#Splinter-23

[kittylittersmoothie]

Quotober #23:

"I— did not see you there! What are you doing?" Splinter continued, looking and sounding as though he'd been discovered doing something illicit. And, knowing Splinter, it likely was something illicit.

Donnie, skateboard now beneath an arm, squinted at his teacher. "...Is there something behind your back?" Donnie asked, peering around the rat.

"No!" Splinter said hastily. "I mean… no. Of course not," he said with a grin that was much too big.

("☆ In Volvunt: a RotTMNT Fanfiction ☆" on AO3)

what is bro hiding❓ 🤨

[tmnt-2012-ftaraatg-au]

Chapter 23 should be posted either tomorrow or Wednesday. :)

[weregreatatcrime]

The gang is almost all here

I could separate these into their own posts but that's not enough dopamine so here, have at em

Leo and Mikey may receive more stylistic changes later on, but these are all mostly just basic references for myself- other than Mikey, they tend to be covered up a lot depending on what they're doing. They have hang out around home clothes, working/training/exercising outfits, and they put their gear on when heading out of the lair. Donnie’s giant hoodies are probably the most consistent.

Raph is coming up, he needs a bit more space to draw for since he's got. Some shit jghejfshvf

[fletcherwilbury]

@febuwhump Day 22: "You weren't meant to be there."

Warning for Overworking, child abuse, verbal abuse, physical abuse, physical violence

[keferon]

Odds of Survival Part 3

Unstoppable forces meets immovable objects.

Or Prowl finds new reasons to be concerned.

———————————————————————

While Prowl had destroyed the bombers attacking their end of the bridge, the other side had no such saving grace.

The opposite end of the sky bridge had broken off from the Commerce Tower and was now swinging downwards, creating a miles long ramp to obliteration.

There was a 4% chance Prowl could technically survive the impact. However he’d almost certainly be reduced to a sputtering spark trapped in a compacted pile of scrap that had once been his frame. Without instantaneous medical intervention, he would most certainly perish even in the event of the 4% survival chance occurring.

4% halved to 2% when Tacnet registered Jazz magnetizing his hands to Prowls frame.

Tacnet spun wildly and without traction. Whatever actions Prowl could have taken to mitigate the incoming damage was removed by Jazz’s inescapable hold. Every possible strategy terminated instantly in a flurry of error messages as Tacnet tried to factor for the impossible.

Physically, Prowls servos moved on their own, driven by some core deep coding for self preservation that had him frantically clawing at Jazz’s back for either a hand hold or escape as Tacnet spat out a single coherent plan:

(Brace For Impact)

The Praxian briefly wondered if he’d crash before they crashed.

The mechs jolted as Jazz made contact with the bridge turned ramp. A fountain of sparks spraying from his pedes as Jazz hit the bridge upright and began skating down the buckling surface.

Jazz wasn’t just passively sliding along either. Prowl felt powerful legs tense and thrusters make quick adjustments to narrowly avoid lethal splinters of braking pipes and metal sheets.

Odds of Survival 5%

Odds of Survival 6%

Prowl watched the impossible as Tacnet slowly ticked upwards. Through some stroke of insanity, Jazz was controlling their descent. Analyzing the white mechs motions, Prowl concluded they were practiced. Unbelievably, Jazz somehow had previous experience with similar circumstances.

On what Fragging planet does somebody regularly go careening down incredibly steep slopes at high speeds with only their own athleticism to keep them alive?!

Skill alone wasn’t enough however, because Jazz was slowly loosing control. As the sky bridge swung inexorably downwards, their ramp was steadily becoming steeper. Prowl could feel one of Jazz’s legs beginning to involuntarily shudder under the continued strain. The obstacles kept coming faster and faster, the visored mech barely keeping pace.

If he dropped me, Jazz has a 23% chance at saving himself.

Prowl caught sight of a chunk of bridge breaking outwards that spanned the total width of it. No getting around it. The jagged edge lifted just high enough to bisect him just below the wings. Prowl turned away.

Jazz leapt.

The deafening vibrations of metal on metal grinding suddenly stopped. An instrumental segment filled the gap.

Gravity ended their short reprieve.

This time when they collided with bridge, Prowl felt Jazz land wrong and then suddenly the sky was whipping past his optics.

Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, moon, bridge.

Tacnet greedily took in their current velocity, rate of rotation, and angle of the sky bridges decent to inform Prowl that Jazz and his combined weight would land on his helm.

Thank you Tacnet, I hate you.

Jazz shifted and Prowls vision went white.

Despite Tacnets certainty to the contrary, Prowl was not unconscious or dead.

ERROR, moon, ERROR. Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, ERROR, bridge, rubble. Stars, moon, bridge, rubble.

They were flipping through the air again.

Jazz landed on his feet this time but couldn’t stop their rolling. Prowl felt fast painful scrapes against his servos and peds.

Stars, bridge, rubble. Stars, bridge, rubble.

Tacnet took in their velocity and rotation again. Calculating their distance to the wreckage at the end of their fall.

Impact Survival 74%

Impact location Doorwings 87%

At least his doorwings were already offlined.

By then, the two mechs were no longer bouncing, but rolling fully across the remains of the bridge. Prowl locked himself around Jazz and braced for impact.

Collision was instant and deafening.

Prowls sense of balance was rubber banding. The instant stop after what felt like vorns of spinning out of control was just as disorientating as the fall itself.

In a lapse of memory, he onlined his doorwings.

Prowl remembered why he left them offline a click too late and sucked in a vent.

Except. They were functioning. The edges stung and the tip’s were badly chipped but both sensors were fully operational.

Blunt helm trauma. He must be having a severe processor malfunction. Prowl unlocked protesting joints and looked over his shoulders at his doorwings.

They were only lightly damaged, fully functional, and only a servos width from the pile of rubble he was being held above.

A black and white arm extended past his wings, buried wrist deep in the wreckage.

Jazz still had a death grip around his waist, visor pressed into Prowls shoulder.

“Jazz?” Prowl tried. If he put his vocalizer against his audial, the sound should carry. The music played out its final notes, leaving the silence of the moon in its wake.

“Jazz?” Prowl tried a little harder, pulling at the servo still magnetized to his back, unhooking his peds to kneel on the rubble. They had fallen into the 90 degree crook of the second cylindrical extension. The bridge had come to rest at last, kicking up enough moon dust to obscure their survival from any searching quintessons. For now.

Jazz slurred something in his native language, before repeating in common, “Gimme a click. I’m gonna throw up real quick.”

Prowl flared his wings, scanning the area. It was a relatively short drop to the moons surface. Once there, Prowl could transform and carry the both of them at speed to the outpost. Clearly, Jazz had no trouble holding onto him.

Speaking of, Jazz finally, slowly began to uncurl from Prowls frame.

He looked terrible. His visor had splintered crack’s across one side, the isolated fragments independently flickering. One horn was stuck pinned against his helm, sparking where shrapnel was jammed into the gap. He was visibly wobbling, and even with an em field Prowl could tell he was badly disoriented.

Jazz stared at Prowl for a while, before looking to his hand still buried in rubble. He tried pulling it free gently and when that didn’t work, got a completely ruined and mostly toe-less ped braced next to it and yanked

Jazz’s hand came free. At the same time something important looking snapped and fell out of his shoulder. The limb going limp.

Prowl didn’t have the bandwidth to process that at the moment.

Instead, he plucked up the chunk of shoulder into sub space. Tacking that onto the growing list of injuries they’d both needed tending to.

Cautiously, Prowl reached up to gingerly touch the back of his helm, fully expecting to feel exposed and crushed circuitry. Instead, he felt several dents, aligned in parallel. Very tender, but most certainly not as damaged as it should have been.

How?

Tacnet answered by mapping the contours of the dents, drawing Prowls optics to the back of Jazz’s obliterated servo.

The remains of the sky bridge shuttered.

Odds of Survival 45%

Prowl got Jazz’s attention and began pulling him towards the ledge they’d need to descend. Effectively deaf, probably blind, down an arm and forced to walk on two severely injured peds, Prowl only felt some relief when he finally wrangled Jazz to rest on top of his alt form.

Watching him struggle down the ledge was utterly disturbing to watch. Jazz limped along as if he was completely desensitized to pain, behaving as if he was more annoyed by his injuries than agonized.

Package secured, Prowl gunned it for the outpost. Even injured, he trusted Jazz to stay magnetized to his frame with whatever he had left to hold on with.

Out of the dust cloud, Prowl was intimately aware of how exposed they’d be. Confident he wouldn’t loose Jazz, Prowl focused entirely on plotting the most efficient route to the outpost.

The moment it came into view, Prowl pushed his engine past the redline as he registered sniper shots firing just past and above them.

Pursuing quintesson wreckers 78%.

Sure enough, a dead wrecker crashed into the moon dirt a short distance to their left.

Prowl managed a drifting slide past the out post gates, losing exactly enough momentum to match the speed of a running mech, then transformed back to root mode in the same maneuver. An exceedingly useful technique when chasing criminals and a damn effective way to shoulder someone on your roof through a door in the most efficient manner possible.

[Bluestreak, I’ve made it inside the outpost. I have an injured mech with me.]

[Heya Prowl! I saw you tearing it up out there with your backpack buddy! I’ve got a few more stragglers to take care of but you’re welcome to use the medic case I’ve got with me in here. I’ll ping the door for you.]

The primary medkit should be in the outpost storage closet. That is unless Bluestreak pulled it into his snipers nest to tend to his own injuries (22%). Or because Bluestreak pulled it there to force Prowl to bring his “backpack buddy” within conversational distance (92%).

He felt a tap at his shoulder, “Are we safe here?” Jazz yelled in the thin atmosphere. Visor flickering worse than before and visibly making an effort to stay balanced upright on eviscerated peds.

Priorities.

Prowl ignored his annoyance. He hit the trigger to pressurize the airlock and pulled Jazz’s good arm over his shoulders to stabilize the other mech. He had easily a dozen lines of questioning queued up in the backlog of his processor, every single one tagged with Jazz as the subject line. As much as Prowl itched to piece together the puzzle of why he was “Like that.” It’d have to wait until they were both in more stable condition. At least now his vents could actually do something to start cooling his overstressed processor.

“For now. We are somewhat safe.”

Prowl muttered quietly in addition, “Against all odds.”

———————————————————————

Bluestreak, seeing Prowl with some very obvious hand prints and very specific paint scratches: “What in the pit did he do to you?”

Bluestreak, seeing Jazz walk in after him with a broken arm, busted horn and an utterly torn up paint job across his back: “What in the pit did YOU do to him?!”

Either one or two parts left, next up Jazz pov.

-SSTP

OH HELL SSTP LET ME HOLD YOUR HAND REALQUICK THIS IS A FIVE STAR MEAL FOR MY SOUL FKKDJFG I JUST. I NEVER FUCKING GET TIRED OF THE WAY YOU WRITE I know I'm probably repeating myself at this point BUT IT'S JUST WHAT MY TRUTH LOOKS LIKE OKAY. EVERY TIME I SEE AN ASK FROM YOU AND START READING IT I GO "Oh M A N the author cooked so hard they should've made Ratatouille 2 about this way of placing words."

[justaskgames]

In honor of TMNT's 40th Anniversary, here are 40 questions for people to send you about TMNT!

~~ Background ~~

1.) What was your first exposure to TMNT?

2.) What was your first exposure to [TMNT iteration]?

3.) What was your first impression of [TMNT iteration]?

4.) When did you become a fan of TMNT?

5.) Which iterations are you familiar with?

6.) Do you own any TMNT merchandise?

~~ Favorites ~~

7.) Which iteration is your favorite?

8.) Which turtle is usually your favorite?

9.) Who is your favorite version-specific turtle?

10.) Which version of Leonardo is your favorite?

11.) Which version of Raphael is your favorite?

12.) Which version of Donatello is your favorite?

13.) Which version of Michelangelo is your favorite?

14.) Which version of Splinter is your favorite?

15.) Which version of April is your favorite?

16.) Which version of Casey is your favorite?

17.) Which version of the Shredder is your favorite?

18.) Who is your favorite villain?

19.) Who is your favorite ally?

20.) Which theme song is your favorite?

21.) What is your favorite story arc?

22.) What is your favorite kind of pizza?

~~ Fandom ~~

23.) What is one of your favorite TMNT fics?

24.) What is one of your favorite TMNT fan comics?

25.) What is one of your favorite TMNT AUs?

26.) What is one of your favorite pieces of TMNT fan art?

27.) What is something you love to see in TMNT art/fics?

28.) What is one thing you would like to see explored more in TMNT art/fics?

29.) What is one headcanon that you have?

30.) What is one common headcanon that you reject?

31.) What is one piece of TMNT canon that you dislike/ignore?

~~ For Artists/Writers ~~

32.) What was the first thing you've made for TMNT?

33.) What is your favorite thing you've made for TMNT?

34.) Which character do you write/draw most often?

35.) Which character relationships are your favorite to write/draw?

36.) Which character do you have the hardest time writing/drawing?

37.) Do you write/draw for one specific iteration, or multiple?

38.) Do you generally stick close to canon, or diverge from it?

39.) Do you have any TMNT OCs?

40.) Do you give the turtles tails?

[ktownshizzle]

Terms & Conditions | Chapter Eight

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader

✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Managing Min Yoongi as one of your encoders during his alternative military service should’ve been simple. He is quiet, punctual—and can apparently type as fast as he can rap! Not to mention the fact that he is easy on the eyes and keeps wanting to help you. You’ve signed an iron-clad NDA, detailing the full terms and conditions of his temporary employment, so you’re supposed to keep things professional, but what happens if neither of you wants to?

✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, smut, co-workers to lovers, office romance, idol!au ✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Purely speculative regarding Yoongi’s alternative military service and how this is really done in SK, some cursing, boss/employee relationship sorta but there's no power play involved, reader and Yoongi are within the same age range ✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: Suggestive, Angst, Y/N is not our girlypop in this chapter, invasion of privacy, timeskip kinda

✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 2k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: May 23, 2025

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: It’s short and it’s not sweet. Do not come for me. 🙁 But going into hiding just in case… Thank you my lovely @glossdebut for betareading.

Series Masterlist | K’s Masterlist

Yoongi appears in the doorway in nothing but checkered boxers and bed head, holding two mismatched mugs, white steam swirling above it. He doesn’t say anything, not verbally at least. Eyes warm, grin lazy–that’s his good morning.

You push yourself up against the pillows, taking your mug with a gentle smile. “Morning,” you say, voice still coated in sleep. 

You take a small sip, place the cup on the nightstand beside his.

He slides in beside you, looping an arm around your waist, and you tuck yourself under his arm, cheek against the pillows of his chest.

“Sleep okay?” he asks, lips brushing your hairline.

“Yeah. You?”

His chest rumbles with a satisfied hum. “Best sleep I’ve had in years. Might be your fault.”

You breathe out a smile. The man who loves you is right here, looking like an angel, smelling like your cinnamon body wash. Nothing else matters. Right?

“Yoongi?”

He hums, drawing lazy circles on your back with the tips of his fingers. The question stays stuck in your throat. Instead, you hug him tighter. He doesn’t press you further.

Not long after, his breathing has become longer, more even, deeper. He’s so peaceful, so content, lying in your too-small bed, on your old-ass duvet. Again, he’s fallen asleep. Must have been really tired from all the socialization yesterday.

You stay with him for a few moments before you wiggle out of his embrace and drink your cold coffee.

The next few days felt strange. You were feeling a tug of war in your heart and your brain. The bitter pang from the party is still a splinter in your heart, not necessarily painful, but still there, just waiting to be infected.

You’re afraid that you’ve become a little selfish. Sometimes you wish he wasn’t an idol. Actually, that’s a lie. You often wish that these days. Especially when you open your closet and see that dress you wore to attend that fuckin’ event.

Dangerous thoughts come and go like wind through windows left ajar. You want to push it all away, flush it down the drain. 

Because you should feel complete. But why do you feel so inadequate?

Still there are good days. Great days, even.

When you don’t have dread swirling in the pits of your stomach. When you’re not waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop.

Those are the days you want to remember forever. Yoongi hugging you from behind as you wash the dishes. Yoongi working on music with his headphones on and you’re across him reading a book and the peace of just coexisting in one place is just overwhelmingly comforting.

Since the whole audit thing, you try to be a bit more careful in your office. Hyun-woo has started his rounds more frequently, checking up on completion of tasks like a hawk. He said a certification is coming up so he just wants to make sure everything is running smoothly. Fair.

No more back office boinking then. But you still find ways to have fun. 

Yoongi likes to give you eyes. That’s always been his thing. Sometimes he glances too long like he’s daring you not to feel aroused even as his tongue skirts his pretty teeth. 

He does keep it PG more often than that. You sit across from each other pretending to work, but your foot nudges him under the table, and he hides a grin behind his monitor, raises his brow to get you to quit it.

At one point during a painfully dull Zoom call, you crumple a sticky note and lob it across the room. It hits his shoulder. He barely reacts.

“You missed,” he mouths.

You roll your eyes.

He picks it up, balls it tighter, and holds it up. “If I sink this,” he says, gesturing to the trash bin in the corner, “you owe me a prize.”

You shrug, cos ain’t no way…

He winks. Shoots.

Swish.

You look away, shaking your head. Just keep typing like nothing happened. But he sees the way your mouth twitches.

That night, when you slip into his car after hours, you ask him, “So what’s your prize?”

He smirks. “Lips on my tip, baby.” 

You roll your eyes, but you give him exactly what he won—and then some. He doesn’t stop smiling the entire drive.

Chae has not been around the house lately. She’s been overseeing the operations of another restaurant closer to Goyang and her company gave her lodging closer to the site. You’re so proud of her, gaining accolades after accolades. It was just like in college when she was that effortlessly cool chic that barely studied, did everything against the rulebook, but still graduated cum laude and scored her dream job even before she wore her toga.

Meanwhile, your by-the-book ways have earned you a spot in a dusty government building with no real prospects for further growth. Cool.

During your lunch break, you trade selfies. You with your clubhouse sandwich and her with her bowl of bibimbap. Hers look yummier by miles.

Chae: sandwich looks sad but ur glowing  You: lol idk about that. Been stressed. Chae: where’s loverboy?

You roll your eyes. She’s been teasing you about that like you were both still in high school. You fire off a picture of Yoongi across from you, a piece of lettuce hanging from the side of his mouth as he continues to chew like a goat.

Chae: tell yoongi I said hi Chae: actually don’t i’m shy You: tell jk i said hi Chae: k Chae: fuck You: knew it You: you better tell me everything

It hits you when you’re at your most defenseless.

You’ve just washed your face. Hair up, oversized shirt, no bra, no makeup. You’re in your kitchen with a tub of yogurt and a spoon in your mouth, scrolling TikTok mindlessly, when a Kakao notification comes through.

Unknown number. One attachment.

It’s a single still capture from a CCTV. Slightly blurry, but you recognize the scene instantly.

You and Yoongi, going inside the storage room at work last week. 

What happened was you’d gone in to grab extra supplies. He’d followed you just to sneak a kiss. The kiss isn’t in the shot, but your posture gives everything away when you emerge, his hand at your waist, your body curved toward him, before you both walk off to your separate chairs.

Fuck.

Shit.

FUCK.

You freeze. The yogurt slides off the counter and you don’t even notice.

You scroll up and down to see any other clues, but the screen is unmoving and there’s really nothing else there. 

Until a message comes in: 

How much is this worth to you?

No.

FUCK!

You try to calm down. Why would anyone send this? Who would send this? What does this fucking mean?

Your feet take you to your kitchen. Shaky fingers wrap around the neck of a wine bottle. You uncork it and pour it… straight down your esophagus.

Trembling, you put your phone down like it’s radioactive. You pace your kitchen, suddenly aware of how exposed your windows are. You check the locks. Double-check. Triple-check.

Your hands are shaking as you sit down, open the message again, and stare at it until your vision blurs.

You almost call him. Almost forward it with a panicked “what do we do?”

But then you imagine the look on his face. The worry. The disappointment. The quiet guilt you’d see in his eyes for dragging you into this. For making you a liability.

So instead, you delete it. You don’t know why, but you do.

You crawl into bed deep deep into your duvet like it didn’t happen. Maybe this is just a bad dream.

The sun rises and you have not caught a wink of sleep. You wake up to dried yogurt on the kitchen floor and a cockroach.

Since then, there are glances you can’t unsee.

You think Danbi lingers a beat too long by the copier when you think no one’s watching. You catch her whispering near the HR desk and the way her eyes flick to you makes your stomach twist. You hear laughter from down the hallway and can’t help but wonder if your name is being passed between mouths like a secret no one will say to your face.

You keep telling yourself it’s nothing.

A week passes, you’re at Yoongi’s apartment, helping him fold laundry because it turns out domesticity looks weirdly good on you both. You’re pairing his socks while he’s at the sink rinsing plates before they go into the dishwasher. He hums a little tune.

Your phone buzzes again.

Same unknown number.

Your hands go cold.

This time, it’s a shot of you leaving his car from one night, hoodie pulled over your head, but still clearly you. Taken from a distance, a little grainy, but unmistakable. The message underneath is short:

There’s a price for my silence.

You want to scream. You want to throw your phone into the sink and confess everything. But the words catch in your throat.

“Everything okay?” Yoongi asks, glancing over his shoulder, hands wet from the sink.

You smile too quickly. “Yeah. Just Chae. Meme dump.”

His eyes linger. You think about telling him. You even open your mouth to try, but then the doorbell rings.

Mina and Hoseok step into Yoongi’s apartment like it’s a feature spread in Vogue: long coats, perfect skin, inside jokes already mid-sentence. Mina’s makeup is flawless. Hoseok’s in LV like it’s his grocery run outfit. (It probably is.) They light up the room just by existing.

Yoongi grumbles at the noise but lets them in anyway, dishing out cups and pulling out extra snacks. He side-eyes Mina when she tries to “reorganize” his liquor shelf. He calls Hobi a piece of shit with zero heat when he pulls his vinyls a little carelessly. It’s all very “this is just how we are,” but you can feel the subtle shift.

You’re suddenly hyperaware of your socks not matching. The unfolded laundry still on the couch. The fact that you’re not part of this world—just someone orbiting around it.

Yoongi calls out your name casually, “You gonna join us?”

You shake your head, faking a yawn. “Think I’m coming down with something. I’ll just rest, if that’s okay.”

He eyes you, concerned, then eyes his guests, “Both of you—out.”

“No! Hoseok, Mina, please stay,” you insist.

Skeptical eyes are studying you. But then he nods. “Want me to check on you later?”

You shake your head again. “I’ll be fine.”

You slip into his room and close the door.The second it clicks shut, your lungs deflate.

You sit on the edge of his bed, still clutching your phone. The new message is still open. Your reflection stares back from the screen—dim, distorted, scared.

Your entire life is falling apart.

You lie back, eyes on the ceiling, and try to blink away the tears.

Yoongi used to call you trouble. And now you really are. You don’t want to burden him anymore. He doesn’t deserve this. 

You call him the following night.

It takes him a few rings to answer.

“Babe?” he says, soft and a little breathless. He probably left his phone in another room and ran to answer your call.

Your throat tightens.

“Yoongi,” you say. “We need to talk.”

The line goes quiet for half a second too long. “Okay,” he says slowly. “What’s up?”

You steel yourself.

“I think we should stop seeing each other.”

Silence. Then: “What?”

“It’s just,” you falter. “I don’t think it’s smart. With the NDA. It’s risky. It’s messy. And,your time’s almost up anyways. This was never going to last outside of, like everything, you know that.”

“Bullshit,” he says, instantly. His voice is low, clipped. “That’s not… Y/N, what the fuck?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “I was wrong. I don’t want this.”

“Fuck,” he shouts. “What are you even saying right now?”

“Yoongi, please…”

There’s a pause. You hear something thrown in the background.

“Are you really breaking up with me over the phone?” he finally asks, almost laughing. “Is that really what this is?”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, softer this time. “It’s better this way.”

“No,” he says. “It’s not. You know it’s not.”

You don’t answer.

You hang up.

But still, you sit in the dark for a long time, holding your phone like it might ring again.

It doesn’t.

A/N: Okay shit. I guess I am ready for y’all to shout at me in the comments. 🙇🏼‍♀️ Thanks for reading you lovely beautiful human. xo

Permanent Taglist: (the rest to follow in a reblog)

@wonh0oe @woozuzu @glossdebut @kiki-zb @kookiewithluv

@agustblog @maryhopemei @perfectiondazesworld @kimsaerom @kam9404

@00-sleepdontweep-00 @tea4sykes @mggv97 @marnz1990

@whydoeyecare @pastelmin @tarahardcore @minjenna @chimmchimmm

@aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @tinytan-gerine @vesperbells @butterymin

@eve1633455 @baechugff @lilkittenjenjen @wobblewobble822 @coffeedepressionsoup

@futuristicenemychaos @jadestonedaeho7 @granataepfelchen @whoa-jo @annyeongbitch7

@chimmisbae @sexytholland @idkjustlovingbts @kpophosblog @tinyelfperson

@yoongicatagenda @codeinebelle @parapiop7 @diame93 @janeelizabeth1216

@withmuchluv-tannie @abadiimm-

@angellekookie

[angelpuns]

SLIGHT EYESTRAIN WARNING!!

Kid Leo Au: New Normal P2: "Training"

Part 23/FINAL

Yeah, the pacing on this wasn't great, but I did draw a table and like 6 characters in on panel, so-yeah.

Also!! the portal opens as April is speaking to Mikey, so the cutaway is a little weird :/

Ah well, I did my best, and I'm always improving these comics, and that's what counts!!

Also Hi Draxum! and Splinter (I'll make them both a proper ref before this next arc, I PROMISE)!!! They are meant to look as close to the actual show style as possible, while still being woobly enough for me to draw. Also I just wanted to make Splinter less of a caricature in general :)

Anyway, I hope everyone enjoyed this arc! The next one is bound to be interesting now that Splinter is back! Hey, maybe Leo will even unlock his ninpo-

Kid Leo Au Masterpost | First

[rafeslvbug]

CONEY ISLAND

series by @rafeslvbug inspired by coney island, taylor swift ft the national

the perfect couple. not by force, or society standards - but love. wily teenagers, at the pinnacle of their lives, bound together by unbreakable forces. growing together, and forging plans they’d vowed to keep.

but how do you break those vows once reality sets in?

rafe loved her as much as she loved him, he’d kept every promise, and built his life for her. until he began to push her out of it.

when the rock was placed on her hand, he was sure of what he wanted. now six months of pushing back that fateful wedding date, watching her heart shatter and splinter each time, pretending like it didn’t matter. it didn’t matter he brushed off their engagement, it didn’t matter that she sometimes caught him without his ring, it didn’t matter that he didn’t know if he wanted this anymore.

business meetings, investments and a world of politics he claimed she couldn’t understand divided them in two. rafe stuck himself in one part of his life, and barricaded the other from ever entering.

in his mind, it was still only her. in his heart, he felt it too. but it didn’t help the drift.

and she couldn’t understand it either. why her loving fiancé turned distant the moment he gave her that ring. why she waited on a man, who looked like he was going on without her. stuck in the house, treated like a ghost enslaved in pain.

but does he even notice? does he realise that despite his efforts to hide his confliction, it’s seeped into his life nonetheless? she’s in pain, but does he still hold hope that it’s not because she knows? does he know the woman he loves (loved?) the most is noticing that she’s losing him?

and how long will it take for him to realise his mistake? while he struggles internally, and she grows more alone, when will she finally break? when he realises he’s always loved her - if he realises - will she still be there?

chapter one (lines 1 && 2)

chapter two (lines 3 && 4)

chapter three (lines 5 && 6)

chapter four (lines 7 && 8)

chapter five (lines 9, 10 && 11)

chapter six (lines 12 && 13)

chapter seven (lines 14, 15, 16 && 17)

chapter eight (lines 18 && 19)

chapter nine (lines 20 && 21)

chapter ten (lines 22 && 23)

chapter eleven (lines 24 && 25)

chapter twelve (lines 26 && 27)

chapter thirteen (lines 28, 29 && 30)

taglist : @starkeyjoseph @rafesbabygirlx @slut-4-rafey @lanaslushworld @littlelamy @rain-likes-purple

[koyagifs]

we chose the world over you

pairing: seonghwa x reader au: non idol | super hero | genre: angst word count: 4.3 k synopsis: The group had to make a decision between saving you or completing their mission to save thousands. warning(s):

It was supposed to be a normal mission.

You being paired with Seonghwa should’ve been smooth—comforting, even. He was your constant, your calm. You two had worked side-by-side more times than you could count, trusting each other with the unspoken.

There had been worse assignments.

Tighter deadlines. Deadlier enemies.

This one was routine. Just recon. Just in-and-out.

At least, it was supposed to be.

But something was off.

Alarms were blaring—not on the comms, not in the facility. In you. That crawling feeling up your spine. The weight in your chest. Something wrong.

“Seonghwa,” you started, turning slightly, “something’s not—”

You didn’t get to finish.

There was a snap. A sharp shift in the pressure around you.

You saw it before he did.

The rigged beam above. The way the floor gave out in pieces. The chain reaction starting before either of you could stop it.

So you moved.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Pushed Seonghwa back with all your strength, hard enough that he stumbled, just as the explosion cracked through the floor.

He yelled your name—but you were already gone.

Swallowed by the collapse. Steel and fire closing in like a coffin.

Pain bloomed fast and hot—your side crushed beneath debris, air thick with smoke and dust. Your ears rang. Your vision blurred. But you heard him—

“YN!”

You blinked up through the rubble, barely able to lift your head, and saw Seonghwa—fighting to get to you.

Blood down the side of his face. Cuts on his arms. But none of that mattered. He was trying.

But you already knew.

The countdown had started. The structural integrity was shot. If he stayed—

“You need to go,” you choked out, voice barely audible over the sound of metal groaning. “Now.”

“I’m not leaving you!” he shouted, wild and desperate.

“Hongjoong!” he barked into his earpiece, voice cracking. “YN is pinned down—we need backup! I repeat, we need backup!”

Static.

More static. Then a voice—distorted, garbled through interference. “—compromised—exit blocked—Seonghwa, you need to evacuate—”

“No! She’s still in here!” he screamed, rising to his feet, shoving debris aside with burning hands. He winced—cuts splitting deeper, bruises blooming—but he didn’t stop.

The air was thick, choking. The timer on the detonator blinked red: 2:14.

You coughed, blood coating your lips, your throat raw from smoke.

“You have to go.”

“No,” he said again, more broken this time. “I can’t—” His voice cracked, like something inside him was already splintering.

Your hand, trembling and bloodied, found his. Weak but certain. You squeezed what little strength you had left into your fingers.

You were terrified—God, you were terrified—but you looked at him like it would be okay. Like he deserved a better goodbye than screams.

Your eyes locked onto his—burning through the smoke, still so full of love it hurt.

“Seonghwa…” you whispered, your voice faltering, a sound more heart-wrenching than any alarm, any warning, any countdown.

“You have to go.”

His grip tightened. Just for a second. His eyes widened like he couldn’t believe you were saying it. Like he was waiting for you to take it back.

But you didn’t.

Because someone had to live.

And you would rather it be him.

Seonghwa shook his head again, jaw clenched like he could hold the world together with sheer force of will. “I won’t forgive myself.”

“I’ll forgive you.” A beat. A breath. “And that has to be enough.”

The timer flashed: 1:23.

A tear slid down his cheek. You smiled through yours.

And then—he kissed your forehead, his touch featherlight, reverent, like he was saying goodbye to a ghost already.

But he didn’t pull away.

His lips hovered there for a second longer than they should have. Like he could imprint his soul onto yours. Like maybe that would be enough to anchor you both.

When he finally looked at you, something inside him cracked open completely.

“I’m not leaving you,” he whispered.

You blinked up at him, stunned. “Seonghwa—”

“I don’t care what command says,” he said fiercely, eyes glistening. “I don’t care about the mission or the building or what anyone else would do. I’m not walking out of here if you’re not next to me.”

A piece of ceiling cracked and thundered down nearby, shaking the ground. Smoke thickened. The timer blinked: 1:09.

Still, he stayed.

Your heart broke open in a new, sharper way. “Hwa, please—”

“I can’t lose you,” he said. “Not again. Not like this.”

He tore off his comm and tossed it aside. Pulled off his vest and shoved it under the beam crushing your leg. His hands bled. His breath came in shallow bursts. But he didn’t stop.

You could see it on his face—he had already made his choice.

And that broke you more than anything.

Because you weren’t going to let him die for you.

Your fingers shook as you shifted just enough to glance behind him—where your teammate stood, silent, waiting. Mingi’s jaw was clenched, eyes glossed with emotion, like he already knew what you were asking him to do.

You gave a single nod.

Seonghwa followed your gaze, confused—until he saw him. Until he understood.

“No.” Seonghwa’s voice was sharp, panicked. “Don’t you fucking dare, Min—”

But it was already done.

In a split-second flash of blue light, the room emptied.

The smoke, the metal groaning above you, the rubble—all of it stayed. But he was gone.

And all that was left was the echo of Seonghwa’s scream—

“Mingi, NO!”

Seonghwa stumbled as he reappeared just outside the blast radius, Mingi gripping his arm tightly, still glowing faintly from the teleport.

The shock hit him first—then fury.

His hand shot out, grabbing Mingi by the collar and slamming him into the wall.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?” Seonghwa’s voice cracked, broken with grief and rage.

“You told me you wouldn’t leave them!”

Mingi didn’t fight back. He just looked at Seonghwa with guilt eating through his expression.

“I saved you,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t want to be saved!” Seonghwa roared, fists trembling, heart shattering.

Then, as the sirens wailed in the distance and the shockwave rippled through the air— the ground trembled.

Seonghwa fell to his knees.

Tears streamed down his face, silent at first. His chest rose and fell in sharp, broken stutters as the plume of fire rose in the distance. A violent bloom where your last words still echoed.

Where you still were.

“No…”

The word tumbled from his lips like a prayer already too late. His fingers clawed into the dirt beneath him, fists shaking as if he could dig through it, reach you, rewind it all.

“Mingi,” he whispered, voice strangled, “what did you do…”

But Mingi said nothing. He stood behind Seonghwa, fists clenched, his own eyes glassy. Because he knew. He knew what it cost to make that choice.

And Seonghwa—

Seonghwa couldn’t breathe.

He stared at the flames, at the smoke twisting into the sky like a funeral veil, and something inside him broke.

You were gone. You had to be. No one survived that.

And the worst part?

You asked for it. You chose it.

You knew he wouldn’t leave on his own, so you made sure he was forced to.

And now all he had left was the memory of your voice. The way you said his name like it was a goodbye. The feel of your bloodied hand wrapped around his.

“I’ll forgive you,” you said.

But Seonghwa didn’t.

He never would.

When Seonghwa entered the control room, he didn’t pause.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t breathe.

His eyes locked on Hongjoong like a target, rage pulsing off of him in waves.

Hongjoong stepped forward cautiously, hands raised. “Before you say anything—”

But Seonghwa didn’t let him finish.

His fist slammed into Hongjoong’s jaw with a crack that echoed through the room.

Hongjoong stumbled back, colliding with the console behind him. Blood pooled at the corner of his lip as he caught himself, blinking up at Seonghwa, stunned.

No one moved. Yeosang’s mouth parted, frozen mid-step. Jongho looked away, jaw tight. Wooyoung closed his eyes, shoulders trembling.

None of them said a word. Because none of them blamed him.

Seonghwa stood there, chest heaving, hands clenched into trembling fists at his sides.

“You knew I wouldn’t leave them,” he growled, voice laced with venom and something deeper—devastation.

“You gave Mingi the order behind my back.”

Hongjoong wiped the blood from his mouth, his voice low. “I had no choice.”

“Bullshit.”

“I had to make a call. We didn’t have time—”

“You didn’t even try.”

Seonghwa stepped closer, eyes gleaming. “They were alive. I was getting them out. And you took that from me.”

Hongjoong didn’t argue. He just stood there and took it—like a man who’d already sentenced someone to death.

“Don’t you dare speak to me about protocol,” Seonghwa spat. “You left them to die.”

Silence rang out.

Hongjoong wiped the blood from his mouth, his jaw clenched. He straightened slowly, no longer flinching beneath Seonghwa’s fury.

He met Seonghwa’s gaze head-on.

“We would’ve lost you too.”

The words cut like a blade—not defensive, not cold. Just true. And final.

Seonghwa's chest rose and fell, rapid and unsteady. The fight in him didn’t leave—it just trembled, no longer anger, but the edge of a sob that refused to come out.

“You think that matters?” he whispered, voice shaking.

Hongjoong’s brows drew together. “Of course it matters.”

“They didn’t.” Seonghwa's voice cracked. “They made peace with dying, Joong. They smiled when they told me to go.” His throat bobbed, eyes glossy. “And you made that choice for both of us.”

Hongjoong’s shoulders dropped slightly, as if the weight of the decision had never really left him either.

“You wouldn’t have let them go,” he said. “I know you. You’d rather die with them than survive without.”

“I still would,” Seonghwa breathed.

And that, more than anything, broke the room again.

Yeosang finally sat down, head in his hands. Mingi couldn’t even look up. Jongho moved toward the window, his back turned so no one could see the tears quietly spilling down his cheeks.

And Hongjoong— He didn’t argue anymore.

Because he knew.

Seonghwa was right.

He had saved his body. But not his heart.

Hongjoong stood still, unmoving, as the soft beeping of machines filled the sterile room.

Behind the glass, your body lay motionless in the intensive care unit—wrapped in gauze, skin bruised, pale, barely alive. Tubes traced along your arms and up through your nose, a lifeline hanging in limbo.

He stared at you, hands folded behind his back, jaw tight. His expression unreadable. Too neutral to be calm, too composed to be honest.

Yeosang approached quietly, his voice low.

“We should tell Seonghwa…”

Hongjoong’s eyes didn’t leave your form. Not even for a second.

“He needs to calm down a little more.”

Yeosang hesitated.

Then, “Is this you speaking… or the company?”

There was a beat. One, two, three seconds of silence too long.

And that was an answer.

Yeosang’s jaw tightened. “He thinks they’re dead, hyung. He’s grieving someone who’s still breathing.”

Hongjoong finally blinked. “He’s unstable. If we tell him now, he’ll go to them. He’ll never leave their side. He’ll ignore orders, protocol, everything. You know how he gets when it comes to—” He stopped himself. Corrected: “When it comes to people he loves.”

Yeosang’s voice hardened. “They love him back.”

“I know,” Hongjoong snapped, louder than he meant to. His shoulders sagged. “I know.”

They both turned back to you—your chest rising and falling slow, shallow.

“But if we lose him too… I don’t know if this team survives.”

Yeosang looked at the figure through the glass. You looked so small. So unlike yourself. And yet—alive.

Barely. But alive.

“I’m not lying for much longer,” Yeosang said quietly.

“I’m not asking you to,” Hongjoong replied. “Just… not yet.”

Yeosang sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. His fingers trembled slightly, the toll of sleepless nights catching up to him. “Mingi’s a wreck. This is eating him alive.”

Hongjoong didn’t respond immediately. His eyes remained locked on the rise and fall of your chest, shallow and uneven. Monitored by machines. Held together by wires.

"He's blaming himself, Joong. Keeps saying he should’ve waited one more second. Keeps wondering if you would've changed your mind if you'd seen what Seonghwa looked like when—"

Hongjoong turned to him sharply, eyes narrowed. “What Mingi did was an order.”

Yeosang stilled.

“The fact that he was able to teleport them both out with that much interference and building collapse is a miracle,” Hongjoong continued, his voice firmer now. “Seonghwa was seconds away from dying with them.”

“But he didn’t,” Yeosang shot back. “Because they made that call for him.”

Silence hung thick between them.

The weight of it, unbearable.

“We chose,” Yeosang said quietly. “We all chose. The mission. The survival of one over the other. We let him think he lost them forever. And we keep letting him.”

Hongjoong’s jaw twitched. “Because we don’t know if they’ll wake up. Or walk. Or even remember him.” His voice cracked, barely. “What if we give him hope and it breaks him worse than the grief?”

Yeosang turned toward him, anger and heartbreak warring in his eyes.

But Hongjoong wasn’t finished.

“Yeosang,” he said, quieter now, more deliberate. “They walked into a trap.”

Yeosang froze.

“Until we find the mole—until we know who gave up their location—this silence… it’s not just about emotions anymore.” Hongjoong met his eyes. “This is for YN’s safety. And Seonghwa’s.”

Yeosang stared at him, every piece clicking into place. The flawed intel. The ambush. The exact timing of the detonation sequence.

“You think someone on the inside set them up.”

“I know someone did,” Hongjoong said grimly. “And if they find out YN survived—”

“They’ll try again,” Yeosang breathed.

A silence settled, darker than before.

“Which means,” Hongjoong added, stepping closer to the glass, his gaze hardened now, “until I know who we’re bleeding from, no one breathes a word to Seonghwa.”

Yeosang clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists. “I don’t like lying to him.”

“Neither do I.” Hongjoong’s eyes didn’t leave your still form. “But I’d rather have him hate me than bury you.”

Hongjoong threw the file down in front of Seonghwa, the man slumped at his desk like he hadn’t moved in days.

Seonghwa didn’t even look up. He pushed the file farther away with the back of his hand, like it was tainted.

“That’s a new mission,” Hongjoong said stiffly. “You’ll go with Yeosang.”

“Go with him yourself,” Seonghwa snapped, voice like ice.

Hongjoong’s jaw ticked. “This isn’t optional.”

“I’m not your fucking soldier right now.”

Seonghwa finally looked up, eyes bloodshot, expression hollow and sharp at the same time. Something in him had wilted since that day. Like he was moving through the world just enough to keep his body breathing—but his mind was still in the fire. Still with you.

“I gave you everything,” Seonghwa said lowly. “Every damn ounce of trust. And you didn’t even hesitate.”

“You were going to die.”

“I should’ve.”

That shut Hongjoong up for a beat. Long enough that the air in the room shifted—cracked between them.

“I don’t care about the file,” Seonghwa muttered, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t care about the mission. None of it matters.”

“I need you to care,” Hongjoong bit out. “Because there’s still a team that needs you.”

“Then give the team someone who hasn’t already buried the person they love.”

A silence settled. Heavy. Absolute.

Hongjoong exhaled slowly, trying to keep his voice level. “Seonghwa… they wouldn’t want you to become this.”

Seonghwa’s eyes snapped to him, something dangerous sparking in them. “Don’t you dare use them against me.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Hongjoong, quieter now, said, “Fine. Take the night. But you’re on that plane tomorrow.”

He turned to leave.

Seonghwa didn’t look at him again.

And neither saw Yeosang standing down the hall—watching it all from just outside the door, holding the truth like it was burning a hole through his chest.

The low hum of the engines filled the silence.

Seonghwa sat rigid in his seat, eyes locked on the mission file like it held something worth caring about. His brows were slightly furrowed, the crease between them deeper than usual, and he hadn’t spoken a word since they boarded.

Yeosang sat across from him, shifting uncomfortably, fidgeting with the zipper on his tactical bag. His foot bounced. His hands wouldn’t stay still. He’d tried three times to make small talk, but each attempt died before it left his throat.

The tension between them wasn’t just awkward—it was grief-shaped.

Heavy and sharp and coiled with guilt.

“You can stop looking at me like I’m going to break,” Seonghwa muttered, eyes never leaving the page.

Yeosang blinked. “I’m not—”

“You are.” He flipped to the next page, his tone unreadable. “You all are. Every time I walk into a room, someone stops talking or starts looking away.”

Yeosang stayed quiet.

“I’m grieving, not fragile.”

Still no response.

“Unless there’s something I should be fragile about.” That got Seonghwa’s gaze—cool and direct, cutting across the small cabin. “Anything you want to share, Yeosang?”

Yeosang froze.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Swallowed. Looked away.

“…No.”

Seonghwa studied him for a moment longer before leaning back in his seat with a tired sigh. “Thought so.”

But the seed was planted now.

And the unease in Yeosang’s silence wrapped around Seonghwa like a thread waiting to be pulled.

When they landed, something in Yeosang shifted—the rigid tension easing for a moment as Seonghwa continued walking ahead. His eyes furrowed, lips parted as if to finally speak, when—

A loud gunshot ripped through the air.

Seonghwa froze. Instinct flared.

He spun around, eyes wide, searching.

Yeosang was already moving—dropping low, pulling out his weapon in one smooth motion.

“Get down!” Yeosang barked, voice sharp and urgent.

Seonghwa dropped beside him, heart pounding. Around them, shadows stretched and shifted. The mission had turned hostile faster than either of them expected.

Another shot rang out, this time closer.

“Ambush,” Yeosang hissed.

Seonghwa’s mind raced—not just with the immediate threat, but with the cold realization that whatever was waiting for them here was tied to the trap that had shattered his world.

This wasn’t random.

This was planned.

And it was personal.

Yeosang’s hands moved swiftly, fingers tracing glowing patterns in the air. A shimmering barrier erupted around them, crackling as the gunshots bounced harmlessly off its surface.

Seonghwa’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. His breath was steady, controlled—but beneath it was a storm of anger and pain.

“They’re hunting us,” he muttered, voice low but fierce.

Yeosang didn’t look away from the attackers just beyond the barrier. “They want to finish what they started.”

Seonghwa’s fists curled into tight balls at his sides. “We won’t let them.”

“Then let’s move. We can’t hold this forever.”

Without hesitation, Seonghwa stepped forward, ready to break through the ambush—not just fighting for survival, but for answers. For justice. For you.

The fire in his eyes burned brighter than the bullets flying around them.

Yeosang and Seonghwa stumbled through the company doors, both covered in blood—streaks dark and glistening across their clothes and skin. Their breaths were ragged, heavy with exhaustion and pain.

Hongjoong’s eyes widened in horror as he rushed toward them, voice sharp and panicked.

“What the fuck happened?!”

Seonghwa didn’t answer at first. His eyes flicked to Yeosang, whose face was grim but steady.

“We walked into a trap,” Yeosang said quietly. “There were hostiles waiting for us. More than we expected.”

Hongjoong’s gaze shifted to Seonghwa.

“Are you—” he began.

Seonghwa cut him off, voice low but fierce. “I’m not broken. Not yet.”

Hongjoong’s shoulders tightened, and for a moment the team’s weight pressed down on all of them.

“Get them patched up. Now. And find out who set this up.” His voice was cold, but inside, the fury burned hotter than ever.

Wooyoung and San nodded and quickly moved toward Seonghwa and Yeosang, steady hands and calm urgency in their eyes.

Hongjoong let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze lingered on Seonghwa—whose jaw was clenched tight, eyes still blazing with unspent fire.

“Seonghwa... meet me after you finish cleaning up.”

There was no question in his tone, only an unspoken warning. This wasn’t just about the mission anymore. It was about everything that had been left unsaid.

Seonghwa’s eyes flicked up, meeting Hongjoong’s for a brief, sharp moment.

“I’ll be there.”

Hongjoong nodded once and turned away, leaving the weight of what was to come hanging thick in the air.

Seonghwa followed Hongjoong down the hallway, his steps heavy but steady. He barely registered how stiff Hongjoong was beside him until they turned a corner.

Hongjoong’s voice broke the silence, low and rough. “Don’t freak the fuck out when I take you here. Punch me if you need to—but for fuck’s sake, let me explain once we enter. Understood?”

Seonghwa’s lips twitched into a bitter half-smile. “Got it.”

Hongjoong glanced at him, eyes sharp but guarded.

They stopped in front of a nondescript door—metal, reinforced, no markings.

Hongjoong’s hand hovered over the keypad, fingers trembling slightly before he punched in the code.

The door hissed open, revealing a small, dimly lit room.

Inside, screens flickered, showing maps, files, and a handful of photos pinned to a board. Most of them were blurred or marked classified, but one picture caught Seonghwa’s eye.

Your face.

“What the fuck is this?” Seonghwa hissed, stepping closer to the board, eyes scanning the images and notes pinned around your photo.

Hongjoong’s jaw clenched, voice low but fierce. “Mingi and Jongho set this up once they informed me that we have a mole.” He swallowed hard, the weight of it pressing down. “They want us dead. And you and YN are first on their list.”

Seonghwa’s breath hitched, heart pounding. The betrayal sliced through him deeper than any wound.

“They?” he repeated, voice thick with disbelief.

Hongjoong’s gaze didn’t waver. “The company. It’s why they forced that odd mission on you. It’s why you and Yeosang were ambushed.”

Seonghwa’s heart hammered painfully against his ribs. “Why would the company want to kill their own team?”

Hongjoong’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Because someone inside wants control. Someone who thinks you and YN are threats.”

Seonghwa swallowed hard, fury and fear mixing into a cold resolve. “So it’s not just about survival anymore.”

“No,” Hongjoong said quietly. “It’s war.”

He let out another heavy sigh, his hand hovering hesitantly over a small button on the console.

“I need you to promise me you won’t punch me,” he said, voice rough but almost pleading.

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “...Can I ask why?”

Hongjoong glanced away for a split second, then back with a weary, almost defeated look. “Because what I’m about to show you... it’s not just bad. It’s going to make everything worse.”

Seonghwa’s lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t promise.

He just waited.

Hongjoong pressed the button.

Another door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a hidden observation room bathed in dim light.

Seonghwa’s knees buckled as the image came into focus.

There you were—alive.

Not just alive, but moving, breathing, laughing.

Wooyoung was beside you, flexing his fingers animatedly, making you laugh so freely it tugged at something deep inside him.

San hovered nearby, hands glowing softly as symbols swirled around you—healing, protecting.

The sight slammed into Seonghwa like a thunderclap.

His heart seized, a thousand emotions crashing through him all at once.

Relief. Joy. Confusion. And beneath it all—an ache, sharp and raw—because you were here, but hidden. Silent.

And he’d been left in the dark.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Seonghwa snarled, his hand shooting out, fingers curling toward Hongjoong’s collar like a vice.

Hongjoong moved quickly, stepping back just in time, hands raised in defense but his eyes steady.

“Seonghwa, wait,” he said, voice rough but firm. “Listen—before you do something you’ll regret.”

Seonghwa’s chest heaved, rage and betrayal burning hot in his veins. “You knew she was alive this whole time and you didn’t tell me?”

Hongjoong swallowed hard. “I was trying to protect you. Protect them.”

“By lying to me?” Seonghwa spat. “By letting me think she was dead?”

“No.” Hongjoong’s voice cracked with something close to pain. “By buying time. We had no idea who to trust. The mole was still in our ranks. If word got out that YN was alive, it would have put all of you in immediate danger.”

Seonghwa’s eyes burned. “I was in danger anyway, wasn’t I?”

Hongjoong didn’t answer.

For a long moment, silence swallowed the room.

Then Seonghwa pulled back, voice low but trembling. “I need to see her.”

Hongjoong nodded, pressing his hand against the pad. A soft beep echoed, and the door hissed open.

Seonghwa stepped inside quickly, heart pounding so loud he thought you might hear it.

Your eyes met his.

For a moment, everything else—the years lost, the pain, the silence—disappeared.

You just stared at each other.

His breath caught in his throat. Your lips trembled. Neither of you could move.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, he stepped forward.

“YN…” His voice was barely a whisper, thick with everything he couldn’t say.

You blinked, fighting back tears, your hands trembling at your sides.

“I’m here,” you finally said, voice breaking. “I’m still here.”

Seonghwa looked at San who nodded and he was quick to hugg you tightly. Tears streaming down both of your faces before he leaned back and cupped your face.

Seonghwa’s lips brushed softly against your forehead, then your cheeks, his touch tender but desperate—as if trying to memorize every inch of you.

Your laughter, light and shaky, broke through the heaviness of the moment, filling the room with a fragile warmth.

He smiled, a mix of relief and disbelief, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

“You’re really here,” he whispered again, voice thick with emotion.

He pulled you closer once more, burying his face in your hair, holding on like he never wanted to let go.

For now, nothing else mattered—just the two of you, finally together again.

[gr4cier4cie]

♡ breaking point (lucky number nine) ♡ 2

or: after suzuka, everything changes. neither of you feels it happen, but it does. and all miami does it prove how much lewis would give for someone he never expected to care for as much as he does. fem!rookie!reader x lewis hamilton pt 1

warnings: angst obvs bc look who you're talking to, age gap (reader is ~23, lewis is 41), mentions of a crash (not career ending don't worry i'm not that evil), pls remember i am a mv1 lover as you read this pls

♡

[ferrari team radio: miami international autodrome]

♡

"what were you thinking?" fred's voice cracked through the air like a whip. like thunder. like the sound of your car hitting the wall, metal screaming sickeningly against metal. "what happened out there?"

lewis wasn't a violent man, no. not violent. not temperamental. he prided himself on calm. on steady hands on a steering meant to fit into the space between his index finger and thumb, on a steely gaze locked on the lights above as they flickered green. ("and that's... oh, god, that's Y/N Y/L/N, off at turn seven! a huge impact, right into the wall side-first... that’s race-ending, if not more—and still no word from the cockpit—")

lewis wasn't a violent man. that did not mean he couldn't become one.

"max pushed her out." the words were battery acid. bitter. "i'm telling you, he knew what he was doing. he cut her off and she—"

"that gave you permission to break his nose?"

lewis stared at his hands, silent. his knuckles sang with remembered violence, skin tinged red from blood that was not his own. (you would've laughed. would've traced the splits in his skin with gentle fingers, would have appreciated the irony of an eye for an eye.)

"you didn't see it." lewis' voice cracked. splintered. "you didn't see the way he—"

"i saw. everything." fred's quiet anger scattered across the room like debris across tarmac. "i saw max defending his position—"

"defending?" the laugh that tore from lewis' throat was not his. couldn't be. it was feral, and broken, and scared. "is that we're calling it now? he fucking knew she wouldn't yield, and the whole fucking world should know it."

fred dragged a hand down his face, frustration morphing into disbelief. "do you have any idea what this looks like? the headlines practically form themselves." he took a slow step forward. careful, as if approaching a wounded animal. "the FIA wants blood for this. disqualification, at the least. i can appeal anything more, but i can't promise anything."

silence stretched like caution tape. like police lines. like the space between the beats of lewis' heart when they'd pulled you from the wreckage. (you'd had a broken ankle. fractured collarbone and wrist. whiplash.) "he knew what he was doing," lewis repeated. "he knew she'd rather crash than yield, and he—"

"lewis." fred's voice had gone soft. "this isn't about max."

truth cut deeper than bone. because this wasn't about max. wasn't about the FIA or points or politics. this was about you. about the way you'd looked in that hospital bed, ferrari-red replaced by clinical, god-awful white. about how brilliant you were. about how much potential lived in every one of your breaths. (potential he swore on himself you would never lose.)

"she trusted me." the confession tasted like guilt. "to have her back."

"and breaking verstappen's nose helps her how?"

lewis' chuckle held no humor. "you didn't see his fucking face. after. he looked like... like he'd won something." he had tried to remember who he was supposed to be. seven-time world champion. mentor. a pinnacle of professionalism. it hadn't been of much help.

fred's sigh filled the room like smoke. "the press is having a field day. 'hamilton loses control.' 'hamilton finally snaps.' 'rivalry between teammates takes a violent turn.'"

lewis' expression dropped. "rivalry?" (no one could understand it, what you two had.)

"what would you call it?"

lewis thought of your smile. your laugh. the way your car looked in his mirrors, wanting for a fight. for more, more, more. he thought of how still you'd been, of the silence over the radio and the paralyzing fear in his chest that still hadn't ceased. that would never cease. "i don't know." that in itself seemed to be answer enough.

fred's knowing look followed him to the door. "they'll want a statement."

lewis paused, hand on the doorknob. "tell them—" his voice steadied. strengthened. "tell them i'd do it again."

♡

♡

[TWO DAYS POST-RACE]

lewis had memorized the path to your room. twenty-seven steps from the elevator. sharp right. twelve more steps. (he'd counted them that first night, carved the route into muscle memory during those four terrible hours when the doctors had said words like "lucky" and "could have been worse" and all he could think was young, young, young.)

"took you long enough," you said when he walked in, brandishing your second can of soda from the vending machine down the hall.

your voice was raspy. weak. but you were smiling, propped up against the stark white of the hospital pillows. he'd helped you change into your own clothes last night, had promised he hadn't been looking. but he always was when it came to you.

"heard you got yourself a fine to deal with."

"got myself disqualified, actually."

"what?" your soda can froze halfway to your mouth, a choked inhale catching in your throat. "but you—you were on the podium. i saw—"

"saw that, did you?" lewis settled into the chair beside your bed. his chair, now. "thought you were supposed to be resting."

"lewis." your voice cracked, eyes widening. "what did you do?"

lewis shrugged, but his eyes gave him away. "nothing."

"bullshit." you tried to sit up straighter, wincing as the movement pulled at your collarbone. lewis tried not to let his eyes linger at the purple watercolor that painted the curve. "they can't—you earned that podium. they can't just—"

"they can when i break someone's nose in the cool-down room."

the silence was unlike you, heavy and thick. understanding dawning in your eyes like sunrise. "you didn't."

"i did."

"lewis—"

"he deserved worse."

"your championship points," you whispered. the horror in your voice made something in his chest ache. "lewis, they'll take your—"

"worth it."

"what?" you stared at him. seconds went by. minutes. you stared as though you were seeing him for the first time, as though you, with eyes red-rimmed and determination of stone, were trying to understand something that lived in the secret space between his ribcage and his heart. "what—why? why would you do that?"

(lewis wondered how you could even ask such a question when he would sacrifice everything for you. he wondered when that had even happened. when you had gone from teammate to... something else.) "you know why."

your eyes met his. held. burned. yeah, maybe you did know.

"i owe you one," you finally said, raw and quiet. "i don't like debts."

"not a debt," lewis responded, reaching over to pluck the soda can out of your hands and take a sip of his own. "a favor. for a friend."

(liar, liar, pants on fire.)

♡

note: WOAH somehow this is like slowly becoming a fav piece of mine idk what it is i just love this dynamic!! sorry about the time skips, part one ended in suzuka and part two starts in miami!! XOXO ALWAYS FROM GRACIE LOVE YOU ALL!!

[roquog]

Leo's a compass for secret reasons. But also, I think the compass could represent control and perfection. You pick a point and radius, the needle and lead tip keep their distance, and you end up with a perfect controlled circle. That's what's comfortable to him, relying on stability.

Raph is a protractor because using it means having to line it up properly. On its own, without anything to measure, it's pretty aimless. If you want to create a shape or line you have to think about what you're doing. It represents freedom that needs consideration or guidance. It'd go along with his uncertainty. Also, I have many memories of being a perfectionist and getting mad when my paper slipped the tinniest bit under my protractor or when the thickness of my pen would offset the lines I made. I think Raph would relate to that lol.

Donnie is a flash drive. He uses them a lot, plus (to me) flash drives carry the connotation of valuing preservation. It's a small device that's easy to lose but you can take it anywhere and it can carry a lot of meaningful data. I think it could represent the responsibility he takes on by dedicating himself.

Mikey would be some kind of calculator. A calculator following inputted commands I think can be like thinking things are always straight forward, stubbornness, or even persistence. He's presented with a situation and knows what to do, or he thinks he does.

Leo -> Compass

Raph -> Protractor

Donnie -> Flash drive

Mikey -> Calculator

if they were school supplies :)

[tmnt-2012-ftaraatg-au]

Chapter 23 of Four Turtles, A Rat, and… is up now!

Kudos & Comments appreciated!

[weregreatatcrime]

Raph fell down into the deep sewers as a kid and was down there for five years before his family found him again. Turns out living in biohazardous waste and eating contaminated plants and mutant cockroaches makes you go through a few more mutations.

The years surviving alone hit him hard as a kid, but he's gotten better over time and his family knows how to help keep him grounded. It's rare for him to lose it and go completely feral- which is good, because feral mutants are uh. Pretty infamous for being destructive AF. When he does, his bros know how to get him someplace safe until he comes back around. He doesn't tend to go that far though- at most he'll get Extremely Violent and defensive until calmed down, but generally retains control.

He's pretty huge though, meaning once he WAS able to start ninjutsu up again (it took a couple years before they all agreed it was okay) there's some logistical problems. He can't stand up straight without hitting his head on stuff, their sewer lair is pretty compact, and Splinter doesn't have a set of sai that big. Eventually he'll find access to the proper materials to craft them, but uh, that'll take a while. Raph’s training ends up being more about keeping his cool and controlling his strength in fights, plus helping Leo out with tactical stuff. They're working on it.

He goes nonverbal to a degree sometimes. Down in the deep sewers words were pointless and he could barely stutter everyone's names when he came back. They've all worked hard on language like ASL (deaf blind too, so Raph and Donnie can always communicate) which works okay but sometimes now Raph just goes No Words and mostly makes animalistic sounds. He's not stupid or feral when he does, just can't manage language, and his bros have gotten good at interpreting him, plus he can still nod or shake his head, so charades is always an option. Him and Donnie have a bizarre level of understanding where all he'll have to do is hiss and Donnie gets it, or all Donnie has to do is flail angrily and Raph understands. Nobody else is quite on the same level and they think the two are just Weird

Raph still has a temper but he's not as hot-headed as most other versions, he's just Big and makes a lot of grumpy scary noises a lot lmao. He gets typecast by villains- everyone sees him get angry in a fight ONCE and suddenly everyone is terrified of him. Raphael thinks it's hilarious, and uses this reputation on purpose

[fletcherwilbury]

@sochilll December Prompt List Day 23: Flushed cheeks

Warning for Illness, pain, fever, flare-up, medication, physical abuse, verbal abuse

[dresh-rx]

The problem i always had with people saying Lloyd is 23 or something in dragons rising BUT mentally he's like 18

Or in Controversallized, he's 18 but mentally 16 or whatever,

Is that MENTAL AGE IS NOT LINEAR GUYS

I feel like people miss this and maturity as a concept.

Longer rant below

It was true at the beginning when he got aged up that he was ~8-10mentally and ~14physically, and for a while it was linear maybe, but mental age is more complex than a thing that follows your birthdays, take examples from real life.

A child under pressure, responsibility and a role they have to be forced to fill, with the addition of trauma will mature differently and faster.

Just like when a kid is stripped away from their family in real life, maybe due to war, abuse or financial reasons, the kid must learn the skills of older ages to manipulate their sourroundings to help them survive. That's forced maturity and a childhood lost.

People could be well in their 30s and have an 18yo more mature than them, its all about the conditions of growing up, and what hardships they had to adapt to.

Also, think about this: What does it even mean to be a specific age mentally? How does a mentally 23 yo differ from a mentally 18 yo person? Its very relative...

We can maybe see Lloyd act more unmature and childish than the others in pre oni trilogy seasons, but ultimately always trying to seem wiser than he actually was because then it was true that he got aged up, and his mental age didn't follow up for a while, but still maturity was expected of him. However i feel like that gradually fades away as we go further, and i firmly believe that his mental age has caught up to his physical a long time ago.

Even if tomorrow's tea never happened, he'd be more mature than his age due to the experiences he's lived through.

Also, mental age is NOT linear to behavioural skills.

The tomorrow's tea left effects on his social skills and behaviour, only because in addition to a fucked up early childhood, he literally skipped the late childhood development stages, arguably the most important one for learning social cues and learning to build connections, in addition to immediately being put into a situation of great responsibility, forcing him to learn all the skipped skills afterwards. And this arguably wasn't because he got aged up, it was the events he got put into. We can also see this in real life with people who were forced to grow up too fast.

If you were to make conversation with an adult who lacks certain aspects of social skills due to reasons, you wouldn't say they are unmature. You'd probably think they are maybe autistic, but not unmature.

And developmental holes are probably the source of many of his issues later on, like trust issues (on both ends, (w Pythor, Harumi, Akita, Garmadon post res), the inability to properly express empathy (DR s3pt1 when reacting to Arin's parent's death), or isolation in crisis (DR, Controversallized, Oni trilogy, Splinter in the Blind Man's Eye,...), and many others.

But these are NOT tied to maturity.

It's simply the effects (and mental health problems) due to one's development.

I'm not gonna go into the psychological aspect of the opposite, when people return to their childhood preferences/behavioural patterns after adulthood because they miss what they didn't have, because that is a different topic.

That being said people can still act younger in times, but thats normal, even healthy, and i'm all for preserving youthfullness. Heck i literally work in a club/bar but will play minecraft and build ninjago sets afterwards. If i see a cool bug i will pick it up and show it around, but that doesn't mean i won't be reliable at work or solve that differential equation for uni projects. Maturity is also the ability to act according to situation.

So... Now that i diverged this much

I don't believe that, and at the very least in dragons rising, that his mental age would be younger than his actual physical self. I believe after all the ninja went through, they long are all more mature than what an average person would be at their age.

And i hope to see that more highlighted in DR with Sora and Arin, (maybe even Wyfy). Sora was forced to mature a bit more than Arin was growing up, and that is apparent among them, with Arin acting like a typical ~15yo, while sora acts more young adult like. But I'm sure the pre ninja Arin and the Arin we'll get after s3 will be very different. Not because the passing of time, but the mental maturity he gained due to experiences (not necessarily positive ones).

But change my mind i guess

Welp, thx for reading my ramble, here is a potato