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It didn’t stink. It didn’t smell great, but this was only the storm sewer and disused subways and abandoned basements. When his... DIRECTIONS, Blitz called them very deliberately in his head, slipped into his locker on a torn scrap of newspaper and Sirius alone knew how he’d gotten it in there, had mentioned a meeting place in the sewers, he’d feared the worst, but this was just musty.
And hopefully if he stayed focused on what he was smelling he would think less about what he was doing.
He descended the last stair, just like the orders INSTRUCTIONS said, pulled open the heavy iron door that he’d been told would be unlocked, and stopped. The chamber, it couldn’t be called a room, was spartan and seedy and obviously lived in and, much more ominously, obviously waiting for him.
Blitz couldn’t see anyone there, but that was to be expected. He didn’t know much about his… person he was here to meet, put he knew they knew how to not be seen.
“What were you ordered to do when you got here?” said a voice. The echoes through the pipes meant he couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but he recognized it well enough.
“I don’t think you can call them orders when-” Blitz started.
“What were you ordered to do when you got here?” repeated the command. A little anger in it this time.
Blitz gulped. He didn’t bother arguing. Drill sergeants, instructors, commanding officers, all the way back to Master ...him, had all noted that he responded well to firm discipline. Blitz stripped his shirt, pants, jockstrap, abashedly conscious of unseen eyes on him the whole time. He knelt on the concrete in nothing but his boots. Exactly as his orders had said.
“So you can follow orders after all.” The voice was sullen and dripped anger the way a bad sausage dripped oil and undeniably younger than him, which made blitz’s ears smoulder. Steps only barely audible as he approached. “Eyes down, hands behind your back.” Blitz obeyed before he realized he was, blushing furiously as he watched the turtle’s legs circle him, inspecting him. Unable to cover his aching, dripping, ragingly rigid shame.
"I’ve had an utter fuck of a day,” The voice was behind him. “And you still owe me. I'm pissed as hell, my blood's boiling, and I'm seeing red. You think I'm just some shit-head brat, and it burns you that you even came here, doesn’t it? Almost as bad as… nevermind. So if you think I can't control myself, I'm gonna endanger you, what-the-fuck-ever, walk the hell away right now. But if you trust me unlike every other asshole in my life, stay on your knees."
Blitz swallowed hard. Didn’t move. Didn’t think he could have.
“Smart choice.” The voice chuckled. “On your knees is a good place for you. Let’s get started.”
Everything about this should be bad. Should be terrible. But he needed it, maybe somebody smarter would have been able to say why, he didn’t care. As bad as this looked, as bad as it was… it didn’t stink.
———
Back muscles are the bane of my existence. They haunt me.
If you couldn’t tell, in this universe, turtles can remove their shells. It’s just a thing they can do. They’re fused to them when growing up, but in the tail-end of puberty they separate from it and can remove it at will.
Guest-art in the background by
\n\t\t\t\t\tStonecircleDisclaimer: This is art and storytelling meant for mature audiences. If you or someone you know is in an unsafe situation, seek help. And if you think for even a second that drawing/writing an unsafe/unhealthy scenario is somehow an endorsement of it please unwatch me and fuck off right now.
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