(A/N: And the winner is, Stigmatophilia! Fantastic. Read, and if you like, Review! Two more chapters in the works before we're done. Sorry for the delay.)

Ch.2: Michelangelo: Stuck on You (Stigmatophilia)

Mikey finds another turtle with an appreciation for body ink.

When he was thirteen, Mikey realized just how freakishly ironic his name actually was. Yeah, all three of them had been named after "Renaissance Masters", and they'd heard the story a million times, but even still he thought it was pretty funny that out of his two brothers, the most artistic turtle was the one picked to be "Michelangelo".

He could say with a good level of confidence that he was the most artistic, too. Donnie was a psycho genius with his machines and doohickeys, and Raph could trick out a bike like you wouldn't believe, and if you wanted to be grisly, the bruise portraits he painted on criminals with his fists were like nothing Picasso ever dreamed, but Mikey was the only one at four that knew crayons were for pictures, not lunchtime snacks.

(Alright so maybe he did chew on a few Crayolas, but seriously who names a color Mac and Cheese and not expect little kids to be curious? And Watermelon Popsicle? That didn't make him dumb, that made him sophisticated. Scented? Don't even go there.)

Anyways, once he was completely sure that no, markers did not taste as good as they looked and sometimes smelled, he drowned the lair in scribbles and sketches. It was wet and cold and dark, except for the sunny pictures stuck up here and there.

The third time they moved they were a little older and it was less needed for them to hide so deep, so the moonlight got in a lot more and made it less like a giant grave, but Mikey still filled every scrap of paper he could with color and put them up wherever he wanted, whenever the inspiration struck him.

Splinter taught them ninjitsu, but Mikey taught himself how to be an artist. When Donnie came back from the junkyard with gigantic new books, Mikey would shake his duffel bag upside down until the art books he'd begged for tumbled out so he could clutch them to his chest and race back to his room like a lame little fiendish art pirate.

Math was like voodoo, grammar was for Nazis and English, seriously? What was his brain running on? Duh.

But Art, though... art was worth learning. 2d, 3d, painting techniques, pencils and oils. The supplies he scavenged, he loved like his first born, kept them under lock and key away from Raph's rage and Klunk's curious kitty paws. He learned most of his Japanese (sorry, Splinter) while learning to draw Manga and Anime. Cooking was great, but art wasn't limited by the real world. He could do whatever he wanted with it, plug in his earbuds and let his wrists go nuts.

Getting older meant getting deeper, like emotion deeper, and his pictures showed that. Fears of the dark and lonliness and good ol' mutant insecurities kept his newer drawings firmly in his sketchbooks, but less so in his heart and mind.

Michelangelo was fifteen and drawing in front of the tv when a commercial for a tattoo shop came on, and by the end of it there was a huge drool puddle on his paper, mind blown, holy SHELL. He'd seen tattoos before on criminals, gang signs and shaky, crappy pictures that made the artist in him weep, but those were a whole new level.

The realism made his head spin, the colours and values were mouth watering and the way the designs curved and down, around and into the planes of flesh revved his motor like nothing else. A few passes of a needle created something dangerous, sexy, living art on warm skin. Art he could taste, touch, stroke.

He was hooked, line and sinker. The idea never left him alone. Shows like Miami Ink became his porn, recorded and watched late at night while he squirmed and whimpered on the living room couch, wet around his thighs with an aching tail. It didn't matter the gender of the person getting the tattoo, dude or dudette, it was all hot.

Michelangelo wanted a tattoo, he NEEDED a tattoo. He had to have one.

If he asked Splinter he'd lose his life, so he turned to his magic older brother. A few bribes and blackmails, some flashes of the puppy dog eyes and a makeshift tattoo gun made out of a bedazzler, a ballpoint pen and a sewing needle later, he had a tiny, permanent picture of a turtle on the inside of his leg, covered by his kneepad during the day.

Mikey almost came twice while he was doing it, untouched, hard and moaning through his teeth the entire time the needle danced over his skin. The sting of his sore flesh kept him horny for days, acting like a magic charm and turning him on every time he looked at it or touched it, or even thought about it. When he jerked off at night, he only needed to put his fingers on it before his sheets were soaked and sticky. The small blossom that appeared on his elbow was the same way, and the peace sign that showed up under his arm.

He figured out that there was something he liked even better than needle art after seeing a documentary on Henna and ancient body decorating. He almost killed himself experimenting with regular paints (heavy acrylic and reptilian skin didn't mix. Oil: water. It was ugly. Shudder.)

But Michelangelo found out that he loved, loved, LOVED the feeling of a wet brush, more than the pinpricks of a needle. He found organic paints and went crazy, slithering colors and brushes over himself like cold, wonderful tongues, painting his own thoughts and designs in smooth, heated strokes and turning himself into a masterpiece, feeling the itch of drying pigments and come in the aftermath.

He wanted another canvas, another person to share his fetish with. But people weren't lining up to be the muse of a freaky teenage turtle, and he couldn't ask his brothers because ew, nasty.

And then Leonardo popped up, like an evil pimple that wouldn't go away.

Unfortunately, that evil pimple was revealed to have a tattoo, and it was hard for Mikey to keep his eyes away.

The first time he saw it, Leonardo had him in a headlock, and when he struggled to break it he caught sight of the Foot insignia enscribed into Leonardo's shoulder. It was perfectly centered, bright and popping against his oak green skin. Round at the sides and curved into sharp spikes at the top, the symbol was surrounded by black flames. The beauty and simplicity of it singed Mikey's soul. He wondered, as his vision blurred around the edges from lack of breathing and Leonardo hissed death into his ear, how it would taste.

After that, it only got worse; way, way worse. Every time they faced Shredder's new kid, Mikey noticed a new tattoo adorning him. They changed constantly, never the same, except for the first one.

A line of Japanese characters down his arm, some kind of ornate crest in the corner of his plastron, tribal bands around his ankles. Nothing flashy, but just sensual enough to keep Mikey looking. He caught himself copying the designs on his own skin.

The final straw was the Dragon. He didn't see it until the very end of one battle, but once he did it was impossible to UN-see. Karai called a retreat, and when Leonardo turned around...

The Dragon curled over the high ridge of the katana users back, an ancient scroll brought to life with the most vivid fiery reds and shimmering greens Michelangelo had ever seen. It's eyes were narrowed, leering and glittering at him, jaws open like it was going to swallow him whole. His fingers itched just looking at it, and saliva welled in his throat.

That night, paint soaked his fingers and stained his feverish skin. It slicked the hilt of his practice nunchucks when his fingers failed to be enough, easing the way inside while he fantasized about the Dragon, and the darkly hot turtle it rested on.

Michelangelo keened and sobbed into his pillows as he imagined Leonardo seeking out every secret picture and design on his body, licking and sampling them. He imagined the look on his face when Mikey lifted his tail, exposing the pawprint on the underside.

'Pretty little slut...'

The nunchucks slid deeper, pumping hard against his pleasure spot and he inhaled his blankets, and shook apart to the feeling of Leonardo's fingers on his thighs, his body blistering where their tattoos touched. He saw the Dragon come to life, arching off Leonardo's shell with a hiss and coiling around them as they fucked, streaking them both with the colors that burst behind his eyes.