The two of them huddle in the dark, bodies slapping together as his King's claws rasp over his skin. Splinter opens his mouth, hungry, seeking, desperate.
"Soon, my love," his king says, planting a soft kiss on his drool-streaked jaw. "Soon."
But he's hungry, is the thing. The Rat King has stripped so much from him--his intellect, his reason, his sanity--but all of that only made the hunger shine brighter, dig deeper. And while fucking is good, even that is not enough to distract him from the need.
They're tucked away in a little alcove, hiding from the latest Kraang patrol that's taking even longer than usual to make their way out of the sewers. The vibrations poke at Splinter's sensitive ears, and he squeezes his eyes shut with a soft whimper.
"Hush, darling," the Rat King says, circling his hips. "Isn't this nicer?"
It's nice, but it's certainly not nicer. Splinter reaches for a passing rat for a whimper.
"No!" his King barks, slapping his hand away. "We need them for the army." His eyes blaze as he starts babbling about it again. Hunger’s no concern of his; if his wasted frame ever cries out for food, he doesn't show it.
It’s all about the army. His king discusses it at length, sighing over how he’ll lead a heroic force up out of the dark and stake their claim amidst the ashes of humanity. Talks about rewriting society, shattering the old world order and rewriting it anew.
For Splinter, who doesn't remember anything about the old world, it's a lot of noise. In fact, a lot of the things his King says are a lot of noise these days, after said King remade him as someone without the faculties to disagree--or comprehend--his teachings.
Ironic, his old self would say. But his old self is broken shards at the back of his mind, occasionally scratching just enough to cause him a bit of discomfort. The hunger drowns it all out, now.
It's the hunger that turns the steady grind of his King around his cock from a pleasure into a chore. It's the hunger that makes the aches and pains of hard living feel even harder to bear. It's the hunger that makes him feel suffocated, both by the distant Kraang and by the bodies of man and rat pressing in around him.
It's the hunger that tells him to reach out, ignoring his King's panting and moaning about conquering civilizations, and scratch his claws along one pale arms.The King moans, lurching awkwardly around Splinter's cock.
It's not until the scratching goes harder, deeper, that it starts to pass from pleasure into something else. The Rat King frowns, glaring down at him. "What are you doing?"
Splinter blinks. What is he doing, exactly? He's just reaching for moving, shuddering, babbling meat, just like the Rat King taught him to. It's just...a bit closer that's time, that's all. And in the end, why is that such a problem?
Why is he even hesitating? Beasts don't hesitate, and isn't that what his master told him he is?
The Rat King's mouth opens, and Splinter sinks his fangs into his throat. It's not until the first spray of blood scalds his tongue that he wonders if, maybe, his master was ordering him to stop.
But then the hunger tastes the blood and screams more more more, wiping everything else away. So he decides to give into his instincts, like a proper rat.
He bites and bites, tearing off pieces from his King's heaving shoulders. His master gasps for air and writhes desperately, jerking about on Splinter's. It's more than enough to stir his flagging libido back to life. He begins to thrust away as he eats, humming in pleasure.
Perhaps the other rats would be a problem, but they're too busy humming around in circles, banging up against each other. They're lost and confused in the haze of their master's pain, and the King can't gather himself enough to summon them.
He can't really scream with his throat torn up like this, but Splinter covers his mouth as he works, anyway. He wouldn't want to have such a fine meal disturbed by an ill-timed visit from the Kraang.
The last vestige of humanity in him (the cruelest, darkest, most vengeful part) remembers to start jerking Falco off as they approach the climax of the meal. He's barely alive when he finally shudders, but it's enough to pull Splinter over the edge with him, letting out a groan muffled by a particularly juicy chunk of meat plucked from the King's (Falco's) side.
Somewhere during the last few shudders, he realizes he's fucking a corpse. Splinter lets the limp, bloody body slide to the floor and stare down at it. The rats, jerked to a halt by the severing of all those invisible puppet strings in their brains, look too.
Splinter wonders if someone should say something. A victory speech, maybe, or a sad tribute to their fallen King. Something noble and poetic, worthy of a life like his.
But really, he's still hungry, and he needs something to do before the Kraang can leave (he's not himself again, not yet, can't hear the ghosts that will follow him up when he finally returns to the light). Besides, is there any greater tribute he could give his fallen King than following his instincts?
So he hunches over the body, hissing at any smaller rats who dare approach his dinner. The first spring rain begins to fall in the city overhead as he starts to feed.