There are tough toys
“You like that?” Karai whispers, giving a vicious thrust. April’s head snaps against the pillow again, but she doesn’t relax her death grip in Karai’s hair.
“Like having a real woman show you how it’s done?” Karai’s snake-hand slithers across April’s torso, lapping at her nipples in time with Karai’s thrusts. It could kill in an instant if it wanted, but April knows it won’t. She’d be certain of that even if she didn’t have psychic abilities to confirm it.
So she smiles, as much as she can when her face keeps wanting to contort with another moan. “You c-call that fucking? I've had my world rocked better by my fingers.”
Karai growls low in her throat and hoists April’s legs over her shoulders, allowing her to drive the strap-on even deeper. April’s caught off balance and lets go of Karai’s with a frantic gasp.
“Like you were made for this,” Karai whispers, eyes flashing green and black with something that might be awe. Her free snake hand flickers between April’s legs, teasing at her edges while the strap-on drives deeper.
“Motherfucker!” April lets out a shriek as she comes, the bed rattling under them like it’s fucking haunted. If this keeps up she’s going to destroy another lamp.
But Karai doesn’t seem to give a fuck about any of that. She just smirks and keeps thrusting, fangs glinting needle-bright in her mouth. A lifetime of ninja training has given her the stamina of a goddamn demon, and April’s going to savor every second of it.
Not that she’s going to make things easy for Karai in the process. April returns Karai’s grin with a wicked one of her own and reaches up to squeeze Karai’s breasts, hard. The snakes both hiss, tongues fluttering, and it feels so fucking good April’s choking on out.
Karai growls, lurching forward until her face is an inch apart from April’s. “G-gonna fuck you till you can’t walk,” she grits out.
April just grabs Karai’s ass and pulls, dragging the strap-on in even deeper. Too far and it’ll be hurt, but that’s okay, because April wants it to hurt. She wants to crumble into a million bits, and she’ll happily do it over and over again as long as she takes Karai down with her.
“You crazy fucking bitch,” Karai says fondly, almost lovingly. April drags her into a kiss, trying to swallow the aftertaste of those words, of their beautiful dreams.
There are cute toys
In the beginning Mikey’s taken aback by how pretty the eggs are. They’re a soft pink color, matching the gorgeous blush Slash has when he offers them, and they feel so nice and smooth in his hands.
He decides he wants them inside him immediately.
They feel a little different in Mikey’s ass, of course, after Slash carefully pushes each one through his passage, rubbing his belly and cooing his ear. Less of the cute, and more of the holy-fucking-shit.
They push and rub and grind, setting nerves he didn’t even know he had alight. He feels so incredibly full, and even though it’s not like a food-fullness at all, it still seems as if some deep hunger inside of him has been satisfied.
So it’s easy to keep the eggs inside him while Slash rubs coos and kisses his belly, purring about how big and strong their babies will be. And Mikey keeps together while he obediently laps and sucks at Slash’s dick like a good mate should, swallowing down as much as the tasty cum spray as he can so the babies have plenty of nutrients.
But maybe the swallowing is the problem, or maybe it’s Slash cuddling Mikey on his lap, churring softly in his ear. Whatever the reason, Mikey’s patience rapidly starts to run out, until he catches himself making anxious little whines.
“Hmm?” Slash asks, pausing in his caresses in a way that suggests he knows, the bastard.
“I…” Mikey swallows, suddenly nervous. “I need to lay, I….”
“Are you sure, my love?” Slash teases, nibbling at Mikey’s neck, and he’s not sure if it’s the touch, the sound, or the wonderful meaning behind the words that makes him moan.
“Mmmmyes, please!”
Slash just chuckles before scooping Mikey off his lap and settles him on his hands and knees. There’s a heart-stopping moment when he wonders if he even can get the eggs out, but Slash just keeps rubbing his haunches and cooing softly until he slowly, surely remembers how to push.
The first egg leaves him buzzing and sobbing as it slides out, to be cut and safely set down with eggs. The second is accompanied with a fresh spray of cum, spilling down a strange baptism. 
Mikey comes again, and again, and fuck, Slash is barely touching his cock. For the most part he just rubs Mikey’s hips and tells him how good he’s doing, how precious he is, how happy Slash is to have such a brave, sweet mate.
When Mikey finally realizes he’s empty he collapses in on himself, shaking. Slash gathers him up and pulls him close, showing him with kisses.
“So beautiful,” Mikey murmurs sleepily, staring down at their babies with glazed eyes.
“Yes,” Slash murmurs, kissing his forehead, and if there’s a touch of sadness in his voice, it doesn’t quite penetrate Mikey’s afterglow. “They are.”

There are cuddly toys
The suit was the culmination of heavy trial and error regarding the endless, Herculean task of getting Donnie out of the fucking lab. Mikey named it Mr. Hugs, and Donnie thought it was ridiculous. That doesn't change the fact that he's been kind of hooked since they first talked him into the thing.
Still, he rolls his eyes when he sees them march into his lab, Mr. Hugs over Raph's shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "Seriously, guys? I'm in the middle of something, do we have to--"
"Yes," Leo says firmly, in that deep leader's voice that always gets Donnie. Then Raph is standing behind him, rubbing Mr. Hugs across his shoulders, and Donnie feels resistance ease out of him at the very touch of latex on his shell.
Mikey goes to lay the suit on the bed while Raph and Leo feed and hydrate Donnie, make him go use the toilet and splash water on his face. They guide him into the bedroom, murmuring soft assurance in his ear: it’s okay, we can look after things.
Mr. Hugs is lumpy, but obviously made with love and care, precisely matched to Donnie’s unique specifications. His brothers assembled the necessary materials and put them together through a mix of Leo's practical stitching, Raph's more elaborate needlework, and Mikey's artistic flair.
Mr. Hugs is dyed dark green, pleasantly featureless. There are no labels or expectations here for Donnie to define himself by, except for the people who love him.
His brothers guide him inside, operating the zippers and maneuvering his limbs. Donnie's sure that there are at least some parts of this he can do himself, but he doesn't offer. That's not how this works.
Instead, he just lets himself be swallowed up. It really does feel like being hugged pressing in on every corner to keep him a safe prisoner. He can't move, can't see, can barely hear. And he doesn't mind.
As they tuck him into place Donnie can feel the relentless buzz of his thoughts, his endless schemes and worries, start to fade away. He doesn't need to worry about that stuff right now.
"You okay?" someone asks. Donnie hums twice in his throat, low and willing.
"Good boy." Soft hands touch the hole in the suit between his legs, trace the ring holding his mouth open. He can sense them standing around him, practically feel the heat of their cocks. They'll let him come in a while, once he's proved himself enough to let them free his cock.
They're going to fuck him, now, in every way they can think of. They'll use him like a toy--a precious, well-loved toy, whispering about how grateful they are and how much they appreciate him all the while.
He can feel him start to open him up. Donnie takes a deep breath, the thin mesh over his nose fluttering, and lets himself be released.

There are loud toys
Raph gurgles, twisting wildly in the sweaty blankets. "Motherfucker...." The buzzing from the vibrator neatly tucked up inside him feels like it’s drilling through his skull.
Casey shoots him an innocent look over his magazine, as if Raph can't see the hard-on he's sporting, or the way he's delicately rubbing the controller in one hand. "Somethin’ wrong?"
"Eat shit." Raph would punch him if the bastard hadn’t lashed him down. He could probably break free if he really wanted to, but Casey would be mad at him for tearing the rope, and besides, he ain’t ready to tap out yet.
"So rude…” Casey leans over to pat Raph's trembling erection, grinning when he squeals. "Aw, poor baby. Are you ready to ask for Daddy's help yet?"
"N-never."
"Are you su-ure?"
"Can you just..." Raph searches his mind for something to make Casey let off, without actually having to give in. "Cant'ya at least do something 'bout the noise? It’s driving me up the fucking wall."
"Right away, monsieur," Casey purrs,  smiling in a way that makes Raph realize he's made a huge mistake. He pushes the button, and Raph yowls as the pace fucking picks up.
"Bastard!" he roars, thrashing like a goddamn jumping bean.
"Hey, you asked for a change in tempo, dude."
"Not what I f-fucking meant, you sick sonofabitch!"
"That’s why clear communication is such an important part of healthy relationships," Casey sighs, idly turning a page.
Raph manages to roll his eyes. "Didja g-get that from a fortune c-cookie?"
"It's common sense, dude." Casey sets the magazine aside and gives him a look. "For example, you're making shit harder for yourself by not asking for what ya want."
"Never," Raph rasps.
Casey shrugs. "Okay, then." He gets up and starts to saunter out the door, swaying his ass as he goes.
Raph chokes. "Where the fuck're you goin'?"
Casey glances over his shoulder, rolling his eyes. "To take a shower, and keep baby Jones from feelin' too neglected, obviously."
Raph swallows hard. "You, you're just going to leave me here?"
"If that's what you want," Casey says, turning away.
"You can't just fucking, I don't--fuck!" Raph swallows hard, trying and failing to collect himself. "Come back!"
Casey sticks his head back in the doorway with an innocent expression. "Yes, dear?"
Raph groans, squirms, summons every inch of his formidable will--but the damn thing won't just shut up, and to be honest he doesn't really want to resist it.
"Fine,” he mutters. "Come on." And then, as if the word is being yanked free with rusty pliers, "Please."
Casey's pants are off and he's back across the room in a flash. He tugs the vibrator out easy as you please and slips into Raph's loosened hole, those clever fingers coming down to drag him over the edge.
Raph churrs, scrabbling at Casey's shoulders as he's fucked through the orgasm. He’s still shaking with the aftershock when Casey reaches his own peak, slumping back down besides him.
For a while they lie there, panting, and then Casey reaches up to undo Raph’s restraints. "Hey," he says restraints. "You know I'd never actually leave your dumb ass, right?"
Raph rolls his eyes, squeezing Casey's hand. "As if I'd let you get away with it, dipshit.”

There are tall toys
It's big. Logically, Leonardo knows that it's too big, that even when he and the toy are as slicked up as possible there is a strong probability of damage. The sight of it would be enough to give a fully grown man pause, and Leo, for all that he has seen and done, is still rather small. All of his instincts tell him not to try.
Only...it's a gift, a present from his Master and Mistress. A means to hone his strength and endurance, to prepare him in case he's ever subjected to the myriad cruelties of their enemies.
They want to him to do this and he won't
-can't
say no. He loves them too much for that.
Besides, Kitsune assures him, they have mutagen on standby. Just in case.
So he lies on his back with Master Shredder holding his legs in the air while Mistress Kitsune slowly, carefully works the toy inside. It's not the first plug Leo's taken, and the cool metal surface has enough lube that the first several inches aren't so bad.
But there's more. And more. And more, until Leo's breath has started to flutter in his chest and pain is creeping in around the edges of pleasure, sinking into his bones.
"Shh," Kitsune murmurs, petting his face. "You're doing so well."
"Focus, Leonardo," Shredder chimes in, grip tightening ever so slightly on Leo's shoulders. "Breathe. Remember your training."
He tries, he really does, but the pain just keeps getting worse. All of his instincts are screaming at him to break free, resist, run away--
Where? he asks himself. You already messed things up with one master, and it cost you so much. He won't do that again, especially not to people who have been so very kind to him.
Deeper, deeper, with Kitsune lets out little concentrated huffs. It feels like it's in Leo's stomach now, splitting through his tender flesh. He has a sudden hysterical vision of it sprouting from his mouth and almost wants to laugh, but all that comes out is a moan as he's engulfed by a fresh flare of white pain.
"Please," he begs. "Please, I--"
"Hold on, chunin." Shredder orders. Leo quails at the faint trace of disappointment in his voice.
"Almost there, pet," Kitsune says.
But it feels like another eternity before the plug finally comes to a stop, nestled deep inside him. By then, Leo's barely conscious enough to be grateful.
"There, there." Kitsune pets his cheek, her hands slick with blood. How many times had it torn him? "That wasn't so bad, wasn't."
"N-no, Mistress," Leo rasps.
"How bad is it?" Shredder asks, sounding mildly interested.
Kitsune shrugs. "Tolerable. We can leave it in for a few hours..." She brushes her finger across Leo's cheek. "Let him serve us with his pretty mouth while he's at it, hmm?"
The bottom drops out of Leo's stomach, but he forces himself to nod. He'll do whatever they need him to.
That's what love is, after all.
 
There are small toys
Anton Zech is going to be honest with himself--being mutated into a giant warthog has not been a walk in the park. Still, he tries to see the bright side, for his own sanity if nothing else.
He may not be welcome in normal society, but hey, people have been on him for how he looked since he was a kid. He may not be able to walk into the local bodega, but invisibility always helps him out in a pinch. His boss may be a homicidal maniac, but the pay's decent and they get good health and dental insurance. They spend most nights trying and failing to kill a bunch of turtles, but Anton's read that a bit of challenge keeps the brain working.
Things with the ladies may have gone royally south, but at least he's got his Ivan, who's got more than enough energy to keep Anton's nights from getting lonely. His coworkers are probably batshit insane, but they don't start shit when he kisses Ivan in front of them.
The new body has its ups and downs, too. Endurance and durability, for one. Although Anton would probably trade that for not having to occasionally wake up to find he's rubbed through a bedpost in his sleep--tusks can be a bitch.
But that's made up for a very impressive upside. Or, rather, a bunch of smaller upsides with a very impressive impact.
"Fuck," Anton moans, trying not to fall off Ivan's lap. His boyfriend chuckles, raking another finger across the array of glinting clips attached to Anton's bare chest.
"You like that, my tsvetok?" Flower. Anton wouldn't take that shit from another guy, but Ivan is special. He makes Anton feel special. And maybe that's why Ivan's the only guy Anton would let him see wearing six nipple clamps.
That's right. Six, baby. Turns out warthog anatomy has some pretty slick surprises. He'd spent days collected the shiniest, prettiest clips he could find, the ones that would light him up like a fucking diamond in the right light.
"Mmm," Ivan lifts him up and Anton frantically clings to his horns as long, rough tongue laps at his chest, teasing clamp after clamp. Fuck, some days he thinks Ivan's tongue turns him on almost as much as his dick.
Speaking of Ivan's, they're both pretty damn hard by the time Ivan lowers him back down. Anton braces himself on Ivan's shoulders and starts rubbing their cocks together, groaning when the clamps start jangling with every shift.
"Take them off," Ivan moans, eyes glittering.
Anton chuckles. "Soon, baby. You wanna take this lil' flower for a spin first?" Ivan lets out a soft sigh of affirmation and starts to roll his hips, so that the cock slick between Anton's thighs starts lifting him up and down in the air. Anton feels himself broken apart, fractured in half a dozen points of pleasure.
Yeah, they're some perks to the warthog thing.
 
There are posh toys
It's no ordinary string of beads. The beads are finely polished, glinting like a dozen tiny pools in Leonardo's fingers. Yoshi's not exactly sure where it came from, but he can clearly see its value. Too pure, he thinks, for something like this. And their beauty only stokes the dark currents of want in his stomach.
He watches Leonardo swing it in his grip, so that looks like nothing so much as a watch. Ticking and tocking, rocking back and forth, luring Yoshi into this soft, quiet little madness of theirs.
"We'll take care of you," Miwa says firmly, voice muffled from where she's tucked into Yoshi's side, face half-pressed into his fur. Her hands rub gently over his chest, fingers tapping in time with the beat of his heart.
Leonardo's eyes glint in the candlelight reflecting off the beads, looking exposed in a way he almost never is in the light of day. He is raw and cracked, just like Miwa would be if Yoshi turned to look at her. His children have been so badly damaged while his back was turned.
In this scorched new world of theirs, Yoshi has tried again and again to say sorry, to fix the damage wrought by Saki's cruelty and his own carelessness. But they don't want his sorries, at least not in the way normal children might.
"Breathe deep," Leonardo says softly, and then the first bead is pushing inside. Yoshi groans, unwittingly clenching Miwa's hands. His son's hands rest on his thighs, strong and callused, petting his flexing skin.
They want his submission. They want his helplessness. They want his life pulsing under their fingers, proof that he is finally here with them after they lost him and been lost by him for so long. They want the kind of power that mutant freaks and stolen girls do not ever get to dream out. And they want his love, vulnerable and ecstatic and endless.
He would give them the world if he was able. Why can he not offer this?
One after the others, filling him up until he thinks he might burst. Miwa buries his head in his shoulder, forked tongue flipping out to lap hungrily at his sweat. Leo hums to himself, a tone resembling one of the lullabies Yoshi used to his boys as a child, but the tune a few beats off. There is something here that belongs to no inheritance, no tradition.
"Wider," Leonardo says calmly, nudging at Yoshi's legs the way Yoshi does while adjusting his children's stance in the dojo. He does as he's told with a soft sigh, unable to keep from squirming at how vulnerable he feels.
"Stop that." His son lightly flicks the remaining string against Yoshi's swollen balls. He yelps, and Miwa giggles, the sound trailing off into a raspy hiss. Yoshi sucks in a breath, struggling to ground himself and not doing a very good job.
A stronger master, a wiser father, would be able to handle all of this with ease. But Yoshi is none of those things now, is cut off from that world. He is a man struggling to breathe, feeling the ugly, wild part of him that loves this growing stronger with every bead.
The children idly touch themselves as Leonardo approaches the end of the string, but neither of them look away. They're fixed on Yoshi, on his sweat and weakness and all the things he never let himself know before.  Their lovely eyes glitter, bright as precious jewels, reflecting light that's strong enough to burn.
 
There are broken toys
He wants it to stop. He needs it to stop. But the heavy metal weight between his legs keeps him prisoner, denying him even the brief kindness of release.
How long has he been here in the dark, half-starved and sleep-deprived and cut off from the world? How long has since he's felt anything except for their cold hands and colder toys, dragging him to one aborted release after another? A year? A week?
It's gotten so he has trouble remembering that there should be people coming for him, much less who they might be. His...his brothers, right? It's so hard to think. Even his own name has been mostly drowned out by the screaming, crushing need.
Faint vibrations on the metal. Someone flicks on the light so that he feels it warm on his face, pulls off the headphones and the ball gag. But they don't do anything about the vibrator buzzing inside him; he's not going free today.
A hand caresses his face, and he can't even collect himself enough to pull away. "You were making some very interesting noises this morning, turtle," someone asks, not even bothering to disguise the lust in their voice. "Do you require assistance, perhaps?"
He knows what he's supposed to say. Fuck you. Eat shit. Suck my dick. A million variations of the same defiance. And in return they smack him around, fuck him, force him to his knees, ruin him in ways he didn't even know was possible until he came here.
And in the end--the worst thing--they'll leave him here. Sore and bloodied and unable to so much as cry himself to sleep, held open by a plug or one of those terrible vibrators. The cage has left his cock scraped and aching, until he's hoping it'll just rot off so he won't have to deal with it anymore. But he doubts he'll be that lucky.
He opens his mouth, trying to tell himself one more day. He can do it, he's always done it before...but all that comes out is a sob, broken and twisted. And another, and another, while deep inside his head the remains of his sanity look on with conscious horror.
They don't slap or laugh at him. Instead they do something even worse--they pull him close, rubbing his shell with a tenderness he didn't know his enemy was capable of. "Shh, shh," they coo. "It's all right."
And he wants to scream that it's not all right, just because he's fractured doesn't make him stupid, but all he can do is whimper. "Please," he begs. "Please, please, please..."
"Please what, little one?"
"Please let me come!" He gags, disgusted at himself, but unable to stop the flow of words. "I'll submit, I'll do whatever you want, just please, please--"
There's a clicking key--oh god, it had been so close all this time, they were just waiting--and then he doesn't care about any of that as the terrible weight finally slides off. A hand replaces it, impossibly gentle, and he feels himself dissolve in screaming churrs as he comes and comes and comes.
He lies there shaking, sobbing, relieved and horrified at the same time. A hand pets down his sticky thighs in a dark parody of comfort. "It's all right, pet. You did so well."
He closes his eyes, scrabbling to collect himself in the few moments that he doesn't hurt. I'm going to get out of here, he swears to himself fiercely, desperately. I have to get out of here.
And maybe he will. But he already knows he's going to leave a few shattered pieces of himself behind.