushed your pants down your hips, before throwing them next to your shirt, seeing the vein in Mikey’s neck becoming prominent as he was hit with the strong wave of your arousal, almost making his mouth water. As you sat up on your now naked knees and reached behind your back to undo your bra, Mikey started undoing the straps on his overalls, a growl escaping him as your nipples emerged from their hiding place, becoming hard in the cold air of the lair. That was when Mikey stepped out of his overalls, his hardened member already fully exposed from his cloaca, small droplets of pre-cum gathered at the opening. You reached you for him, wishing to touch his shaft, the inside of his mouth begging you to take him in, but he slapped your hand away. He then grabbed a hold of your legs, pulling them forwards so hard that you fell back onto the bed once more, your legs now spread wide open for him, your dripping core still covered by your underwear.

“Touch yourself”, he demanded. “Show me what you used to do when you thought of me”.

You whimpered at his request, before thinking back to all the times you had touched yourself in your room, fantasizing about the mutant that stood in front of you right now. One of your hands slowly went up to your breast, circling your nipple, while the other went down to the waistline of your underwear, your fingers slowly dipping in. You sighed out loud in pleasure as your fingers found your clit, letting you index finger and middle finger rub slow circles over your little bundle of nerves.

Mikey watched as your hands slowly began to work on yourself, his own hand making its way to his erection, where his thumb started rubbing the top of his spongy head.

The fingers on your breast started pinching your nipples, and the fingers in your underwear moved in faster circles. Mikey let go of himself momentarily, in order to pull your underwear down in one swift move, making you scream out in surprise, before being left bare in front of him.

You watched as Mikey’s hand wrapped around his length, just as your own fingers were finding your entrance. Pushing two fingers into yourself, you let out a pleasurable moan, the hand on your chest grabbing on to your round form. Mikey in turn started moving his hand up and down his shaft, matching the speed of your fingers, small but deep groans escaping him.

Resting his knees against the bed, he leaned over you, his lust blown eyes staring into yours. “Does it feel good?”, he asked, his voice raspy and deep and his eyes strained in focus, making you clench around your own fingers. “Does it feel as good as me?”

“No, Mikey”, you whimpered in response, speeding up the movement of your fingers, curling them inside of you. “This doesn't feel as good as you do”.

“That’s right”, Mikey growled, the speed of his hand increasing to match yours. “Because I can do better than that. So much better”.

“Mikey”, you moaned, letting go of your chest in order to reach out for him. But with a roar like groan, Mikey grabbed a hold of you once more, lifting you up from the bed and holding you against him. He quickly laid down on the bed with his shell resting against the wall, bringing you down with him, pressing your back up against his plastron. One of his hands kept your legs open, while the other sneaked up between your boobs, before grabbing onto your neck, using the forearm between your mounts to keep you pressed against him. Instinctively you held onto his arms, gasping as you felt his large member poke against the small of your back. So many nights had he fucked you with rod poking against you, but here you were, still finding yourself shocked at how big he was.

You turned your head, trying to get a better look at the handsome hold turtle, but he turned your head forward, his hot breath fanning over the side of your face. You shook in anticipation, as you felt the hand that had kept your legs open, glide from your thigh and down towards your yearning center.

“From now on”, Mikey grumbled against your ear, his big fingers getting closer and closer to your core, your hips scooting forwards in order to meet them. “When you touch yourself, you’ll always think of what I’m doing to you tonight”. With those words, two of his fingers found your now overly sensitive clit, rubbing them just like you had shown him. You moaned out loud, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. It was no surprise to you that his fingers felt better than yours. Even though he did almost the exact same thing as you, he did it even better.

On instinct, your legs tried to close your core off from the strong stimulation Mikey’s fingers provided your clit. But that was not passing by the old turtle. Hooking his legs around yours, he forced them apart once more. Your hips started to buckle as Mikey inserted one of his thick fingers into you, curling it upwards, before thrusting it hard and fast into you, making you moan louder than you ever had before. Your mouth wide open in an O shape, as you watched his fingers work on you. The wet sounds from your cunt were lewd, along with the sounds that escaped your lips.

“You love this, don’t you, (Y/N)?”, Mikey groaned into your ear, nibbling on your earlobe. “All those times before we met, you’ve wanted my hands instead of yours, didn’t you?”

“Yes!”, you practically screamed. “I fucking love your hands, Mikey!”

As if that had been a code word, Mikey removed his hand from your tight cunt, letting go of your legs, before throwing your back onto the bed. You moaned, not expecting that Mikey throwing you around like a rag doll would turn you on so much. He climbed on top of you, positioning himself between your legs, keeping them wide open for him.

“We both know you love my dick more”, he growled, lining himself up with your entrance, not waiting for your permission before he started moving. You almost screamed out in pleasure, holding on to his broad shoulders as he started fucking you, harder than he had ever done before. You were moaning so loud that you were sure that if anybody was home, they would have heard you long ago. You wondered if the streets of New York could hear it. How good Mikey was fucking you and how you begged him not to stop. The bed was creaking and moving so wildly, to the point where you were sure it would break at any moment. But Mikey did not hold back. Instead his big hand found your chin, holding your head still, making sure you were facing him, while his other hand found way down between the two of you, his thumb working furiously on your clit. You closed your eyes, feeling your high coming closer and closer, threatening to take over your body at a moment's notice.

“No”, Mikey growled. “Look at me, (Y/N). I want to see your eyes when you cum”.

You opened your eyes and held on to Mikey with every fiber of your being. You were so fucking close, and you knew this one was going to be big. The biggest and hardest one Mikey had ever given you.

“What’s my name?”, he growled.

“Mikey”.

“What’s my name?!”, he roared, the bed hitting the wall with each thrust into you.

“Mikey! Oh my god, Mikey! Fuuuuck!” Your moans came out as screams as your body shaking orgasm took over. You cried out as Mikey held your spassing body against him, riding out your high and chasing his own as fast as he could. He came with the loudest moan you had ever heard from him. Your name falling from his lips, so loud and clear you would never be able to forget it. And you never wanted to forget it.

Normally, this was where Mikey would hold you close, taking sweet care of you and making sure that you were okay, before the two of you would talk about whatever was on your mind. But like said before, this night was different.

Mikey took care of you, cleaning you up as needed, before pulling the blanket over you. You didn’t think much of it, expecting him to lay down beside you at any moment. But he didn’t. Instead he just sat down next to you, looking at you with an unreadable expression. Quietly he placed a soft hand on your cheek, tilting your head towards him, before placing a soft kiss on your lips, his lingering against yours for what felt like an eternity and a short time, all wrapped up in one. No hunger, no tongue, no frustration. Just… sadness.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N), but I have to go”, he said, getting up from the bed in order to put on his overalls.

“Mikey?”, you asked in confusion, watching him as he wrapped up his arms, before taking on his gear. Sudden realization hit you, as he pulled the black bandana down over his eyes. “Where are you going?”

Mikey stopped in his tracks for a moment, wondering if he should tell you. No, he couldn’t. You were only 20. He could not let you know, and ruin the bright future you had ahead of you. Or at least, whatever bright future that was possible in a world like this. Maybe it was his own emotions holding him back. The fear of not being able to do it if he told you. Or maybe it was the fear of the hurt there would be in your eyes. But he had to tell you something. That was the least he could do before he would go on with his plan.

“Too many innocents are gettin’ hurt”.

That was when it hit you. Like a wall of bricks. You knew what he was going to do. You yelled, tears forming in your eyes, telling him not to go, but Mikey did answer. Instead he looked down towards his feet, took a deep breath, before turning and walking out the door. You jumped from the bed, your hands and legs shaking as you struggled to put on your clothes. You yelled out the door, screaming and begging him to come back. But he didn’t. And now the water was rising throughout the lair.

—

Your legs were hurting as you and Casey Marie ran down the sewers, with your mother’s tracker in hand. Both you and Casey had wanted to find him. Either help him or get him back home. But with the power outage and the rising water levels, you had to stay back and help your mother.

“We’re almost there!”, Casey yelled over her shoulder. And she was right. You were almost there. But just a little too late.

You and Casey jumped out of the sewer and onto the rocky beach. In the brown water you saw the white and partly silver body of Oroku Hiroto floating around with his face down. And on the beach, you saw the unmistakable shape of a mutant turtle. The sight of him laying there, almost unmovable, made your stomach turn and your knees buckle. It took you a moment to gather your senses.

“Sensei!”, Casey yelled, running ahead of you. She fell to her knees next to him, tears running down her face as she pulled out his journal from her backpack. Reality finally managed to catch up with you, as you ran to his side, tears falling down your face as you crawled to his side, your sister already crying.

“Mikey”, you whispered, trying not to choke up, watching the blood run from his mouth.

“I’m… sorry, (Y/N)”, he whispered back. “Had to… do it… it was… my duty… my… destiny. For my family”.

“But we’re your family now. I’m your family now”, you said, fighting the tears that was pushing their way forwards. “And… and I love you, Mikey”, you choked out, watching his dazed eyes become more and more blurred. “I love you so much”.

Mikey’s hand lifted from the ground, before letting it rest against your face, as he forced his last will to look at you. To admire your every feature. The face that had provided him with the last bits of hope he had needed. The only face that had made him feel truly happy for these past 20 years. He felt your warm hand on his, holding him close to you, just like he had held you close all those nights.

“I love you too, (Y/N)”, he whispered back. “Thank you… My time with you… has not just been amazing… but even better”. A tear rolled down your face as slowly let your lips meet, feeling him use his last powers to kiss you, with a tender soft kiss. This time there was no sadness in his soft kiss, but a small bit of happiness and gratitude. Mikey finally knew peace. And with that peace he took his final breath, his hand becoming limb in your grip, and his eyes becoming black. You broke down in tears, cradling his hand against your face. Michelangelo, the last of the ninja turtles, and the man that you had fallen in love with, was gone. His spirit now living peacefully with the rest of his family.

[cupcakeslushie]

LITA MAY LITA MAY LITA MAY

Ok ok so I have like a bunch of questions feel free to ignore BUT

I) she has a tail. Is that a Kraang feature or do all the turtles in your universe have tails and hers is just extended?

II) Uh pink? Pink like Kraang? Did she choose her life colors, or???

III) Is. Is she. Is she autistic too

IV) Draxum-Hamato sooooo what does she call them? Did they argue about nicknames? Also was it Donnie’s choice to include Draxum’s name as well

V) Lita in the comics???

VI) Is there a reason her shell isn’t smooth like Donnie’s?

VII) What does she call Renet?

VIII) Ninpo question mark?

IX) Pupils! I love the way you draw her pupils. Is there a reason or is it just fun

X) Does she have a certain resistance to Kraang mind digging? Like that thing they did to interrogate Raph in the movie? To read his memories?

XI) So the cloak/scarf thing is Leo, the purple accents and stripes are Donnie, and the kneepads are Mikey. Any Raph references in her clothes?

Apologies if you’ve answered these before and I just didn’t see them! Have a good day and give Lita one too for goodness sakes girl’s had it rough already

1. It’s more of a Krang feature. I do love when the turtles are drawn with tails, but I didn’t do it from the beginning, and so for consistency sake in the EW universe I’ve held off. Maybe one day I’ll just say “fuck it” and give into the urge to give them all cute little tails. But even if I did, Lita’s would be much longer than any of the family’s (except Raph’s hypothetical tail lol).

2. Lita being albino and pink in the IDW comics pretty much made that Krang connection for me lol. I didn’t have to reach too hard with her design. She leans into it.

3. I have her personality very close to Leo’s canon personality, so she’s more on the ADHD side. She does have some sensory issues with sound, which a lot of ppl with adhd have (👋🏻). But being raised around the quiet and solemn Time Masters Sanctum it’s like really noticeable. When she visits the family, it can be very overwhelming, but rather than shutting down, she gets insanely riled up and can’t contain herself. It works though—everyone is more than happy to let her ramble on.

4. She never met either of them but Splinter of course would’ve been Jiji and Draxum would’ve been just Grandfather. Nothing too out of this world lol. And yes, Donnie chooses to embrace Draxum’s name.

5. Sorry idk what exactly this is asking. Like yes? Lita May is based off IDW Lita, from the comics 😅 sorry if I’m missing the question.

6. She is a spiny soft shell like Donnie, but yes, her spines are significantly more pronounced, thanks to, you guessed it!

7. Master Renet, or Aunty Ren in a more causal setting.

8. 🤫 we’ll see (I’m still trying to think of something cool and not too OP lol)

9. Her eyes are just for design fun, and to link her to Donnie some more!

10. That’s gonna be another big 🤫, but less because I haven’t decided and more just for the big spoilers! 😜

11. She’s kinda got two outfits atm and I think I might end up merging the two. Her simpler outfit of just her wraps and mask are very Raph coded, so I wanna figure out some sort of middle ground with the two.

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

SO uhhhhh I went a bit over board and I started writing an entire fanfic for this post

and uhhhh

Mr Bell, come out and play. Pt2

Chapter 2: The past haunts you

Summary:

The girls are fighting! AKA Bell and Adler sort their shit out with VIOLENCE at least they think they will :)

“Phillip. Come here.” Adler's voice cuts through the room, his voice stern and commanding, Phillip jolts slightly, eyes wide, Phillip stands on shaky legs and waddles over to his father. Adler quickly grasps Phillip's shoulder and pushes himself in front of the child protecting him.

Bell simply leans back gun still secured in his hand a sly smile hidden beneath his balaclava for as long as Bell knew Adler if the fucked up situationship he had with his former CO could be called knowing. But hidden under Adler's tense exterior there was a flicker of fear, a sliver of true and disturbed fear, and Bell revealed it. 

“Phillip, go to your room,” Adler demands glancing down at his son, concern etched into his face, his anxious eyes hidden under his shades. 

Phillip, oblivious to the tension boiling in the room, simply nods holding his drawing to his chest  “Okay daddy…bye Mister Bell!” he yells walking towards the staircase in the hallway Bell smiles “Bye kiddo.” He says adjusting his grip on the gun in his lap and leaning forward. 

Adler then speaks up his voice sharp and cutting “How the fuck are you alive?” Adel's tone almost made Bell flinch, the keyword. In any other situation, Bell would have been scared but right now? He had the upper hand and he had a gun, Adler did not. Bell was finally in control for once. 

Bell stands up turning over the gun in his hand “Well Adler you might want to start practicing what you preach. After all, when you shoot an enemy you better make sure they're dead.” 

Bell says reaching up and pulling off the balaclava revealing a large scar cutting across Bell’s cheek and taking a large chunk out of his ear “Make sure they aren’t playing dead.” Bell’s eyes bore into Adlers and if looks could kill Adler would be six feet deep and decaying by now. 

Adler's face is twisted and angry, his fists clenched at his sides, loathing boiling in his eyes “If you lay a finger on Phillip's head-” Bell cuts Adler off by cocking the gun back “If I wanted to harm your son I would have done it adler. But I'm not a monster. Despite what you think, I will not orphan your son. You can't say the same, can you? The harrows had a daughter you know.” Bell says, lowering the gun back to his side.

At that motion, Adler takes that opportunity to lunge forward, grabbing Bell's wrist and slamming the ex-CIA agent to the floor. 

Bell’s head smacks against the carpet hard pain splintering in the back of his skull, adler ‘s head snaps to the side as Bell's fist connects to his cheek splintering his sunglasses and smacking them off of his face, blood dripping from his nose. Now splayed out on the floor the gun would make or break the fight. Fists were thrown, bruises were made and wounds reopened. 

The gun flew from Bell’s hand and both Adlers’ and Bell’s eyes were drawn to the cool sleek metal weapon. Their eyes meet for a brief moment before both lunge forward their arms desperately reaching for the gun.

Bell was closer but Adler was quicker.  

In a split second, Adler grabbed the gun’s muzzle and swung connecting the handle of the pistol with Bell's temple, sending him back grasping his forehead. Dreading the probable goose egg that is if he makes it out alive. 

Adler then stands readjusting the gun in his hand looming over Bell’s fallen form, adler then levels the barrel of the gun to Bell’s temple his shattered glasses and bloody nose and mouth would make him seem even more intimidating to anyone else. But Bell was not anyone else. He was second in command to Perseus, a former puppet of the CIA and a madman. 

Both Adler and Bell are breathing heavily, Adler's finger pressing against the pistol trigger prepared to finally end it. To end this man this monster who threatens his family threatens his son.  

“Daddy?” a small voice speaks up from the stairwell and Bell fucking smiles.

(I'm still writing this i've got chapter 3, 4, 5 and 6 all planned)

[shewhohangsoutincemeteries]

to ashes, development

Clint Barton x F!Reader

To Ashes, Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Summary: a development on a mission means it's time to move on.

Warnings: angst, fluff, canon-typical violence.

Word Count: 2,313

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Days Since the Decimation: Three Years, Eighty-Five Days

“Holy shit, you got any idea how fuckin’ hard I am right now?”

You wrinkled your nose. “Oh, gross.”

Clint frowned.

“What? It’s seedy as hell,” you waved a hand. “You take me to the worst places.”

You swore, you could actually see him roll his eyes from the other side of the building. “Not exactly poetic, are they?”

The two of you were on top of an old disused warehouse in Harringay, listening with distaste as the men inside discussed their, ugh, merchandise. What was it with men and guns?

The weapons ring you’d fought in Holland Park was still at large, and Clint had spent the last two weeks tracking them down again. Honestly it was a testament to them that it had taken him this long, even without his old SHIELD connections. Whoever they were, they weren’t street level thugs.

…It made you feel the tiniest bit better about them getting the better of you in the park.

Clint had scrubbed through the local police files for any clues as to where they were setting up house. Between that and his own reconnaissance, he’d managed to track one of their prominent dealers to right under your feet.

“You still clear on the plan?”

Nodding, you unhooked the safety hood of your holster. “Yeah. Yeah, I got it.”

“Y/N…”

You looked up with a raised brow, fixing him with a pointed look. “Are you really about to lecture me about not taking revenge?”

Clint met your eye with an almost exasperated expression. “Point taken.”

“You ready for this?”

“That’s my line.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.” you smirked, stretching out a kink in your neck. “Let’s go to work.”

***

You were really getting tired of these guys.

That’s the only thought that came to you as you rolled behind the crates to your left, gun still in your hand. You came to a kneel, your back meeting the wood with a dull thump. They were too prepared, to ready for the two of you.

This wasn’t supposed to end in a shootout. This was supposed to be a quick job, and yet… how did they know about the two of you? They’d mentioned a boss in the park, someone who had guessed you’d been Clint’s back up, but still… they knew you were coming. Not well enough to lay a proper trap, to ambush you before you got inside, but well enough to be ready.

You ducked lower with a curse as wood shattered above you, large splinters raining down on top of you. Thankful for the hood that kept them out of your hair, you exhaled and turned to fire two shots back around the corner. One shot went wide, but you smiled grimly as the second bullet buried itself in a man’s shoulder. He cursed in a heavy Eastern European accent as you ducked back behind the crate.

“Did you have a plan B for tonight, or are we winging this?” you said into your comms. You heard a cry go up among those shooting at you, followed by shouts of confusion and a few wild shots. You winced despite yourself for a second, waiting for a response in your ear to assure you that they’d missed.

“I’m working on one,” Clint replied gruffly, and you released a small, relieved breath despite your faith in him.

“So… winging it, it is then,” you sighed wearily, setting a new magazine into your handgun and adjusting your hold on the grip. “You know, I kinda hate being the one to draw their fire.”

“I’ll make note of it for next time,” he replied dryly, and another gurgling cry went up among the men between the two of you as Clint shot back out of the shadows long enough to take one of them down. He sliced up two – the one you’d wounded and the man closest to him. “Don’t do anything stupid, alright? We’ve got this under control.”

“Do we?”

“You doubt me?”

“I—”

“Fuck this!” shouted one of them – a burly brunette with a greying beard and tattoos scattered over his biceps. “Get one of the pushka out here and end this!”

“Clint—” you said warningly, stealing a glance over the crates.

“Don’t panic,” he warned, and you swore you caught the glimpse of silver in a brief shift of the light to let you know exactly where he was. “You’re not their biggest problem right now.”

“Clint—”

A deafening blast sounded and you fell forward, hands flying automatically to your ears. The crate to your left exploded – as did the wall in front of you, burst apart in a wave of electric blue energy.

“Holy—”

“Y/N!”

“I’m fine, just—”

“Forget the bitch! Get the Ronin!”

You scrambled away from where you’d hidden, throwing yourself behind an old forklift. Too late, you realized you’d left your gun behind, having dropped it when your hands had flown to your ears. Swearing to yourself, you winced as another blast fired. The building itself groaned as they blew another hole in a wall.

“What the hell is that thing?!”

“Just get outta here, Y/N! I’ll distract—”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Barton!”

“Just go!” he barked back. “Now!”

“Goddamn it!” you growled, standing as you heard the men shout that they’d spotted the Ronin above them. You saw the gun – a bazooka-like cannon – turn upward, point directly at the shadowy figure above. “Stubborn-ass-son-of-a—”

The blaster fired, and you swept your arm upward in the same moment. A shield appeared seconds before the energy wave could hit Clint, knocking him to the side. The energy wave just barely glanced off the shield before blowing a hole in the roof and sending debris collapsing down on the men below.

“What are you—?”

“Take the moment, Clint; you can yell at me later!” you spat back through gritted teeth, sprinting towards the group still shielding themselves from falling bricks and timber. “Get out! I’m right behind you!”

Pulling the knife from the back of your belt, you turned it in your grip and plunged it into the hand of the man closest to the crate they’d pulled the pushka from, ignoring the way he screamed. You released it, instead grabbing the first weapon you could from the crate – thankfully, a much smaller hand-gun style weapon – and kept running. A few men managed to get off a few shots before you were clear, and you winced as you felt a bullet tear through your sleeve to graze your forearm.

Feet pounding too loud on the pavement, you made it quickly to an alleyway across the street, tucking your prize under your injured arm as you grabbed hold of the rung of a fire escape ladder with your other arm and swung yourself upwards. You could hear the building behind you continue to collapse as you climbed the ladder, and you winced as a hand gripped yours as you reached the top.

“Are you insane?”

“Are you?” you shot back breathlessly as Clint pulled you up onto the roof beside him. “What the hell kind of plan was that? You were gonna let them shoot you with that thing?”

“I’m faster than I look, Y/N,” he pointed out sourly. “And now they know—”

“They don’t know shit,” you argued. “There’s no way they could see the difference between that shield and whatever the hell they were shooting at us with.”

“It was still really stupid, Y/N.”

“You’re welcome.”

Clint gave you a look that somehow managed to look grateful and exasperated all at once.

“Oh, and I totally get MVP this mission.”

“Is that a thing?” he replied dryly.

“It is now,” you said proudly, finally managing to catch your breath. Ignoring the pain throbbing in your arm, you held out the gun you’d stolen. “Ta-freakin’-da, Barton.”

***

“Lat—”

“What?”

Clint repeated himself louder, but his voice was still muffled by the wood of the door and the spray of the shower.

“What?”

You heard the shower door open and a few dull sounds before the bathroom door in front of you opened. Water dripped over Clint’s bare torso and soaked his hair, one hand clutching the towel slung around his waist. You watched him hesitate as he met your gaze, watched the adam’s apple in his throat bob. “Latveria.”

“Lat– Latveria?”

“This is starting to feel dangerously like a bit,” Clint said dryly, stepping back into the shower stall. You felt heat rise in your face as he closed the door and the towel was thrown up over the top of it. You stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment before closing the lid of the toilet and perching on the edge of it. “That’s where the weapons are being made.”

“And they’ve made it all the way out here?” you replied, swallowing as you tried to pointedly avoid staring at the shower. The stall was made of textured, frosted glass, and while it granted Clint modesty, you could still just make out his silhouette against the screen. His hands rose to scrub through his hair, his profile turned just barely away from you.

“They’re global,” Clint told you, raising his voice over the spray. “I heard reports of them turning up in New York back before… Fury had someone else working on it.”

“And we just happened to stumble onto them in a park in London?”

Clint’s hands lingered at the back of his neck. “They’ve been making bigger waves lately. Guess she’s been getting a little cockier since the Decimation wiped out half the authorities that could work their case.”

“‘She’?”

Clint’s hands moved down his chest to his stomach, and you lowered your gaze to the floor, face burning. Your thighs pressed together despite yourself. You knew your voice had broken slightly as you’d spoken that one word.

“Lucia von Bardas.”

The water shut off, and you straightened slightly, your hands threaded together in your lap. The towel disappeared into the stall. “Should I recognize the name?”

“Only if you’re trying to be familiar with Eastern European politics,” Clint told you, the shower stall opening after a moment. “She’s a pretty big name in Latverian political parties. She’s got interests in most of the big exporters coming out of that place, including Von Doom Industries. There’s been rumors of her dealing in some… less than legal businesses for a while now. Guess now we’ve actually got some proof.”

Clint stepped out; the towel tucked securely around his waist once more. He seemed to be avoiding your eye, wiping down the foggy mirror with his palm.

“And?”

“And what?”

“We’re going to take her out, right?”

You stood up, and Clint met your eye in the mirror. He sighed.

“That expression tells me you’ve already decided on the answer for us.”

***

“I’m starting to miss Stark’s money.” Clint sighed, settling back into the seat beside you.

“You’re the one who books these oh-so-deluxe travel arrangements,” you pointed out, attempting to find a comfortable position against the firm back of the bus seat. “You’d think with your super-ninja-spy-magic you’d be able to get us a fancier ride.”

“I’m not a ninja,” he told you patiently. “Or magic.”

“You’re a little magic.”

Clint shook his head with a smile; you were sure there was faint color on his cheeks as he dropped his head back against the headrest.

“So, how long exactly is this ride?”

He answered with his eyes closed. “…About two days.”

“Two days?!” you repeated, when you saw his smile grow slightly, you scowled. “I kinda hate you, you know.”

“I thought I was magic.”

“Magic and despised.”

He chuckled; eyes still closed. The bus pulled away from the curb, surprisingly empty. The sky outside was already dark, and the glow of the streetlights passed over the archer’s face. “We’re less likely to be recognized on the bus.”

“Curse you and your logic.”

Clint didn’t reply, and the two of you sat in silence for twenty minutes before you spoke again.

“It’s a little annoying how easily you can fall asleep.”

He smirked; eyes still stubbornly closed. “I’m not asleep.”

“…How about now?”

“Were you always this annoying on road trips?” he teased.

You laughed, closing your eyes too. “Oh, please. You’d be so bored without me.”

***

You opened your eyes slowly, blinking away the sleep still lingering. You hadn’t even realized you’d fallen asleep, but the wide expanse of road ahead of the bus told you you’d left the city a long time again, as did the faint pink glow tainting the deep purple of the night sky. You shifted, brow furrowing as you felt the warmth pressed up against your side and the rough fabric against your cheek. A comfortable weight rested against the crown of your head, and you frowned against the fuzziness still clinging to your tired mind.

Your eyes finally cleared to settle on the color of Clint’s jacket, and you felt his breath fan softly against your hair. You’d fallen asleep, your head falling against his shoulder, and he’d apparently done the same. His cheek was pressed against your hair, his breathing steady and even. A smile touched your lips as you let the sensation of his chest rising and falling lull you back into rest, and you ignored the sensible part of your brain that was trying to remind you that you were supposed to maintaining your distance from him.

Your eyes fell to your lap as your eyelids began to droop, and warmth flared in your cheeks. Your hand was on your thigh, and Clint’s rested beside it, his fingertips settled on the back of your hand. Your skin was warm and tingled under his touch.

Had he… had he been holding your hand?

.

.

.

tags: @trekkingaroundasgard @lovely-dreamer19 @wittyforachange @wefracturedmotivation @january-echoes @glossyloner @capitalnineteen @youclickedthislink @s0ftness @castieltrash1 @drakelover78 @queenoftheunderdark @lol-you-thought @akumune@xxboesefrauxx @enna-core@hearmyharmony@katsies @youralphawolf72 @maenji@rhymesmenagerie@gwianasky @melaclintbartoncorner @loki-is-loved@whovianayesha @bradfordbantams@alice-the-nerd@fanofallthefics @ace-fandom-dumbass @kaelyn-lobrutto24@twsssmlmaa @earth-pig-fish@meeksmusic83@hallothankmas@justanothermagicalsara@janineb86 @darsynia@rhymesmenagerie @thatwelshbi @lauraashley93@darkwhisperswolf

[tapakah0]

Some little details from animatic ehe-he

Okay, um, he-he, I think this time I really will take a break from "big works", my brain is drained and... welp, I need to sleep at nights at least. Will do only silly doodles, I so much wanna draw comfort with Casey and I miss big full colored works with background... But before, I wanna point out some little details from last animatic for better understanding eheh 1) Mikey aged throughout the process

2) Hamato clan did help (including Splinter). Splinter showed Mikey where to find Raph, but didn't tell him no more. Splinter and Mikey (among brothers) are the only ones who don't need to say something to each other. They understand. Karai helped to get through the "door" that Mikey couldn't get through.

3) Splinter reminded Donnie of that day and their dialogue. Donnie remembers it perfectly. Splinter pointed at the scarf he gifted to Leo (through Donnie) before passing away.

4) I didn't show a lot of what kind of relationship Cassandra and April really had (I just slightly showed a little in some old sketches. Just like brothers, they had their own "night before that day" sleepover, that's why Casey didn't kill them for taking Casey Junior) But they were the ones raising Casey first two years and they lived in one room to make it easier. (it's hard for Mikey and April stay in their rooms because they lived with the ones they loved and lost)

5) All Raph pieces show who he loves. But when Mikey looks at his pieces, Raph is reflected in his eyes.

6) Raph is so little because he was shattered in hundreds pieces and lots of them just lost or couldn't reunite (his previous alive body is... well... that's why the only way to return Raph was to get him robot body) and Mikey finally had a real smile without pain when he found him (and kept smiling till the end of animatic)

7) Last time he waited 3 months before their reunition. This time it was 1 year.

[voids-colourful-creations]

Glass Roses - A Kanna Kizuchi Fic

[Read on Ao3!]

Rated: T Your Turn to Die - Up Until the end of Chapter 2 Words: 2,550 Warnings: Canon Typical Anguish, Death, and Depictions of Torture

Kanna, in the shards of glass that remain after everything falls apart.

This was written for the amazing YTTD Epilogue Zine! Be sure to check out the other amazing artists and writers in this!! This project's a bit old, I wrote this over 2 years ago! But this is still one of my favourite projects to be apart of, it was so much fun!

--

Teardrops are sliding down Kanna’s face slowly, taunting her. They taste terrible, salt, sweat, snot and sorrow, but Kanna isn’t sure she’ll be able to breathe right if she closes her mouth.

Kanna sits on the floor, it's hard and cold and she can feel tiny pieces of grit and dirt digging into her skin. They’re tiny needles and barbs, small whispers and reminders. Each tiny pinprick sings to her, “you deserve this.”

Reko’s hand is resting on her back, making light circles. Her hand is wide and warm, the tips of her nails blunt. Not her sister. Kugie’s hand was slim and cool to the touch. Her nails were long, painted in perfectly even strokes.

Kanna’s not sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. She knows the hand attempting to comfort her isn’t Kugie’s. It won’t ever be Kugie’s. Not anymore.

Everytime she thinks about that for a moment too long, her lungs seem to have the air siphoned out of them, until she’s wheezing and choking on her own lack of oxygen.

But on the other hand, Kanna doesn’t need Reko’s hand to pretend that Kugie’s beside her.

The voice is already whispering in her ears; or rather, it hasn’t yet stopped.

Kugie screamed when she was crushed. A loud, raspy scream accompanied by a grotesque splattering, splintering, crushing noise. Within the echoes of that scream, a whispering voice remains, ringing around and around with no end.

Kanna stares at the floor as Reko murmurs, touch still light and gentle.

It only makes things worse.

The floor is so shiny. So pristine and clean. Was this building freshy built to torture them? Or did the kidnappers simply scrub it clean before they had arrived.

It’s so sickeningly shiny. Kanna can see her reflection. Kanna can see Kugie’s reflection.

The more Kanna cries the more her vision blurs, the more her reflection distorts, her features melting away leaving Kugie in her place, sobbing still. Melting, melting, melting, like snowmen (they’d never make one together again), like crayons in heat (they’d never draw together again), like ice cream (they’d never eat together again) that Kanna could still taste. Disgusting, sickly sweet, burning against the back of her throat.

It’s stinging, sickening pain as Kanna shakes.

She can’t tear her eyes away from her own reflection (or is it hers?).

The sallow eye sockets stream with tears, mouth wide open.

Why’d you kill me Kanna. Filthy disgusting Kanna. It should’ve been you, Kanna.

Kanna, Kanna, Kanna.

She hasn’t noticed that Reko’s hand has left her back until it’s coaxing her forward, pulling her gently into an embrace.

“Kanna, Kanna look at me, okay?”

Kanna tears her eyes away from the reflection.

Reko’s eyes are sharp and defined, but her expression is soft and concerned.

“Kanna, can you just take a breath in for me? Just one nice big breath, good, good that’s a good girl. Now breathe out- you got it! You’re doing incredible, Kanna.”

Kanna watches Reko’s face carefully, focuses on matching her breath. She doesn’t look away, tracing her eyes over each smudge of makeup, each hair in her eyelashes, the crisscrossing pattern of her braid.

And if Kanna focuses hard enough, she can almost convince herself that she can’t see Kugie’s crying face reflected in Reko’s eyes.

--

There’s a dull hum in the monitor room, but the sound is starting to get to Kanna. It stings, this buzzing sound that won’t leave. It’s dozens of tiny sparks in her brain.

She keeps staring at the screens unblinkingly. To any observers she appears frozen in place, but her heart is pounding hard and fast.

It’s not here.

Even with no picture on the back of any monitor, Kanna keeps staring at one monitor in particular, hoping that somehow a mistake was made. That somehow, the screen will flicker to life, and her sister will smile back at her, scold her for being so silly.

She stares, unblinking.

She stares.

It stings, but she’s too terrified of missing something in the split second she blinks.

Nothing changes.

It won’t stop being Kanna, staring back at Kanna. Her own eyes, growing shiny the longer she stares into them. If she looks hard enough, within the reflection on the screen, she can see the reflection of the screen in her own eyes, and so on and so forth down a never ending hole. The sort of hole Kanna feels herself on the edge of ever since she got tangled into this mess.

Why? Why not her sister? How come Kanna couldn’t see her again? Now that the possibility had been presented to her, ripping it away was unimaginably cruel.

It’s an ugly and selfish guilt that pricks her stomach. A ball of thorns, woven around and around in ringlets and coils. What made Professor Mishima so much better than her sister? How come Nao got this splinter of relief, while Kanna fell further, further, into a world she knew she’d be alone in?

She doesn’t tear her gaze away from the monitors until they flicker to life, blaring reds and glaring yellows, flashes that light up the dark room. 

Kanna’s eyes burn. 

Taunting, laughing dolls address them with amused expressions. Ranger looks down at Kanna like she is the doll instead, a plaything, something to break if bored.

His skirt (though it’s not his skirt, she can’t call it his when it's what little remains of her sister) sways back and forth as he paces around them in circles, eyes swirling. It’s nauseating. She wants to deny it, but she knows. Can’t deny the familiarity of the tiny tear at hem’s edge, the loose thread that gets longer the more it's pulled at. 

Ranger’s laugh slashes away at Kanna’s heart, and with her vocal cords cut she remains silent. 

--

The cage is transparent, but Kanna can still see hints of her reflection in the glass. The tips of her fingers, pale and clammy, clutch at the edge of a jacket barely visible in the darkness. Her scarf, creased and crumpled, digs into her neck as she strains herself, trying to get a better picture of what’s happening. As all the color continues to drain from her face, her own fearful expression becomes more and more defined. All except the eyes, empty holes into the view beyond. The tiny figures of those strangers, those friends, those people playing unwillingly with each others’ lives. Sara, Reko, Nao, suspended high on a platform, their panic playing out in Kanna’s empty eye sockets.

It’s not the Reko that held her, the one on that platform up there. It’s not the Reko who comforted her, who told her things would be alright when they first entered the game. But it still looks like Reko. It still talks like Reko.

Dolls are, Kanna thinks, confusing. Non-human.

A manifestation of memory, maybe? But then, these weren’t created of their own will, were they? Unnatural beings…

An idle memory floats to Kanna, an inopportune time for it, as always.

She’s still holding onto her sister’s hand, scuffing her feet as she tries to keep up with her pace walking home. Her shoes scrape the curb, brushing against the tiny wildflowers that grow over the edges of the pavement.

Kugie is complaining again. About schoolwork this time.

Kanna listens intently to her sister’s words. Everything her sister says is interesting, and this is no different.

It’s something about a psychology class she’s taking, or philosophy? 

Some theoretical that she has to do a presentation on, and Kugie couldn’t care less.

“How about you explain it to me, then?” Kanna had asked, and Kugie’s expression had softened just a bit, her grip squeezing Kanna’s hand for a split second.

“Basically, it’s this dumb idea some really old guy came up with a really long time ago, or something. This guy claimed that every person’s “being” or sense of self or whatever it was, was like… made entirely out of their memories? I think…”

Kanna nodded, that made sense.

“But then it gets complicated because then like… if you lose your memories, are you not the same person? What if you misremember things, or lose your memories and get them back? See, it’s silly.”

“It sounds… scary.” Kanna decided on.

“Then that leads to this other idea,” Kugie continued, “that moment to moment, each version of you is a different person from the second before.”

“Then, Kanna would be talking to a new sister now, wouldn’t she?”

Kugie smiled, nodding.

“Yeah, exactly. Hello, newest Kanna.”

Their footsteps filled the silence for a moment. 

“And… What happened to the other Kanna?”

Kugie hesitated.

“I guess… she died.”

Now, Kugie’s words echo in Kanna’s mind, a loop that won’t end. She tries and tries, but her sister’s voice is ever present, never ending.

It’s terrifying. The thoughts that keep swirling, the idea that Kanna let go of. Regardless of her wishes, The Reko That Never Sang a Requiem was created of Reko’s memories. If she has Reko’s memories, is the Reflection That Isn’t Reko as real as the first Reko?

Maybe it’s the atmosphere, the distance, the fear, but Kanna’s stomach squirms when she looks at The Reko That Doesn’t Breathe. It’s Not Kanna’s Reko. There’s nothing about The Reko That Is Pleading For Its Life that’s wrong , per se, no single trait Kanna can point to and say, “there! That’s not the Real Reko!” Then again, maybe it would be better to say there was nothing more wrong with this than to be expected. Because everything about this is wrong, nothing about this is right, Kanna is scared and tired and she wants to go home with her sister and sleep.

When Kanna squints, she can see it. Not physically, not in a way she can describe, but she can feel the difference. That’s not Kanna’s Reko.

The scary part, Kanna knows, though she tries not to think about it, is the lingering feeling that it could’ve been.

Kanna can picture it even, this Reko, though slightly more brash, being Her Reko. This Memory of a Reko. A living ghost for a woman who hadn’t died. Not yet anyway, but from the way Ranger was laughing, Kanna couldn’t be sure how long that would be.

This Reko, The Reko That’s Not Quite Right, is nothing like Ranger, or Safalin, or Miley. Nothing like the Reception Doll. 

She’s Reko, but she’s not.

If this Reko, the Reko that’s crying, make-up staining artificial cheeks, had been the one Kanna had met before, would they still feel the same way?

She doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter. 

Reko tumbles back with Sara’s shove, and Kanna squeezes her eyes shut. 

--

Kanna’s fingers tremble as she holds the phone she’s finally retrieved in her hands. Clumsy Kanna, stupid Kanna, how could she have lost it.

Kanna shakes her head, not that it quiets the voices. 

Taking a deep breath, she begins to type her apology. 

It’s her turn now. She knows it’s her turn now. She’s made this choice, she’s earned this fate, she’s prepared for what it means. She thinks. She hopes.

The tips of Kanna’s nails clack against the phone screen as she types out her message. They didn’t used to. While Kanna was trapped here, they must have grown. The thought unsettles her more than she was expecting it to. Letter by letter, slowly and carefully, she types. She’s not quite hesitant, not quite unrestrained. 

Kanna will be the big sister. She’ll protect her big sister, her Sara, that’s what matters. She can make up for her mistakes, she can atone for her sins. Kanna can do it. Even if her fingers tremble. 

The screen is dark, though Kanna can still make out each letter she types. Her own face reflects back at her, tinted red by the phone’s screen. 

She doesn’t look like herself, really. Or perhaps, she doesn’t look like Kanna? Does Kanna not look like her? The longer she stares at the screen, the more she wonders if Kugie would recognize her. Does she even recognize herself? Though, perhaps recognition is not the top concern. Kanna wonders, more idly than she should, if the Kanna from last year would resent the Kanna who stares back at her now. She wonders if she ought to care either way.

This can be her apology. To her sisters, the both of them, to herself.

When the message is complete, Kanna’s fingers slowly slide off the phone's screen. They’re sweaty, she’s shaking harder than she realized.

But she can’t stop yet. She’s got to atone. 

And she will.

--

Sara’s sobbing when she votes, and Kanna watches her shake. Kanna smiles, softly. She had done it, hadn’t she? Finally, she’d done something right. Just like her big sister, what a good girl, Kanna. Wasn’t that just how things went for a Kizuchi sister? To die to protect her sister? It hurts Sara now, Kanna can see, but she’ll move past it, Sara’s excellent at moving forward. Much better than Kanna in every way. And with Sou, the group will be even stronger. Much stronger than they would’ve been with silly little Kanna.

Yes, this is much better for everyone. 

So Kanna doesn’t see herself when she looks at Sara’s sobbing face. Not in the slightest. 

--

The moment Kanna feels the stabbing, pricking pain, she closes her eyes. She can feel the seeds spreading, flowing through her veins. It’s an awful, horrible feeling, and she screams out despite herself. She wants to slash her skin open with her own hands, rip herself to pieces. At least that would be less painful. She’d prefer the running, dripping agony, than the buzzing, stinging growth that swirls inside her. 

Her eyes stay firmly shut though she wails, mouth wide open.

There’s a saying about memories playing back as someone verges on death, Kanna can’t be certain if it's true or not. But she sees it, playing on the back of her eyelids. The Kanna of yesterday. The Kanna that will never exist. The current, tangled, Kanna, wilting and blooming in unison. They’re smiling, all of them. It’s comforting.

At the very least, it’s Kanna. Her selfish scrap of comfort is that it’s her name she can hear them yelling. I don’t blame you, she wants to say, thank you, she wants to cry, but the vines have replaced her vocal cords.

Kanna’s not sure if it's a mercy or a cruelty that her brain appears to be untouched by the flowers. Her mind whispers out its last message, it repeats and repeats in her brain, the same words rewind and reply, echoing over and over. A reflection, a shadow, a regret. Kanna’s final lament.

Sister… 

Are you... watching?

Are you... proud?

...Kanna

Is just like you... now.

...Kanna did it.

The screaming stops.

I... protected someone with my own death.

...Kanna ...died knowing her sibling would be safe.

Just  

Like  

You.

...Right?

Two girls walk home, holding ice cream in either hand.

Sister?

Kanna made sure sister’s gift wasn’t wasted. But Kanna’s a big sister too now. Kanna’s learned to share. So if it’s me… then it’s fine.

It hurts, sister.

A flower blooms. 

I’m coming to see you again, sister.

…

I hope Kanna hasn’t left you waiting too long.

[Ending.]

[intotheelliwoods]

Hello just wanted to ask (not a complain nor anything bad) but why is only Leos? What happened with the brothers? Why don't they get any screen time? No interaction, no nothing. Where are they? D:

Thank you for your time ♡

-🌸

Ok first of all, please do not ask any creators or artists this. In the end it is really up to them on what they do and do not draw

I am answering because I have gotten multiple people asking me now, and you did phrase this nicely unlike most people, so thank you

It really comes down to the artists priorities, and energy to create. Lets say I were to make a bunch of content for Leos brothers, all 3 of them. That would be time and effort on my end, and screen time taken away from the Leos. Because myself and most other artists are only going to have so much energy to work on something each week

If 2AL were to focus on the rest of Leos family along with the Leos, the Leos would not have as much screen time or scenes in general to be developed properly, and they would not be what makes them memorable and iconic anymore, because there would be less content of them due to everyone else taking up time

The brothers, Splinter April and whoever else, in turn would not be very developed either. I do not have the energy or motivation to fully develop and focus on that many characters, and yeah there are a lot of characters-

Ask any writer or artist, they will all tell you that the more characters in a scene/storyline = the harder it is to draw and/or write

Also, the title, is literally "2 Arms Left"

I have planned from the start to mostly focus on the Leos and I have so much story I want to tell with them, which is hard enough as it is. I cannot add more work onto myself by adding an extra 3, 5, maybe 8 more characters to focus on when 2 characters is already plenty of work

[gunslinginnhogtyin]

I am so late to the game for this one and don't expect you to bang this out if there's already too many! Even though they're not a ship (YET???), what do you think a kid between Rach and Butch would come out like? My bet is the wildest little raccoon child to ever exist.

@splinter-sister

If they had a kid… // @splinter-sister

• Name: Robert “Bo” Donahue-Miller

• Gender: male

• General appearance: Has naturally tired and down turned blue eyes and long lashes, brown fluffy hair that never seems to be able to sit right even when combed, and sharp teeth that will only grow back sharper when he loses them. Bo prefers comfort over fashion so more often than not, he’s wearing an oversized shirt or one of his moms comfy jackets. He wears rain boots even when it’s sunny outside and has a croc collection ongoing with charms and all; his favorite pair is a pair of cowboy boot crocs, though he only wears them on special occasions! He inherited the demon tail but oddly enough—no horns!

• Personality: Bo is very outspoken, sometimes without even meaning to be; this tends to hurt feelings which makes keeping friends for him a bit tricky when they’re under the impression that he’s just being a meanie. Hes introverted enough as it is! He’s also very rebellious, borderlining Thing 1 and Thing 2. Tell this boy to do something and he will do the opposite just to spite you or to make himself laugh. Bo is the drifter sort, lax enough to get along with just about anyone while also having a hard time ‘finding his place’. If he’s comfortable around someone, they’ll find that he’s actually pretty goofy.

• Special talents: definitely has Rachael’s Splinter’s gene. Maintains some of Butch’s demon-like abilities as well but only when he’s emotionally charged (which can be scary for Butch and Rach at times). He’s also quite artistically inclined!

• Who they like better: while they’re both pretty relaxed in the way they’ve brought him up, I feel like Bo may take advantage of his fathers more chaotic tendencies to get out of trouble/stay up late/get extra snacks after dinner or what have you. They would both definitely fuss at him if he got in trouble but I have a feeling Butch might not take it all that seriously considering his own track record, and for that Bo is thankful. ADDITIONALLY CONSIDER… both of them because imagine Rachael and Butch doing the same thing behind each others backs only to find out he’s been getting EXTRA extra because they both love him too much lsjsksjs

• Who they take after more: Rachael in the way that he’s definitely more introverted and laid back than he is energetic and sociable. He’d rather be at home, watching TV or drawing than out and about with a bunch of people. He loves a good adventure of course (who doesn’t?) but only with a tight nit few he’s comfortable around. He’s a big napper and will 100% sleep in if no one wakes him up—he’s not a morning person!

• Personal headcanon(s): Bo has a pet turantula named Spike who will sit on his shoulder and go places with him. He loves music and already knows how to play a few songs on guitar! He also has a keyboard he messes with because it makes funny sounds. Loves video games, begs Rachael and Butch to play Roblox with him all the time (Butch tries his best to appease him but absolutely has no idea what he’s doing). He’s big into retro games as well. Bo is a fan of harmless pranks and has definitely done this to Butch atleast ONCE after seeing this video.

[amberskyyking]

Friend-Coded

Chapter 2: Yeah, this makes a alot of sense. Let's save the guy who's constantly trying to kill us!

CW: Suicide themes, brainwashing

Tron fell into the sea, and Beck dove in after him without a second thought.

Tron had gone against CLU. Tron had protected the users as they made their escape, crashing his light jet into CLU himself! Beck had screamed at the sight, terrified that Tron had been killed for real, before CLU’s signature yellow circuits latched on to a spot of falling orange in the air and rezzed up a new light jet, leaving Tron in freefall.

It was the first sign Beck had seen that his mentor, his friend, was still in there since it all went wrong, but that wasn’t why he dove in. That was just instinct. He’d done the same for Paige back when they were still enemies. He’d spared the black guard on the light rail on his first real mission, he’d done everything he could to save Cutler even after he had been rectified, he even fought to defend Dyson from Tron himself when he realized that his hero was out for revenge! So he couldn’t give up on Tron, he… He just couldn’t, not even if Tron himself had given up.

So Beck swam, his eyes stinging in the waters as he focused on the flickering orange glow below him. He couldn’t watch his friend dissolve into voxels in the sea, not after everything! But his circuits were fading. Beck paddled faster and -

No, it wasn’t fading… It was turning. He just barely kept himself from gasping underwater and choking on the spot. The color was changing to white.

That had to mean Tron was still in there! Beck reached out and grabbed hold of his old mentor’s arm, drawing him in. His body was limp, but he lived. Beck’s lungs started to burn. He wrapped an arm around Tron’s middle, kicked off in the icy waters, and when his head breached the surface again he gulped down the sweet, fresh air, just as an explosion tore through the sky overhead.

He hoped that meant what he thought it did. That CLU’s master plan had been foiled, maybe that CLU himself had been defeated by the users after all! But there was no time to think on it. Tron wasn’t de-rezzing, but he wasn’t waking up either.

It took time to paddle back to land with Tron in tow. It took a little longer to regain his strength enough to rezz up a light cycle and heave his friend on board, and during it, Beck noticed a couple of cracks in Tron’s code from the fight that couldn’t mean anything good. There weren’t many places he could take him. Whatever became of the fight, CLU’s forces were still out there, and he couldn’t risk leading anyone back to where Paige was hiding the remaining rebels. CLU or not, Argon had fallen, and with how many programs they lost, Beck knew Rinzler was largely to blame…

But one of the cracks along his shoulder splintered, and Beck gritted his teeth. “Come on Tron!” He urged, looking around for his options and narrowing his eyes at an inconspicuous mountain peak in the distance. “Stay with me!”

It couldn’t be too late, he had to be right about Tron, he… He just had to be! They’d already lost too many programs in a single cycle and Beck couldn’t lose one more, not like this and not to CLU. The damage it took to turn Tron into Rinzler had been extensive, but it couldn’t have erased him completely, even… Even though Tron had done it to himself.

Beck swallowed hard and swung his lightcycle around to speed off into the outlands, along a path he knew well, holding his friend tight. He couldn’t fix that anymore, he couldn’t save him from what was already done, but maybe this time, he could keep him from falling apart.

---

“We’re here!” Beck panted, carrying Tron in his arms towards the old healing chamber as fast as he could manage. “I’ve got you.” He twisted his friend around and placed him carefully inside, letting the strange liquid take his weight, and closed the door. The moment the unit powered up and the cracks that webbed up his shoulder and down his back started to knit back together, Beck slumped to the floor in a heap.

It had been ages since he was here last, hadn’t it? He hadn’t been back since his last mission with Tron. Beck took a nano to just sit there, his arms weak with the effort of saving Tron’s life and then carrying him all this way, and looked around the old safe house. Out the windows he could see Argon City, awash in orange light. The portal wasn’t lit anymore, but the air around it was littered with eerie glowing voxels and the occasional static discharge, left over from the explosion.

Just like the last time they were here.

If CLU has really captured Kevin Flynn, I have to go! Tron had bit out unapologetically. There IS no choice!

But what if it’s a trap? Beck protested.

The portal just lit up and something exploded, of course it’s a trap! I still have to try. You of all programs should know that.

Let me at least do some recon first! We can’t just go barging in-

You can’t just go barging in! I can, Tron had snarled, layering his own black gridsuit with spare batons, explosives, and a little black disk that made Beck’s stomach turn. There’s no time. If you want to help you can back me but don’t stand in my way.

Why are you packing the Killswitch? Beck asked incredulously.

A last resort, Tron replied with a dark scowl, clicking the thing in place behind his own disks.

Better be, Beck mumbled back.

Tron had shot him a sharp look. Beck, you know what they could do. I can’t let them. If CLU were to get his hands on me I would be-

The greatest weapon he could possibly have, I know, I know, Beck said uncomfortably. But there’s got to be another way. You taught me didn’t you? Don’t you think I’d find a way to come through? To save you?

It’s not that simple, Beck.

Why not? Beck retorted. Don’t you trust me?

I trust you to make the hard decision, the right decision, when the time comes, Tron said solemnly, stepping forward with a heavy sigh and clasping a hand on Beck’s shoulder. I chose you to succeed me for a reason, Beck. You’ve surpassed your programming all on your own. You value the lives of other programs, even your enemies, and you’ve never given up fighting to protect them.

Thanks. But that includes you.

It’s more important that you be there for them. They need Tron to look to, and that’s you. It has been for a long time.

Well maybe I need Tron too, Beck had argued, crossing his arms. Ever think of that?

I have, Tron said darkly.

I-

But Becks words had been cut off as another series of explosions went off in the distance, flashes and smoke visible even from here.

We need to go. Now! Tron barked out. Come on!

Beck could still hear those words in his ears today, as he stared back out the window pane at Flynn’s Place in the distance. He squeezed his eyes shut. Both of them had been right that night. It was a trap, Flynn hadn’t even been there, it was all a part of CLU’s plan and they played right into it… And Rinzler was the greatest weapon CLU could have possibly gotten his hands on.

He could feel the rest of the memory surging forward even though he didn’t want to play it, didn’t want to remember right now, but a small beep from an incoming message helped to smash it back down. He opened his eyes and rushed to read it, eager for any distraction, especially news.

It was Paige. His heart leapt. She was still alive.

Occupation forces just moved past the clinic. They didn’t find our base. Those of us here should be safe for now, but many haven’t returned, she had written. Reliable rumors say Flynn re-integrated with CLU. They’re both gone, along with half his army. We need to plan our next move while they’re missing their leader.

Beck shook his head and re-read the message several times over. She was safe but… Who was missing? What happened to them? And if both CLU and Flynn were really dead… What happened next?

He started to type up a response but found he didn’t know what to say. What could he say? She was right, they did need to plan their next move, but for once he didn’t know where to start.

Tron would know, but… Beck wasn’t even sure how much of Tron was left. There had to be something in there of his original code, he turned on CLU at long last, he saved them, but Beck had saved the enemy now, too.

I know what you did already, Paige’s next message suddenly popped up on the screen.

Beck blinked twice at the screen and smacked his hand to his forehead. How do you know about Rinzler? Who saw? He typed back frantically. If word of this got out…

You just told me.

Beck stared at the screen, feeling stupid for that one. At least their messages were encrypted.

And I know you.

He let out a sigh and smiled just a little bit, in spite of himself. Are you mad? He sent back.

I’m not a hypocrite.

Well… That was a yes, but at least he couldn’t really be in trouble for it. Paige didn’t know who Rinzler really was either, none of them did… But at least she understood.

Most of the others wouldn’t.

Beck typed out a quick heart to send back to her, then changed it to several hearts, hit send, and stowed the communicator. He had to think on this, see what sort of shape Tron was in before making any decisions, and that meant facing him, trying to help him, again. Maybe this time, though, it would be different. Beck pushed himself up on aching legs and stepped closer to the tank. It was hard to see much through the softly glowing liquid, but right away, he could tell Tron’s helmet had been pulled back. He could see the silhouette of his face, and it made something tighten in his throat.

“Better now?” Beck asked cautiously, careful to keep the catch out of his voice. “This chamber held you together before. Maybe it can help again.”

Tron turned towards him and locked on in an instant, even if he couldn’t quite see, but the four squares making up the little T on his collarbone glowed white through the liquid. Beck stared at them. He’d seen them so many times now, always orange before, and he always knew what they meant, even if no one else seemed to put together the pieces. So many programs had been arrested or de-rezzed by their true hero and never even known it, and Beck had tried so many times to reach him, all in vain…

“You know… I hope that color change means something this time,” Beck said uneasily, taking a step closer. “There’s a lot of programs out there who wouldn’t want me to do this.”

Tron remained silent. Beck couldn’t remember ever hearing him talk after that fateful cycle when it all went wrong, but he hadn’t taken his helmet off before either, so…

“You crashed your jet into CLU’s,” Beck tried to remind him. “You had the shot. You could have taken out Flynn, but you turned on CLU instead. Why? What happened up there?” He asked tentatively, but still, there was no response. Beck narrowed his eyes at the form in the water as a million other pent up questions came to mind, but only one slipped out. “Did you finally grow past your programming?”

The words came out bitter. Beck hated even asking, he shouldn’t doubt, but it had nagged at him for so many cycles now. Why had Tron been so insistent they go after Flynn that night with hardly any preparation and no recon, fully aware it could be a trap and taking the risk anyways?! Why, once CLU got his hands in his code, had he had never seemed to fight it?! All that time during their training, Tron had praised Beck for growing past his programming, becoming something more, only for Tron himself to never even…

Beck shook his head, trying to clear the churning thoughts from his mind. “Nothing to say?” He sighed. He should have known it would be like this, shouldn’t have hoped for anything else... But whatever happened out there, whatever his programming or how much he followed it, Tron had done something different. He was still in there, he was here, or at least part of him was. “You… Saved us, you know,” Beck told him. “CLU is gone now. He can’t hurt anyone else. The grid is free, just like you wanted.”

Silence. Beck hoped the news would help somehow, but as he stared hard into the tank looking for any reaction, anything at all that told him how his old friend was feeling about this, not much happened. Only the grinding sound Tron made now grew loud enough to hear through the water. Beck frowned. Had the color change meant a damn thing or did it just mean that Tron’s master was gone?!

“Tron?” Beck pushed.

“I’m not Tron,” Tron suddenly growled, and Beck’s eyes widened. “CLU killed him.”

“Sorry but CLU’s not that good,” Beck shot back in elation! The words themselves weren’t great, sure, but hearing Tron’s voice again at all had to be a sign of something! “I told you, I saw what you did today. You’re still in there Tron, I know it!” Beck grinned.

“It’s Rinzler,” Tron snarled, hitting the glass with his hand.

“I don’t think so,” Beck said lightly. “And CLU’s gone. You can’t answer to him anymore anyways, you don’t have to be what he wants you to be!”

The tank began beeping at that moment and Tron turned frantically towards it. Becks smile faltered just a little.

“You didn’t break it,” He reassured him. “It’s just done all it can for you, for now. Come on. Let’s get you out of there… And don’t try anything.”

Beck wanted so badly just to trust him again, but if Tron really thought he was still Rinzler, that could be a problem. He still steeled himself for a nano before opening the chamber door and offering a hand to help guide him out. Before he could even get a glimpse of his face, though, Tron practically fell out of the tank! He stumbled a moment, dazed and disoriented, and Beck reached to help, but that was a mistake. Tron snatched both disks off his back, swinging them wildly through the air and making Beck duck, then tripped over nothing and fell crashing to the floor. One of the disks rolled from his hand.

“Tron! Are you okay?” Beck asked frantically, but Tron didn’t answer. Beck gathered up his hand and looked anxiously down at his friend. Tron’s eyes were unfocused and hollow, his lips twitched, his scar… Why did he have that massive scar again?! Beck blinked at it in disbelief. It had been fixed before, CLU had done it himself when he tried to have Tron rectified, but now it was back… And his face looked different somehow, too. Younger, but with even more scars than just the one that Beck remembered! Shouldn’t CLU have been able to fix those, too? Of course Tron had been in fights but who the hell had been maintaining him?! And what was happening to him now?! He’d collapsed coming out of the tank once before and that had been terrifying, he nearly died and it took extreme measures to have him fixed! Beck took a deep breath and the realizations and squeezed Tron’s hand tight.

“You’re not dying on me this time. It’s not another virus is it?” Beck asked with more confidence in his voice than he really felt. “The healing tank should have helped with the surface damage but… these scars were gone before… Why are they back?”

Tron just stared back at him, his breathing shallow, as his eyes slowly started to clear. Beck waited as patiently as he could manage in the tension, which wasn’t much.

“CLU,” Tron said distantly. “No virus.”

Of course it was CLU, it was all CLU, whatever was wrong with his friend, virus or not! But this went beyond just using Tron as a weapon, this… This was just cruel.

Tron sat up and turned to look at Beck with a hooded glare. “Where’s Flynn?”

“Flynn?” Beck asked, still taking in all the marks on Tron’s face and caught off guard at the question, but suddenly there was a spinning disk at Beck’s throat.

That was on him for not paying enough attention, or maybe forgetting this was still Rinzler right now, no matter who he used to be. Beck probably should have been alarmed or concerned but… He looked down at the disk, then back at Tron, those rigid, sharp lines on his confused, scarred up face, and all he felt was heartbreak. Whatever was twisted up in his old friends code must be causing him so much pain, even now. Tron wouldn’t hurt him, but Tron wouldn’t have de-rezzed all those programs either.

And now, even though he had finally fought back, even though he had almost given everything to protect Flynn, Flynn had died. But Tron deserved the truth. CLU had been lying to him long enough.

“He’s… Gone, Tron,” Beck told him. “I’m sorry…”

“It’s Rinzler,” Tron spat.

Beck pursed his lips in frustration at that. “Whatever CLU told you you were-” But Tron pressed his disk closer to his neck, sending prickles down his skin, and Beck looked up in surprise. “Okay, okay. I’m not here to hide anything,” Beck said, eyeing the thing with a little more nerves than he had before. “If you need to know, Flynn re-integrated with CLU. Neither survived it. The other user they brought in went back to what the users call the real world… They’re both gone, Tr- Rinzler. It’s over.”

He held his breath for a minute as Tron or… Or Rinzler thought it over. Calling him Rinzler didn’t feel right. Tron had never wanted this. He’d even told Beck as much, that was the whole point of the damn Killswitch, so CLU couldn’t use him as a weapon!

It made Beck feel sick. He knew what he saw out there, Tron’s circuits were white again, and Beck had believed all this time that Tron could be saved because he had to! He could never give up on the idea Tron still lived, that he could be saved, but if he was wrong? What if, after the Killswitch and after CLU, there was nothing left of his old code, his old memories? What if Beck had really fucked up that badly?

Tron pulled the disk back from the edge of his neck and stared down at their hands. Tron.. or Rinzler… Hadn’t let go, even with a disk to his throat. Beck wasn’t sure what that meant, but it was better than being de-rezzing him on the spot. Before tonight, Beck knew that he wouldn’t have hesitated. There was something else too, though. After all this time not being able to see his face, maybe without his friend even knowing who he was, Tron looked confused, and… scared.

“Look… You don’t have to tell me what that was about if you don’t want to,” Beck said quietly, looking down at their hands as guilt throbbed in his code. “You don’t have to do anything anymore. But even if you don’t know it, we’ve kind of been through a lot together. You’ve been trying to catch me for a long time, and I’ve been trying to get through to you. So now that you’re here, and they’re gone… I’m not leaving you alone. That’s not what friends do.”

Becks words hung in the air. He hoped that wasn’t pushing too far, even if it was true.

Tron seemed to consider it for a moment, then turned over the disk in his hand. A small image shimmered to life above it, an image of… Beck.

We’re friends… Right? The miniature Beck asked in a voice that sounded so much younger than Beck remembered, all that time ago. There wasn’t anything else after it, the memory cut off abruptly before the old Tron gave Beck his snarky non-answer, but Beck could hardly think. His whole heart was lodged in his throat. Tron still had that, and it meant everything! He barely managed to stammer out the question to confirm what he’d just seen with his own eyes.

“You remember me?”

Tron, or Rinzler, if he really preferred that right now, rolled his eyes in a familiar sort of way. “Vaguely,” He scoffed, returning the disk to his back.

Beck’s heart could have burst. “B-Better than nothing,” He said, unable to keep the emotion from his voice that time and giving Tron’s hand a tight squeeze. “A lot is about to change, but… We can figure it all out together, now. Okay?”

It was important that he knew that. After all this time there was no way Beck would be leaving him alone. Not after his downfall, not after those scars and hurts, never again.

Tron didn’t have much of a reaction to that, but he didn’t protest it either. “Okay,” He huffed after a nano. The grinding sound that had to be from his processors slowed and quieted into something low and rhythmic, almost soothing.

Beck looked at him with a watery grin, but his eyes were already closed. Somehow, that made Beck grin even more. He still hadn’t let go of his hand either, and with how tight his own grip was, Beck probably wasn’t going to be getting it back anytime soon.

He really trusted him, didn’t he?

The realization hit him like a light rail train. Tron, or Rinzler, had just dozed off, right here, with his shoulder pressed against Beck’s arm and their fingers intertwined. He had to be exhausted after this cycle, Beck was too, but Tron had never done that before, and he had done it almost instantly.

How much of that was him, and… How much of it was damage?

Beck exhaled carefully and closed his eyes. After everything today, after all they had been through for cycles on end, if something this simple was bringing his old friend some comfort, he didn’t mind. He would stay here all night if that’s what Tron needed to feel safe, he was tired too…

But it still nagged at him as he tried to fall asleep, as he struggled to suppress the memories that threatened to turn into nightmares in the back of his mind. Flashes of Tron racing to Flynn’s Place through the shadows, fighting past countless sentries along the way and slipping out of Beck’s sight. Spotting him again from the vents, too much time later but not too late, restrained against a table in defiant silence. There was no Flynn, there had never been a Flynn, the entire thing was a trap meant to prey on the one thing CLU knew the real Tron could never resist. Beck knew that now, and so did Tron, but Beck had found him in time to save him, just like he’d done before, just like he promised he could! The machine poised over Tron hummed to life, Beck tore the disk from his back and lined up his shot, and…

And Tron spasmed unnaturally. Beck realized in a horrible instant what Tron had just done. His friend started to convulse, corrosive black acid creeping down his arms and up his neck -

NO! He cried out in the vision, jerking forward in real life with his eyes wide open, gasping for breath.

No…

He’d been there. He’d been right there, he could have stopped it! If only Tron had trusted him to, trusted him back there the way he did now…

Then again, maybe Beck didn’t deserve it. He had never been sure he made the right choice later that night, either.

Beck leaned into his old mentor by his side with a shudder, grateful to be holding his hand tight now, no matter how many times Rinzler had tried to kill him lately. He didn’t stir, which was good. At least they were both still here. They had survived this much. Beck wouldn’t give up. And maybe in time, they’d both be able to heal from their mistakes.

At least, he could hope.

🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡

Wasn’t planning to post till I had a little more buffer but this thing demanded its freedom so here we are! I’ve got a few ideas now and just might be doomed by the narrative for this to be a long fic now! And I realized I gave Rinzler orange circuits in the pic from my last chapter, whoops, so here’s a revised version with the white ones! They both look cool. This is what happens when you get tricked into fandom I suppose! Chapter 1 below too, if it’s needed 🧡🥰

Chapter 1: Sure, just shatter the box of repressed memories. What could go wrong?