The Language Of Scars
I have decided to join the monthly prompts by @thelaundrybitch because this month, we were given a prompt that interested me, and should begin to put the R153 crew into everyone's mind.
I will be fair with all of you. The circumstances of the R153 crew are extremely different. For one, they weren't raised by Splinter. They were raised by Draxum. I will make a post about the new AUs that I will be working on after ASITD comes to an end, though. For now, please enjoy the introduction of R153 Donnie.
R153 Donnie, fluff with mild sexual suggestion, fifteen years after the Krang
Growing up knowing that you're meant to save the world had meant both little and so much to the Hamato brothers. It had been something their father kept a laser focus on while giving them freedom to grow. It had dictated nothing of their younger existence, all while something they were meant to put their sights on when they reached their teenage years. It had been liberating⦠and strangling at the same time.
They had positions to occupy and lives to live. They had a world, later two, that they had to defend. And they had to be aware of the fluctuations and the interactions they had, so that, throughout it, they remained safe.
Donatello had been at the helm of that safety. Their father had quickly realized his insatiable curiosity and fed it before it had spread to a blanket of protection around his family. Trackers, serums, transport, everything and anything was turned into support for his team as he and his brothers grew. He watched them and himself change, meet the challenges before saving the world from a fate that should have killed them all. He'd even snorted when his second-oldest brother was finally handed the reins to an unstoppable team.
Or what should have been an unstoppable team.
Two years. They all adapted to the idea that they were part of something bigger, something larger than themselves. The Jitsu brothers were Hamato, and they wouldn't, couldn't fail. But they did. One of them faltered, couldn't break out, and New York was nearly lost if not for his knowledge. If not⦠for his sacrifice.
Golden eyes stare at jade hands. He should be dead, strapped to a gurney, on a damn respirator. He's not. He's standing, breathing, walking. He can, somehow, hear his brothers calling out to him and make his way to them. But he's not whole. He hasn't been⦠in over a decade.
Masks were never a necessity. While they were part of a ninja clan, they were raised as warriors. Clothes were more for show and making sure that people were comfortable around them, not covering up what was considered indecent. And yet, while his brothers generously showed some of themselves to the world⦠he hid.
A jumpsuit for his body and a purple bandana for his head. Gloves weren't a necessity, but an addition he rarely skipped on. Boots were an obligation, though, and he enjoyed them thoroughly. He hid in plain sight, all while enjoying the advantages that a mask could offer.
At least⦠until her.
At first, it had felt like confirmation. She panicked at the sight of his face and nearly cried after being told what had happened. Her eyes, her wonderful steel blue eyes, filled with tears at the reality of his circumstance. At the fact that a force that threatened his world, the Krang, had been defeated, but at a cost Donatello knew⦠the Hamato family were all willing to pay.
But now. Nowβ¦
She pulls off his glove whenever he offers a hand. Her hesitation before she puts her hand on him is out of respect, not out of fear. And her smiles are grateful and caring, certainly when her arms loop themselves around his neck and he finds himself in an embrace he can't describe. He, who read the dictionary for fun at five, can't find the words. Ironic, some would say.
He⦠likes it, though. It's overwhelming, don't get him wrong, but the fact that it's accompanied by whispers and gentle questions makes it infinitely more bearable. She might be holding him, but one word on his part would be, is enough to have her let go with an understanding smile. And if she decides to linger or push further, he's immediately made aware of it.
"⦠Can I�"
And that's how he finds himself lying on a bed while, slowly, carefully, his jumpsuit is opened. A hand finds his chest and, despite the hard keratin of his plastron, he shivers. His breath hitches before he watches her back away with a look that says everything her mouth doesn't.
She cares, respects, and, above all, loves.
He catches her hand before his gaze meets steel blue. He breathes as she blinks, giving himself a moment before putting her hand back, and he β he touches her face with nothing but a smile she responds to with her own. Their foreheads meet and, before she can ask the obvious question, he answers the only way he can.
His hands reach for purple. They mess with the knot as he closes his eyes while the bandana loosens. The smile on his lips is inevitable as two smaller but wonderful hands help him out. And he barely gets the time to set the fabric on his nightstand that a hand dances on the right side of his face, near his eye. He only opens them when he feels her shift, though, light, small, and oh so careful.
"I'm sorry. I β"
He growls a little before interrupting her by molding his lips to hers. He doesn't expect an answer. He doesn't get one. But her chase of his lips as he pulls away makes him blink and welcome the delayed reply, certainly when it's soft, delicate, but becomes fervent the longer they're wrapped into each other. In fact, he can say that the only reason he doesn't try anything is because of her hand.
It's still on the cybernetics as she pulls away. It's also a tender, safe touch that makes him lean into it before he looks at her again, smiling and reaching for her face in the same fashion she has.
The kiss on his palm has him reciprocate. The featherlight touch along his neck has him twitch. And he simply complies with her exploration, shifting to sit up a little so that the jumpsuit leaves his upper body.
He wonders if she sees it. If she can see the silverish lines that now make him. He can. It's ugly. He hates it. He knows it means he's alive, but it also means he's not there. Not completely. He's this weird fusion of biological and mechanical that's seamlessly blended, but limits his already limited β
He nearly jumps at the fingers brushing his arm. He watches her back away with profuse apologies. But he catches her before she leaves her position over him, smiling a little as her fingers try to claw his hands away from her thighs.
"No, I β"
"It didn't hurt."
She stops and looks at him with a blink. Her gaze flits to his arm before it returns to his eyes, silently asking for permission, which he gives. And he shudders as it returns only to huff a laugh when it settles over a different kind of scar.
The light blush and smile tell him everything he needs to know as fingers brush over white and black. Her request only has him adjust his arm so she can see the tattoo better. However, it's the gentle kiss against his scales that has him both shiver and claim her lips again in gratefulness and care.
She's incredible. Wonderful. A lush bush of fragile blooms that attracts everything and anything. One someone tried to prune, only to nearly kill it because nothing short of an expert hand could make it flourish.
She pulls away as he brings a hand to her chest. He sighs when the first thing he touches is her breasts before reaching a little higher. He almost closes his eyes when he feels something steady thudding against his palm, but instead looks at her and hopes that as much as he understands her message, she understands his.
She smiles, leans forward, and resumes their kiss. Sparks of excitement run through him, and he has to contain himself from flipping them over, certainly when she shyly asks for entrance. The only thing that stops him is her hand wrapping itself strangely around his arm.
He pulls away and looks at it. It's following the lines he wishes no one would see.
"What β"
"Blaschko lines. Had to be⦠rebuilt from the ground up."
But where he expects pity, an apology, he finds calm and something he couldn't have expected.
"They're beautiful."
A blink, movement, and a squeak. Brown spreads all over the pillow like a halo under an arm while steel blue blinks at him, wide and surprised. Her lips remain soft and pliant, though, welcoming him without judgment or doubt. Just understanding and care.
"Donatelloβ¦"
It's the first time his name triggers a full-body shiver. It's not just the name, though. It's the tone. The soft, whispery, almost paper-thin tone that shows trust and yielding.
He captures her lips over and over and over. He feels her almost melt beneath him like she's meant to be below him. And, in a sign of defiance, he brings her up and sits her against the headboard, all while being unable to stop his kisses.
Right up until he feels her hand on his carapace. Until her touch forces him to yield, and his head finds her shoulder, while he can feel her stare.
More silver there. A huge line along his spine before it spreads like nerve endings. The olive green that once dominated his back is reduced to spots and the edges. But there's only a hand, a soft, delicate touch that reminds him he's in the hands of someone he cannot disappoint, not while being vulnerable and trusting. There's only love here, in a heart he⦠needs to hear.
"⦠Can I�"
How ironic is it that he asks the same question she did? How telling is it that he receives the same nod, and he smiles in the same way? Probably more than he thinks, much, much more, as she lies back down and he nuzzles his way to her sternum before putting the side of his head there. It doesn't matter, though, because this means just as much, if not more.
He breathes as the gentle beats carefully lull him into complacency. His arms are around her before her hand finds his head for a gentle caress that only makes him sink further. He wants to say something, anything, so that the moment can feel tangible.
But there's nothing. Everything is being said and captured in the blanketing silence of understanding, and nothing needs to be added. Not even that three-word sentence that hangs above them like a star, so obvious it bears no repeating.
Just like all of his brothers before him, Donatello has gone through hell. He's seen and been in the fire before, somehow, coming out the other side. He shouldn't be, though. His entire body proves it. Scars of silver mar his body like broken pottery.
And yet. Yetβ¦
There are arms that welcome him. Eyes that see the mess as beauty and not pain. And gentle lips that never hesitate in the areas that are the most vulnerable.
He knows his family loves him. He wouldn't be here without them. But this resiliently fragile beauty⦠he didn't expect. He didn't want to hope. Broken things are hard to love. Yet, she does anyway, blooming in an environment that should kill her.
So, for her and her only, he promises to be the vase that lets her grow in peace. Because maybe, just maybe, a few flaws aren't that bad after all.
taglist:
@silverwatergalaxy @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @luckycharms1701 @thepinkpanther83
@avery73 @the-cauldron-witch @redsrooftopprincess @iridescentflamingo @ninnosaurus
@milykins @yorshie @justalotoffanfiction @truffle-reblogs @adebauchedsloth
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