#the last ronin fanfiction

[puzzledcretin]

It Was Years Ago

(Written for @tmnt-write-fight for @phoebepheebsphibs)

Sorry if you were expecting another iteration, I have Ronin on the brain

Fandom: The Last Ronin (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles) Prompt: "When was the last time we did this?" Word Count: 1,271

Read On AO3

“When was the last time we did this?”

The words caught Ronin off guard. All his years of training, all his paranoia, he was still unable to tell when April was sneaking around. She was more of a ninja than he ever was, or he simply let his guard down. Either way, he slowly turned to find the graying redhead standing in the doorway of the torn apart kitchen. 

Ronin hummed, his fingers pinching the small dial of the stove to turn the gas on. 

“When was the last time I was in New York?” He questioned. 

April laughed, weakly, but she laughed. Ronin used to be really good at reading people, emotions were a second language that he knew by heart. The softness of someone else’s feelings, they were smudged and smeared across the pages of his life. 

And yet, as he looked at his old friend, he took note of the wrinkles along her face. Despite the new language barrier, he knew those marks were not made by age alone. 

Ronin focused on sifting through the nearby cabinet for the box of matches he had spotted earlier. For being a bunch of scraps, there were so many damn dishes. Not to mention the darkness, but that was more Ronin’s fault. Trying to avoid the aching in his head that would only be worsened by light. The light and also the low buzzing that came along with old fluorescent lights. 

“I.. Don’t actually know when you were last in New York. I remember I woke up and I was so busy.. I didn’t know where exactly you were. But everyone else was dead, why wouldn’t you be?” April responded as she pushed off the doorframe. She pulled a match from her pocket, swiping it against Ronin’s shell to light it. She held it down to the burner, the flame flickering for a moment or two before catching light. 

“... It’s been over fifteen years since I’ve been..” Ronin’s throat constricts. His body physically rejecting the idea of admitting after all these years-

“Home?” April asks as she plucked the kettle full of water from the sink and placed it on the burner. 

His lips tighten, his neck stiff as he nodded in response. 

Home was always a silly way to put it. Home wasn’t New York, home wasn’t the sewers where he was raised, home wasn’t even in the book he carried around. 

Home died all the way back then when his brothers did, when his father did. When Casey and April..

Ronin paused to look at April. She seemed oblivious to his turmoil, or pretended to be. She made her way over to one of the few cabinets that had doors, pulling down two mugs and a box of old tea bags. Old, yeah, but not old enough that Ronin would recognize them. 

His home was long gone, but as he stood here and watched his old friend move around this kitchen that certainly felt familiar. But, he couldn’t be sure if it actually was or if the sewer was just ingrained enough in his mind. Much like the flame on the stove, seeing April.. Home flickered back to life. Slowly, like a fire deprived of oxygen. 

“So, the last time we did this was over fifteen years ago. Seems like we are due for some time together, don’t you think, Mikey?” April grinned, moving to bump her shoulder against Ronin’s.

“Don’t.. Don’t call me that,” Ronin responded, holding his hand up to lightly push her back for a moment. 

April’s grin faltered, her eyebrows drawing up in concern. Ronin’s eyes stayed focused on the kettle. A watched pot never boils, but he’s witnessed enough impossibilities throughout his long, long life to place a bet that it would be fine. 

“So, you’re abandoning your name?”

It’s a voice that’s been haunting him, one of three. Ronin’s fists clenched at his sides. 

“Seems like he is. I’m not surprised, he’s always had a flair for the dramatics.”

Another voice chimes in, rougher than the first. But he ignores it, has to. Feeding into these voices would be counterproductive to the reality he was trying to engage in now. 

“Well, if you aren’t Mikey, then I guess we’ve never done this before at all. I mean, I’ve never met Ronin before now.” April bounced back, smirking at the large turtle. She leaned back against the stove, along the side where the burner didn’t work anymore. 

“April, that’s not what I’m saying. I just.. How do I associate with that name?” Ronin questioned, lifting his gaze to finally look at April. She stared into his eyes, and with that fierce determination that she always had, she didn’t back down. Gosh, how he missed her. Missed this. 

The last time they did this- Making tea in the kitchen, having a conversation- Ronin was just a child. He was still trying to figure out his place in this world. Was he doing the right thing? Was fighting the route he wanted to take in the future?

And she looked at him then as she looked at him now. Without question, without fear. 

“With confidence.” April filled in his blanks. “You are Hamato Michelangelo. Son of Hamato Yoshi. And you have a mission to carry your family name to the end, do you not?”

“I will bring an end to the Foot Clan, in the name of my family.” Ronin responded, his eyebrows coming together, “But I ran away. I hid. Like a coward, I tried… I dishonored them.” 

As if sensing the tension, the kettle on the stove squealed with steam shooting up from the neck. April shot Ronin a look as she grabbed the kettle handle, bringing it over to the two mugs. 

“You were getting stronger, you couldn’t have done that here. Not with what was going on.” April stated, “What you did was rather smart,”

April gestured for Ronin to move to the small table. Four chairs surrounding a small wooden table that looked like he needed some work. In the center, a medium sized candle burned. Ronin lumbered over, sitting down heavily in the wooden chair. It creaked under his weight, but despite the new strain, it stayed fully intact. 

“It wasn’t by choice, April..” Ronin muttered, his elbows resting on the table. He hung his head, eyes tracing one of the cracks that ran along the grain of the wood. 

“Oh? It wasn’t?” 

April brought the mugs over to the table, pushing the black mug under Ronin’s nose before she moved to sit right next to him. She stirred the tea bag in the hot water for a moment.

“So, someone forced you to train?” April questioned.

“No-”

“Someone held you prisoner and made you get stronger?”

“I mean kind of-”

“Someone made you get all bulky?”

“April! April, I get it, okay? I just.. I feel like I let them down.” Ronin answered. He lifts his head, hands coming around the warm mug. But he stared at the liquid as color slowly seeped out of the bag. “I worry I let them down.”

“No, I know your brothers. I know your father. You’ve only ever made them proud.” April decided. “You’ve made me proud.”

Silence hung between them, the flame of the candle bouncing around on the wick. But the silence was warm, it was familiar. And truly? It felt like home. 

“... The last time we did this was over fifteen years ago,” Mikey spoke softly, leaning over to rest his head on April’s shoulder. 

“How the years fly by,” April responded, bringing her mug up to her lips.

[sweeneydino]

Note to self: reading TLRBADA by @melonpalooza makes you an aw(esome)ful person.

[forgetful-nerd]

I love it when the older iterations of TMNT are aged up in crossover fanfictions, and they just see their younger counterparts and are like:

And it’s even funnier when 2012!TMNT meet their Rise! Counterparts and suddenly the shoe is on the other foot like:

It’s the circle of life. Each younger iteration are babies in the eyes of the older ones.

[angelmichelangelo]

the dad diaries for @turrondeluxe ❤️

if anybody doesn’t know, the peepaw and babies au has TOTALLY taken over my brain like. in the best way possible so of course i just had to write a lil fic for it <3 i hope u like this, amigo! i have other little ideas floating around in my head if you’d ever want more fic version of your au :) anyway enough rambling ENJOY!! everybody go check out the au i’m fairly certain everything is archived on @peepawronin for your enjoyment :-)

His coffee, as strong as it may, didn’t deter the headache that was blossoming behind his tired, weary eyes from expanding; creeping across the front of his skull with each steady pulse of his heartbeat.

He takes another sip, steels himself to see if perhaps the magic he knows does not truly exist has worked and…

“Papa!”

There’s the sound of his youngest, voice thick with babyish chub still, carrying across the lair with determination, tallying around inside his squeezing head like a brash drum cymbal.

Before he can push himself up off his stool, it goes off again, shrill and impatient,

“Papa! Papa! I’m telling!”

That was nothing new for Michelangelo these days, that familiar old phrase, minced with saccharine dramatics, he’s blinking his eyes hard to starve off the rest of the headache that threatens him; the kind that travels down the back of his skull and towards his shell and over his spine and makes him feel about a million years old.

He heaves a sigh. He already feels a million years old these days, what with the trophies of his days gone by evident across his aging body, like his trick knee and the ache he gets in his elbow when it perhaps rains a little too hard. It’s one thing to feel it physically, but the added bonus of it being emotional as well weighs just a touch too heavy for his liking.

He comes to a stop in the pit where the sounds are louder and more pitchier, and there’s two little turtles to accompany them, faces all pinched into varying degrees of annoyance.

It’s Odyn who reaches him first, as it often is, he’s a daddy’s boy at heart, little tiny legs carrying him the small distance that separates them, he goes barrelling into the larger, older turtle, face first into his pant leg. He’s gripping the edges of the fabric with three little fingers, giving it a sharp tug when he says with a rush of air,

“Papa, Uno is being mean again!” He whines, pressing his snout into Mikey’s leg. “He keeps calling me names!”

Uno has since joined their fray now, chest heaving with each stuttered breath as if the idea of being accused of such a thing is stunting each draw of air into his lungs.

“No I didn’t!” He retorts, voice all pitchy and nasally. Michelangelo groans softly to himself. “He’s just being a baby! Like he always is!”

Such a spiteful word directed towards their youngest is enough to erupt a hurtful sob from the smaller turtle. He buries his face further into his fathers leg, his voice warbled and muffled from both the tears the the mouth full of pant he has right now, but Mikey is able to carefully decipher it of something along the lines of, (in true irony),

“See! He keeps calling me a baby!”

He pries his son’s iron grip off from his leg, forcing him to look upwards with a tap of his finger beneath his damp chin. Fat tears roll down his cheeks, framing his face almost perfectly, he looks at his child sternly.

“You know not to take it to heart, hm? Do you eat baby food and wear diapers?”

Odyn sniffles, bringing a fist up to scrub away at the snot collected beneath his snout.

“No?”

Mikey hums. “And do you chew on furniture and need papa’s help to feed yourself?”

Odyn shakes his head. “No, papa.”

Michelangelo grins softly. “Then you’re not a baby. You know that, I know that.” He looks pointedly at his other son who is unmovable under his gaze. “Uno knows that. He only says it to get a rise out of you, right?”

Odyn’s bottom lip wobbles dangerously. “Yes,” he says in a rush, “but—”

Michelangelo is swift to cut in. “But I will deal with your brother. Okay?”

Odyn doesn’t seem entirely swayed; Michelangelo thinks that maybe he wanted some sort of permission to perhaps say a bad word directed at his brother, or maybe to have it out in a short scrap and there as kind of emotional compensation that only siblings would believe to be a reliable source of insurance against name calling.

But the smaller turtle eventually heaves a heavy, wet sigh, and nods his head solemnly.

“Good. Go play with your sisters,” Michelangelo instructs him, tapping him gently against the ridge of his shell. “I think they’re coloring. Will you make me something pretty?”

That gets his spirits up, the smile beaming across his face so bright, it might as well evaporate his previous tears left behind on his cheeks.

“Okay!” He calls out with delight as he toddles off to join his other, much quieter siblings on the far side of the room. Mikey watches them as they scoot aside and make space for him, offering up a fresh slice of paper, he’s already making grabby hands for the brightest crayons they own.

“He’s always getting me into trouble.”

That’s Uno’s low, forbidding voice, all full of that way too early angst that he recognises from himself and his brothers in their adolescent years, and when Mikey turns to face him, he’s sullen.

He doesn’t wait to hear whatever wisdom his father might be able to offer, instead, his bottom lip is trembling like it’s heavy with the weight of all the words he wishes to say; all the woes and the hurt that comes with having little brothers, and suddenly, with his face drawn in such an expression and his eyes narrowed and his mouth tight, Michelangelo sees a glimpse of Raphael in this child.

“You know, I was the youngest of my brothers,” Michelangelo explains to him. He motions for him to follow as they leave the pit, letting the soft voices of the other children behind them as they walk back towards the kitchen from which he came. “I pulled the same tricks he pulls from time to time.”

Uno pauses his end of conversation to clamber on top of the barstool that wobbles slightly under his swaying weight. Michelangelo steadies it with a hand until his son is fully situated, and once he is, he’s swiveling around to face the older turtle, still sporting the same, sour expression across his younger face.

“Then why’d you let him get away with it?” He says, words barbed, like this was somehow his fault now. “It’s not fair, papa.”

And Michelangelo chuckles softly. There are the glimpses of Donatello that shine through, like bright sunshine filtering through curtains in the early morning in hues of gold – that sharp intellect that constantly comes with its millions of almost unanswerable questions.

“Because I also know what my older brothers were capable of,” he tells him gently. “They did all they could to push my buttons, to get me in trouble. They knew how to play the game without getting themselves a foul.”

Uno heaves a loaded sigh, his plastron rising and falling, his hardened glare seems to melt away a little as he allows his father’s words to soak in.

“I just hate him,” he says suddenly, words dark and low. “He’s so annoying.”

Michelangelo stiffens at that. And at his father’s physical reaction, Uno shrinks a little, aware of what he’d just said; how loaded his words were.

“You don’t hate him.” Michelangelo tells him, Uno’s gaze gingerly lifts to meet his. “You are annoyed by him, yes, but hate is such a strong word, musko-san.”

Uno’s dark eyes flicker across the room with nerves, caught out, he wrings his hands together, as if trying to rid himself of the nervous energy that this conversation was building within him.

“I’m sorry chichi,” he says in a small voice. “That was mean. I don’t hate Uno.”

Michelangelo hums. “I know.” Then, “You know how I know?”

Uno shakes his head.

“The time you taught him kanji,” he begins to list. “Or when he lost a tooth and you soothed him because he was hurt.” He watches with pride as a small smile ghosts across his child’s face. “Or whenever you read to him before bed, even when it’s the stories you have already heard before.”

Uno rubs tiredly at his eyes; all of these emotions are a lot to bear for such a small boy.

“I know you love your brother, Uno,” Michelangelo tells him, tapping a green finger beneath his chin to gather his focus. “I know because I see so much of your oji in your soul.” He smiles warmly at his son. “Each one of them,” he adds, moving his finger down from his face to rest across his plastron, right over where his heart lies. “Right here, hm?”

Uno shifts in his seat, the old, worn barstool groans under his growing weight, he pitches himself as far forward as he can go without toppling off, looking up at his father with big, round curious eyes.

“Really?” He says, voice clinging to an awed whisper.

“Really.” Mikey tells him with a stern nod. “Now go play,” he says quickly, flapping him away with a dismissive hand.

“Papa hasn’t had enough coffee this morning,” he mutters, pinching his eyes narrowly to try and avoid the impending headache that’s crawling back across his skull. “Try not to have anymore arguments until at least late afternoon, yes?”

Uno hops off his seat, almost tripping in the process, he stands tall when he tells him,

“That’s okay!” He’s smiling now. A sight Mikey is sure he’ll never truly tire of, no matter how many headaches life brings. “Maybe I can ask the others if I can draw too, and we’ll make you something nice to make you feel better, hm?”

Michelangelo reaches across the countertops for his discarded beverage from earlier. Curling his fingers around the mug, he finds with welcomed surprise that it’s still warm. “You better,” he tells him with an entirely serious tone surrounding his words, raising one brow ridge for emphasis. “I didn’t spend hours scavenging those crayons for nothing.”

And with that, Uno is padding off in the direction of where his other children are gathered; straining an ear he can hear their excitable chatter and babble as they continue to work together.

And when their eldest sibling joins in, there doesn’t seem to be any lasting animosity; Odyn shows off what he’s already made, pride and excitement swelling over whatever leftover hurt from their spat, and Michelangelo chuckles to himself as he listens to Uno’s gentle encouragement that floats through front the other room.

He brings the coffee mug to his lips, steam curls itself around his snout, and a smile touches at his face, the slightest of turns. He awards himself with another mouthful, and whilst it doesn’t do much to quell his migraine, it does feel deserved.

And later that night, when he has all four of his children growing heavy in his arms, fighting a battle against fatigue that they are bound to lose against, as it is most nights, he watches his as Uno shuffles in closer to his brother, his pudgy little arm draped across the slope of his shell, and Odyn, his jaw slack, drool dried across his chin, his soft snores only just about disturbing the silence that falls across the room, he seems to curl into his brother’s offered warmth and Michelangelo smiles softly to himself.

Here in his lap are his children – the little turtles that call him papa and rush to him to settle disputes and disagreements, and to kiss scraped knees and to devote each of their wobbly crayon drawings to him that end up covering the fridge and the kitchen walls in a decoration of color and love and he knows that even with coffee, even with the best coffee in the world, all of this is worth a thousand bad headaches. Tomorrow might bring peace and tranquility and ease, or perhaps it shall be Yi and Moja that decide to scrap and fight or maybe all four will fall out of love momentarily, as siblings often do.

Michelangelo should know, he’s been one his entire life, even if his brothers are no longer here to push his buttons or fight him or argue over petty, useless things, he knows with great ease, that despite it all, they always found their way back together, whether it was over something big or small – that was the love between brothers and family.

He presses his sleeping turtles closer to him, curling his arms around them, they melt around his warmth and he knows that much like his group of siblings, these four here, were no exception to the same rules.

He closes his eyes and basks in the moment, acutely aware in the moment of quiet, of the headache that has finally shrunk itself away.

[iluvtortlez]

GUYS GUYS GUYS

BREAKING NEWS‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

FIRST CHAPTER TO MY CROSSOVER FIC IS FINALLY HERE OMG

LES GOOOOO THIS TOOK SO LONG.

anyway hope u guys luv it:3

[dysfunctional-doodle]

The next chapter of Subsidence is out (better late than never, I guess?), and things are…still angsty. What can I say? I love angst.

For those who don’t know, the fic is about the four 2003 brothers getting trapped in a collapsed sewer tunnel, separated and wounded.

It’s basically 10 chapters of angst, so check out the link of the most recent chapter if you’re feeling particularly morbid.

[tangled-affections]

Note: This profile contains NSFW content, which means no minors under eighteen.

Hello, my name is Tangled, or Meg, for those who are personal to me.

About The Blog:

This blog has all topics I choose to write about which is basically for adult eyes only.

The fandom(s) I Write For:

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 1990's movies

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Bay verse

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 2003

TMNT 2007 Movie

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: The Last Ronin Comic

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: The Last Ronin ll (Next Generation) Comic

Naruto (Anime/Manga)

Note: This list could grow or lessen depending on how I feel...

Requests are -> Open

Thank you and happy reading! 

[nani-nonny]

Blah blah blah I’m working on improving story summaries bc I’m bad at them and don’t like doing them tbh

Anyways, how do we feel about this?

The Hamatos are barely a month into their recovery post-krang invasion when they hear of a monster running rampant in the Hidden City. With razor sharp teeth, eyes foggy with absolute fury, and enormous form rivaling that of the reptiles once thought to be extinct, the monster searches blindly for answers no one can provide. But the strangest thing about this monster are the two words that escape its mouth in a voice close to incoherent, “Raph… alone.”

Bleh anyways just a story idea at the moment nothing crazy going on

[snowflakeanimelover]

New story Idea!

Hello hello! since i have been obsessed with TMNT, i decided to start a new story about them! I figured I’d post the summary and see if anyone enjoys it or finds it intriguing. If thats the case, and enough people like it, then I’d love to post the story on here as I write it. Im pretty excited about it and cant wait to share it.

━━━━ ⊱ °｡ ☾ °｡⊰━━━━

Title: All For One, And One For All

Summary: It is a mystery to many how the world actually operates. Do other universes exist? Are there identical versions of people living in alternate worlds? Do they lead the same lives or different ones? These concepts are so enigmatic that most people consider them to be mere myths or fictional tales. They are often portrayed in movies just to appease people's curiosity about the subject.

So, the question is....Is it real?

Marianne O'Neil is a person who has discovered different dimensions and worlds. During her exploration, she comes across some worlds where she realizes that she has died in various ways, such as accidents, murders, and other possible causes of death. While this discovery is unsettling, Marianne understands that she must focus on one important thing:

The only universe that hasn't been taken over by Krang just yet.

━━━━ ⊱ °｡ ☾ °｡⊰━━━━

[molotovbortles]

tmnt madoka magica crossover when? bitch i need to see mikey as a magical girl and have him [SPOILER REDACTED]

like bro, so much angst potential. (and it will be so forked up, like holy shirt)

[coffee-and-cake]

Finally write another one shot

Tmnt last ronin Mikey and his little clingy tots

[puzzledcretin]

A Letter from Me to Me

(written for @tmnt-write-fight for @butchmellohi)

Fandom: The Last Ronin (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles) Prompt: In character letter to another character or even to a past or future self (open ended, any iteration) Word Count: 535

Read on AO3

Dear Michelangelo,

You are a tough kid. 

You are a terrifying kid.

You are a powerful, naturally talented, gift of a kid.

But out of all these sentences, Michelangelo, there’s one word in common.

You are just a kid.

My god… I look at you and I can not believe how small we used to be. I look in the mirror and I struggle to convince myself that we are one in the same. You look like you could still light up any room you walk into, you look like you still carry that spark. And here I am, having become one with the shadows and reflecting back on my life and who I used to be. 

But I lost that, a long time ago, I lost that spark in you. That spark that makes everything, everything, feel like a game. Or at the very least makes it feel like a game that we have an actual shot at winning. 

I can not lie to you, Michelangelo, at some point it feels like you get stuck in a repetitive game loop where we can not progress because of our action. And there’s no check points, there’s no respawn. We can’t reload an old save. 

Heh, guess I’m not completely devoid of old fun references, huh?

My point is: I am not you. Once upon a time, we shared a name, we shared a face, we shared a mind. But I hope, for everything in this world, that I look like a complete stranger to you. And I hope that you will never have to see my face ever again.

And.. Only now do I realize I have not actually introduced myself to you, though I am pretty certain that my identity is crystal clear. 

My name used to be Michelangelo, much like you. I used to be a kid like you. But things in my life got messy. I got messy. And I lost any right to call myself that. Michelangelo loves fun, Michelangelo never stops smiling, and Michelangelo has a family to support him. 

You can call me Ronin, it’s.. It’s easier that way. 

One day, you may be faced with the same set of choices that I have had to make. I hope for the sake of your sanity that you will never have to face what I have had to face. But if you do, it is vital that you understand that you can’t just give up. It seems easy. You want to just lie down and take whatever the world is cruel enough to give you, but you can’t. 

It’s a sick joke, but you’ll learn rather quickly that there is no escape. You’ll take the beatings, you’ll take the pain, but there won’t be an end until you bring honor to your family. 

And it isn’t fair. I know it isn’t. But that is why I am writing to you. Because I was the Michelangelo who won. And if I can give you any advice to help you succeed better than I did, I will give it to you. 

Remember, the world will beat you down. But you just have to stand back up. 

Stand up, Michelangelo.

A stranger,  Ronin

[sweeneydino]

Inspo:

Specific part under break(spoilers for CH.38 - got milked?)

[limabeans-babies-forthewin]

Interdimensional Crisis Pt 3

Hey! So! It's been awhile since I've updated this fic, hm? In my defense, I had like 3 massive events happen in my life within, like, a month. But this fic (and several others) have been rattling in my brain the entire time, so yeah!

Thanks to those of you who're reading! And if you don't want irregular updates, I'm more than likely going to combine them all into one. . . Really. . . Long. . . one shot? Who knows. Point is, it's going up on Ao3 when I'm done and you can read it there. With possible edits.

Thanks!

FIRST

Previous

The first thing that surprises Duck is the amount of security patrolling the streets, making them feel exposed even though they stick to the shadows and more abandoned locales. Overly armed guards loiter on every corner and stare at anything that moves for longer than Duck thinks is needed, eyes burning holes in every unlucky passerby that crosses their path. Cameras buzz and hiss as they rove and zoom in on everything they can. It’s honestly horrifying and reminds Duck of a particularly rough episode of a podcast they finished a while back. Being monitored and watched wasn’t something they worried about until that episode, but now they feel the anxiety sharply. They never really worried about being seen in their own universe given how everyone is so deeply involved in their own lives, so being surrounded by cameras and armed guards makes it feel like they’ve finally awakened that mutant instinct of fearing being seen.

A large hand closes around their wrist and Duck jumps as they’re dragged forward.

“Don’t stop moving,” Ronin hisses as he guides them around a corner. They hadn’t realized they had slowed. “If you stop too long, you’ll be seen. Keep your hood up, eyes down, and keep moving. Only stop when I tell you to.”

Duck nods and uses their free hand to tug their hood over their head, casting their attention to the ground they walk on as they speed up to level with the older turtle. So far, Duck has come to the conclusion that the best way to stay on Ronin’s good side is to stay quiet and follow instructions. So they do.

“Hold up.”

The short stop causes Duck to run into Ronin’s back, but he doesn’t even shift under the impact. Duck, however, rubs their face as their eyes water and attempt to peer around him. They’re barely allowed a glimpse of the pair of men passing by before Ronin shoves them back and pins them to the shadows against the wall behind him. He levels them with a brief look before he turns his attention back once again and waits. After the men move out of range, Ronin peels himself from the bricks and moves toward the manhole cover in the middle of the alley. He levers it open with ease and motions for Duck to follow, keeping his eyes on their surroundings as Duck climbs down into the sewers. Once their feet hit the ground, they take a few steps away from the ladder as Ronin clears them once again and follows them down, making sure the cover is secure before finishing his descent.

“How you feeling?” he asks once they’re safely away from prying eyes or ears. His tone is softer and teeters more on the edge of how Draxum used to behave when they first met. Almost awkward as he tests the waters of politeness after an initial rough period. “Still cold? Nauseous?”

Duck shakes their head. Then hesitates and waves a hand in a ‘so-so’ motion. “I have a headache,” they admit. “And I’m a little tired. But other than that, I’m pretty alright. You know, all things considered.”

Ronin looks at them for a long moment and for that moment, Duck feels like they did when they first met Donnie. Almost like they’re being studied or observed so their reactions can be stored away and referred to later. It’s fine, though. They’re used to being watched since they’re extremely young and fairly freshly mutated. Everyone wants to make sure they’re coping with sentience in a healthy manner they suppose. Which is great because sometimes they aren’t. Like right now.

In their defense, they have just been forcibly ejected from their own dimension, punched by a turtle over two feet taller than they are, and they’re pretty sure they were yanked between universes without eating dinner, so they’re very hungry. But they still find themself instinctively smiling to try to hide most of what they’re feeling. Why? Who knows.

It seems useless against Ronin, though, since his eyes narrow suspiciously. “Your lip is bleeding.”

Duck swipes a thumb under their mouth and frowns when it comes back red and wet. They hum and swipe their hand down the side of their pants. “You hit me in the face,” they counter.

Ronin’s expression softens further and he frowns in displeasure.

"I’m just saying. People usually bleed when you hit them in the face. There are a lot of veins and shit in the head area.”

“I know,” he says, turning around and heading into the sewers proper. “Sorry.”

Duck hurries to keep up and tugs his jacket tighter around their shoulders. Much like in their own dimension, the sewers are colder than aboveground. So when it’s already cold in the upper world, it’s freezing below. And it’s basically freezing up there, so who knows how cold it’s going to get down here.  

“Don’t worry about it, big man,” they say as they level off with him. “Instincts and whatnot. If it makes you feel better, I don’t think I’m going to have any more issues.”

“Good to know. And I’ll try not to hit you again if you do.”

It takes Duck a moment to realize the turtle made a joke and they bark a laugh when they do. If it were one of their brothers, they would take the opportunity to nudge him with their shoulder, or violently shove Leo, for the offense. But they don’t know if Ronin would be ok with that level of familiarity. So instead, they stick to the laugh and a friendly eye roll. “I can’t even say I’d fight you if you did,” they relent. “I’ve been told I’m basically incapable of doing anything that requires physical activity.”

This time it’s Ronin that snorts a laugh. “Really?”

Duck feels themself smile and nod. “Sadly, yes. I’ve tried parkour, karate, whatever the hell Lou Jitsu does, weapons training. All of it—” They blow a raspberry for emphasis. “So we’ve discovered I’m better at fleeing and hiding. At least for the moment. Allegedly there’s still hope for me in the future.”

“A true warrior knows when to beat a hasty retreat. Plus you do seem. . .”

He trails off in a way that makes Duck glance up at him. “Are you trying not to insult me? Because you can call me weak or small or fragile and it’s not gonna hurt my feelings. I mean, honestly, look at me.” They spread their arms wide and motion to themself for emphasis. “Not exactly battle ready.” Once the gesture is made, Duck quickly huddles back into the jacket.

A faint smile settles on Ronin’s face as they make their way through the tunnels. “I’ll say. I almost thought I killed you when I hit you.”

“Hilarious. My jaw still hurts.”

“I didn’t hit you to make you feel good, kid.”

The pair share a few seconds of laughter and Duck finally feels the rest of their tension ease from their shoulders. This is more like a turtle they would know personally. Friendly, jovial, almost younger than he actually is. Based on appearance alone, Duck would have to assume that this turtle was at least in his thirties or forties, if not older given the amount of lines, scars, and spots that litter his head and face. There’s bound to be more under his clothes, not that Duck is itching to see this guy strip. But they won’t deny they’re curious about the limp they’re starting to notice now that they’re examining him. It ages him in an unfamiliar way that doesn’t scream ‘turtle’ to them. Yes, they know everyone is bound to age and at least one of their boys will probably develop a limp given the nature of their whole situation. But seeing it happen now. . .

Plus he has a seriousness about him that’s utterly confusing to them. Yes, Duck is well aware that sometimes you can’t joke your way out of a situation, and they have seen all of their brothers turn off the humor for brief periods to accomplish something. But everyone was always quick to revert back to laughter and joviality to ease the tension once the occasion passed. But Ronin has a gravity that just hangs over his shoulders like a cape. It’s almost unsettling, but they’re more than willing to overlook it since he was clearly wary about them for good reason. Besides, they can’t honestly expect their own brothers to remain so lighthearted as they get older, can they?

Well, maybe Mikey could pull off being optimistic and happy all the time. They honestly can’t picture him serious about anything beyond when he summons Dr. Delicate Touch.  

“Didn’t your parents ever teach you starin’ is rude?”

Duck snaps their gaze back toward the dimmed tunnels ahead of them. “Sorry,” they say. They hear the nervous laughter pick at the edges of their voice and they cringe, clearing their throat and shaking their head to steady themself against the embarrassment that comes from being caught. “I didn’t realize I was. Sorry.”

Ronin shrugs. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “You’re going through a lot. Staring is an expected reaction.”

A surprised laugh pushes itself from Duck’s core and they nod. “You’re fucking telling me. I’m practically vibrating with. . . Everything!” They hold up their hand and laugh again when they confirm that they are, in fact, shaking. “Look!”

“Are you shaking from adrenaline, or are you shaking because you’re horrifically underdressed for this weather?”

The question catches them off guard, but the fact that they can see their breath curl in a cloud around their head speaks for itself. They quickly withdraw their hand and tuck it into the sleeve of the jacket. “Probably both.”

“Fair enough. It should be warmer in the lair, and I’ll see if we have any tea left so you don’t catch a cold.”

Duck nods. “And can I get some water, please?”

“Of course kid. . . Oh. By the way, when we get to the lair, cool it with the swearing, ok? I don’t want the kids to pick it up.”             “Of course, of course. . .” It takes them far too long to pick up on surprise number two. “Wait. The what?”

NEXT

[angelmichelangelo]

new peepaw and babies au fic chapter :3

@turrondeluxe enjoy, amigo!! <33

[iluvtortlez]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56617378

Link to my TMNT crossover fanfic to those who can't rlly find it:]

Hope y'all like it and tysm for the people who gave kudos and people who read it! I really appreciate it sm(⁠*⁠´⁠ω⁠｀⁠*⁠)