Finally!!! the last one of the duos, the A-team!!!!! after a lot of time working on other drawings and doing other things, i finally had the chance of finishing this ''series'' of drawings of raph and his brothers, maybe in the future i do this again?? who knowss
I really like the rendering on this one and the way i drew their faces, i think i'm getting the hang of this ''expressions'' things ajksjkasj the only thing is that I feel the perspective of this drawing isn't as interesting as the others, but oh well, i still like it very very much ¯_(ツ)_/¯
A/N: I usually opt to post most of my smut directly on AO3. But I wrote this on a whim and it was inspired by posts from @katanablue (here) and @theyhavetakenovermylife (here). I highly encourage you to check them out for context for this fic!
Enjoy, heathens! 🥵
CWs: Explicit sexual content, established relationship, filming of amateur porn, anal fingering & rimming, anal sex, size difference/stretching, size kink, dirty talk, mild degradation, rough sex, technically turtle anatomy, squirting, multiple orgasms, and overstimulation.
You lie on your stomach across the soft sheets of your shared bed, heart racing as the camera light blinks red on the tripod at the foot of the mattress. The angle is perfect: low and close, capturing every explicit detail without showing your faces.
Raph’s large shadow falls over you, his hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, spreading you open for the lens and for him. “Been waitin’ for this, baby,” he growls, voice low and thick with that accent that always makes you wet. “All those comments beggin’ to see if your tight little human ass can take my fat cock. You ready to show ‘em?”
You nod, biting your lip, already aching. “Yes, I want it. Want you to stretch me.”
He chuckles darkly and drops to his knees behind you. His breath ghosts over your exposed pussy and ass before his long tongue drags slowly from your dripping slit up to your puckered hole. Sloppy, wet sounds fill the room as he eats your ass like he’s starving, shoving his tongue inside you as deep as it can go. Saliva drips down your thighs in messy rivulets.
You moan loudly, pushing back against his face. “Your tongue is so big … feels like you’re already fucking me,” you gasp.
He pulls back just enough to speak. “Gotta get this pretty hole sloppy and open for me. Gonna wreck this ass so they can see how much you love takin’ mutant dick.” He spits directly on your hole, then uses his thumb to smear it in circles while his other hand spreads your cheeks wide for the lens.
He shoves one finger inside, crooking it against your front wall while his tongue laps around the rim. Then he adds another. The stretch stings at first, then blooms into a deep, gnawing need as he scissors you open, spreading you wider, the knuckles bumping against your ring with every push. The wet noises make your clit throb.
“Fuck, listen to that,” he growls, pulling his fingers free. He spits again, this time aiming for the center of your hole, watching it slide down into your crack. “That’s the sound of a needy little ass beggin’ for cock.”
After several minutes of his relentless rimming and fingering, you’re trembling, pushing back desperately. Raph slicks his big cock with lube, the thick head nudging against your entrance. “Breathe, babe. Relax for me. You’re gonna look so good stuffed full.”
You moan as he starts to push in, the initial resistance making you gasp. Then the head pops in, the sensation like being split open from the inside out. “Oh god, you’re so fucking big!” The burn is blinding for a moment, then melts into a deep, impossible fullness as he sinks deeper inch by inch.
He groans, hands gripping your hips. “Almost there,” he grunts, and then his hips are flush against your ass.
You feel him bottom out. A deep churr vibrates through his chest. The camera catches every detail: the obscene stretch of your rim hugging his shaft, the coat of lube and spit smeared around it. He holds there for a long moment, letting you feel every throbbing inch.
“Look at that greedy ass,” he snarls, reaching around to grab your chin and force your gaze toward the monitor on the dresser. On the screen, you see yourself: your hole stretched wide around him, a tiny pearl of lube leaking out around the seal. “Fuckin’ swallowin’ me whole.”
He starts slow, long strokes that make you whimper and moan, pulling out until only the head remains, then sliding back in with a deliberate, grinding push. “So tight … squeezin’ my cock like you don’t wanna let go. You love this, don’t ya? Love gettin’ your ass pounded.”
“Yes—harder, please,” you beg, pushing back.
He picks up the pace, the smack of his hips against your ass turning sharp and punishing. The headboard slams against the wall in rhythm. Your eyes roll back as he hits a spot so deep you feel it in your throat. You come hard the first time just from the fullness, a sudden, clenching orgasm that makes you scream into the pillow. Your pussy gushes, squirting messily onto the sheets.
He doesn’t stop.
Raph flips you onto your side without pulling out, the sensation making you cry out. He lifts one leg high, hooking your knee over his elbow, so the camera gets a perfect side view of his cock sliding in and out of your stretched hole. You watch on the monitor as your rim clings to him on every withdrawal.
“Look at that,” he pants. He spits down onto where you’re connected, the saliva landing on your rim and immediately getting driven inside on his next thrust. “Fuckin’ ruined for anyone else.”
Then he puts you on your back, shoving your knees up toward your ears in a mating press. Your legs shake as he drives in even deeper, the new angle making him grind against your front wall with every stroke. You can feel him bulging inside you, see the faint movement in your lower belly if you look down. You claw at his plastron, nails scraping over the ridges, screaming and moaning as he pounds you into the mattress.
“Gonna fill this ass up,” he snarls, thrusts growing erratic. “You ready for my load?”
You nod enthusiastically. “Please, come inside my ass!”
His hips stutter.
There’s a flood of warmth deep inside you, then another pulse, and another. He roars, his whole body going rigid, and you feel him empty himself in thick ropes that seem to go on forever. You squirt again as he slams home one final time, the pressure of his cock and his release triggering another messy orgasm that leaves you boneless. Moans fall from your lips, with incoherent fragments about how big he is, how full you feel.
He stays buried for a moment, both of you panting, his softening cock still twitching with aftershocks inside you. Then he pulls out slowly, the sensation of his shaft dragging over your overstimulated walls making you whimper. When the head pops free, you feel a gush of warm liquid follow—his cum, mixed with lube and your own slick, spilling out and pooling onto the sheets beneath you.
You feel his fingers spread your cheeks wide for the camera, the air hitting your gaped, twitching hole. On the monitor you see it: your rim, loose and puffy. A thick white drop of his seed oozes out. Your hole clenches reflexively, pushing out another small glob.
“Perfect,” he mutters, voice satisfied.
Raph reaches over and turns the camera off.
He collapses beside you with a tired, cocky grin, pulling you against his broad chest. “Damn, that was hot. Bet it breaks records.” He pauses, then chuckles. “Y’know … if the fans keep beggin’ for more, maybe we’ll invite Leo or Donnie next time. Bet they’d be down. What d’ya think—double the mutant dick for double the views?”
You burst out laughing, swatting his arm even as heat floods your cheeks at the filthy thought. “You’re terrible.”
He smirks and kisses your forehead. “You love it.”
A/N: I really wanted to write a fic where truly, nobody is the bad guy after a break-up. Mina is sweet, Leo is just trying to find peace after literal apocalyptic trauma, and the reader is stuck in a devastating grief loop. It’s messy and it’s deeply painful. not sorry for the angst; i needed this out of my drafts asap
🎵 Inspired by Lost In Your Touch by Butcher Babies 🎵
CWs: Heavy angst, post-breakup depression, unhealthy coping mechanisms, obsessive/stalking behavior (boundary crossing), invasive thoughts, panic attack/breathing difficulties, emotional breakdown, and brief mentions of post-movie Krang trauma/scars. All characters are aged-up.
The glow of your phone screen is the only light in your dark apartment. It casts a harsh, blue tint over your face, illuminating the dried tear tracks on your cheeks and the dark circles bruising the skin beneath your eyes. Your thumb hovers over the screen, trembling slightly, before swiping to the next photo. And the next. And the next.
It’s April’s private social media account.
You shouldn’t be looking at it. You know you shouldn’t. Everyone has told you—April, Donnie, even Mikey with his soft, empathetic eyes—that you need to stop. That you need to let him go. But how can you? How are you supposed to just pack up months of memories, late-night rooftop runs, and whispered promises in the dark, and lock them away?
The photo on your screen features the whole Hamato clan crammed into a booth at Run of the Mill Pizza. Raph is in the back, laughing around a massive slice. Mikey is making bunny ears behind Donnie’s head. And there, in the corner of the booth, is Leo.
Your Leo.
Except he isn’t yours anymore.
He is smiling that brilliant, cocky, effortless smile that used to make your heart hammer against your ribs. The red stripes over his eyes crinkle with genuine joy. But he isn’t looking at the camera. He’s looking down at her.
The new girl.
She has her head thrown back in a laugh, her hand resting casually on his plastron, right over the faint, jagged scar left behind from the Krang invasion. It’s a spot he used to let only you touch. You remember the way his breath would hitch when you traced those raised, pale lines, the way he would lean into your palm and close his eyes.
Now, this stranger is touching him like she owns him.
Like she earned the right to be there.
You zoom in on the picture. Your chest caves in, a sickening, hollow ache radiating through your ribs as your eyes lock onto Leo’s hand—which is resting firmly, possessively, on her waist.
Now she’s the one with your hands on her waist, and I’m left with memories I can’t erase.
You drop the phone onto your mattress as if it burned you. The device lands with a dull thud, the screen timing out and plunging you into darkness. You pull your knees up to your chest, burying your face in your arms, trying to block out the image. But it’s burned into the backs of your eyelids.
You know the exact weight of that hand. You know the texture of his scales, and the comforting warmth that radiated from him despite his cold-blooded mutation. You know how those calloused fingers felt when they wrapped around your own, how his thumb would gently stroke your hipbone when you lay together in his messy subway car bedroom.
Does she get lost in your touch like I do?
The thought is a poisonous whisper in your mind, wrapping around your brain like thorny vines. Does this new girl understand the privilege of his touch? Does she feel the electric jolt of his ninpo sparking beneath his skin when he pulls her close? Does she close her eyes and let the rest of the world melt away, utterly consumed by the sensation of him?
Does she love the way it feels?
You push yourself off the bed. The silence of your apartment is suffocating. The air is stagnant, heavy with the ghosts of your past. He used to portal into this very room. A flash of blinding blue light, and he would step out of it with a confident smirk. “Hey, hermosa,” he would say, his voice smooth. “Miss me?”
You pace the length of your bedroom. The urge to see him is a physical itch beneath your skin, a withdrawal symptom that makes your hands shake and your stomach turn. It’s Friday night. You know exactly where they are. You shouldn’t go. It’s a violation of the unspoken boundary drawn the day he quietly and gently broke your heart. But the obsession is a living thing inside you, steering your body when your rational mind begs you to stop.
You throw on a dark hoodie, pull the strings tight, and head out into the streets of New York City.
The mystic doorway to the restaurant is located in an alley that smells of old garbage. You press your hand against the shimmering brickwork covered in graffiti, then step through. The air instantly shifts, becoming laced with the scent of pizza.
You can’t risk Señor Hueso spotting you and making a scene. Instead, you slip behind one of the booths. It’s pathetic. You know it’s pathetic. You are creeping through the shadows, a desperate ghost haunting the life of a man who doesn’t want you anymore. But you can’t stop yourself.
The restaurant is bustling with yokai of all shapes and sizes, but your eyes zero in on the booth in the back.
There they are.
It’s just the two of them now. The brothers must have left. Leo is leaning across the table, his elbows resting on the wood. He is talking, his hands moving in those sweeping, dramatic gestures you know so well. The lights of the restaurant catch the blue fabric of his mask, highlighting the sharp, mature line of his jaw. He looks so handsome it physically hurts.
And then he looks at her.
He stops talking. His arrogant, playful demeanor melts away in a fraction of a second, replaced by a look of such profound, tender sincerity that you have to bite your lip to keep from crying out. His eyes are soft, filled with a quiet, undeniable adoration.
And does she know when she looks in your eyes that you’re the one for real?
When you were together, he looked at you like that. Not often—Leo was always hiding behind jokes and bravado—but in the quiet moments, when the world stopped spinning, he would look at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. You knew, in those moments, that he was the one. You felt it in the very marrow of your bones. Does she know?
Does this girl sitting across from him realize that beneath the jokes and the flashy portals, there is a warrior with a heart so vast and fiercely loyal it could swallow her whole?
You watch as the girl smiles, reaching across the table to take his hand. She weaves her fingers through his three green ones.
Leo’s face breaks into a soft, breathtaking smile.
You scramble back, your chest heaving as if you’ve run a marathon. The air is suddenly too thick to breathe.
You leave as discreetly as you can, heading back through the entry portal and bursting into the cool night air of the New York alley. You lean against the wall, chest heaving.
You are drowning in the past, choked by the memories you can’t erase.
You remember the night you broke up.
He had looked so tired, the weight of his newfound leadership and his lingering trauma was fracturing the foundation of your relationship. “I can’t give you what you need right now,” he had whispered, his voice cracking. “I’m broken, and I keep cutting you on my sharp edges. I have to let you go.”
You didn’t want to let go. You would have bled for him. You did bleed for him. But he had already made up his mind, slipping away from you like water through a sieve.
Suddenly, the brickwork shimmers. You bolt around the corner into the shadows just as Leo and Mina step through. Ducking out of sight, you listen to the low murmur of their conversation as they pass—they’re heading to the nearby park for a walk. A romantic, late-night stroll.
Your legs move on their own. You follow them, keeping your distance, darting from cover to cover. You are a shadow. A stalker in the night. They walk close together, their arms brushing. When you reach the park, the girl trips over an exposed root, losing her footing. She stumbles forward with a gasp.
Instantly, Leo’s arm shoots out, catching her around the waist before she can hit the ground. He pulls her flush against his plastron, his reflexes impossibly fast. She lets out a startled, breathless laugh, her hands gripping his muscular arms.
“I’ve gotcha,” Leo murmurs, his voice low with that protective edge you used to crave.
“Leo!” she gasps, her voice a mix of surprise and delight. She looks up at him, her eyes wide, entirely captivated by his strength and proximity. She says his name like a prayer. Like a lifeline.
Does she make you forget where you are when she’s screaming out your name?
The memory hits you with the force of a freight train. A memory so intimate, so intensely private, that you have to squeeze your eyes shut to bear it.
The night in his subway car. The blue fairy lights cast an ethereal glow over tangled sheets. The feeling of his body moving with yours, his hands holding you down, his breath hot against your neck. You remember the way you moaned his name, your voice breaking, completely lost in the overwhelming tide of his touch. In those moments, the world didn’t exist.
There was no Krang, no Foot Clan, no impending doom.
Just you and him, perfectly synchronized.
You open your eyes, tears blurring your vision. Leo is still holding her. He leans down, burying his face in the crook of her neck. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you can see the way her eyes flutter shut, the way a soft, ecstatic smile spreads across her lips.
Do you still whisper the same words to her, or did you save those just for me?
What is he telling her? Is he calling her his princesa? Is he telling her that her eyes are brighter than the mystic lights of his portals? Is he whispering the secret, terrified insecurities he used to confess to you in the dead of night?
The thought that he is recycling the words that once felt so exclusively, sacredly yours makes bile rise in your throat. You want to scream. You want to run out from behind the tree, grab her by the shoulders, and violently shake her.
So how’s she supposed to know that I love you?
You look at this girl, this oblivious, happy girl. She doesn’t know you exist, or if she does, you are just a footnote in Leo’s history. The ex. A bump in the road leading up to her. Every time Leo smiles at her, every time he pulls her close and says, “I love you,” you lose another piece of your soul. It’s a competition she doesn’t even know she’s winning, and you are being slaughtered on the battlefield.
‘Cause every time you say you love her, I lose.
Your foot shifts. The heel of your sneaker snaps a brittle, fallen branch.
The sound echoes in the quiet park like a gunshot.
Leo freezes. His head snaps up, his combat instincts instantly overriding his romantic haze. His eyes scan the treeline, narrowing with razor-sharp precision. He pushes the girl slightly behind him, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilts of his katanas strapped to his back.
“Who’s there?” he demands, his voice hard and authoritative. The voice of a leader.
Panic seizes your chest. You shrink back, pressing your spine against the trunk of the tree, holding your breath until your lungs burn. Please, you pray to whatever gods are listening. Please don’t let him see me.
“Leo? What is it?” the girl asks, her voice trembling slightly.
“Stay here,” he orders quietly.
You hear the soft, deliberate crunch of his footsteps approaching your hiding spot. You have nowhere to run. The park is too open, and a portal would catch you before you could make it half a dozen feet.
His footsteps stop right on the other side of the tree.
“I know you’re there,” Leo says. His voice is quieter now, but it carries a strange, tight tension. “Step out.”
You close your eyes. Humiliation burns hot and bright in your cheeks. Slowly, with trembling limbs, you step out from the shadows of the tree.
Leo stands ten feet away. He relaxes his grip, letting the half-drawn blade slide back into its sheath with a soft click. The fierce, protective scowl on his face evaporates, replaced by a look of pure shock, his eyes widening. He murmurs your name. The sound of it on his lips is a punch to the gut.
It has been months since you heard him say it.
“Hi, Leo,” you whisper, your voice hoarse. You wrap your arms around your torso, trying to make yourself as small as possible.
The girl steps out from behind him, peering around his broad shoulder. She has pretty, kind eyes and a soft face. She looks confused, her gaze darting between your tear-stained face and Leo’s rigid posture. “Leo? Who is this?”
How’s she supposed to know how much I do? ‘Cause I would do anything to be in her shoes.
You stare at the girl’s shoes. Cute, stylish little boots. You would trade everything—your dignity, your sanity, your life—to step into those boots, to be the one standing behind him, protected by him, loved by him.
Leo turns his head slightly, his expression softening as he looks at the girl. “Hey, Mina,” he says gently. “Can you … can you give us a second? Just wait by the fountain?”
Mina looks at you again, a dawning realization flashing in her eyes. “Oh. Okay. Sure.” She gives Leo a quick, reassuring squeeze on the arm before walking away, leaving the two of you alone.
He turns back to you. The silence stretches between you, thick and agonizing. He doesn’t look angry. If he looked angry, it would be easier. You could fight him. You could scream at him. But he doesn’t look angry.
He looks overwhelmingly, unbearably sad.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. The pity in his eyes is a knife twisting in your gut.
“I don’t know,” you choke out, tears finally spilling over your lashes. “I don’t know, Leo. I couldn’t … I just couldn’t stay in my apartment.”
He lets out a long, shuddering sigh. “You’re following us.” He rubs a hand over his face, looking suddenly exhausted. “You’ve been following us since Run of the Mill, haven’t you?”
You don’t answer. You just stare at the crack in his plastron, the one you used to trace with your lips.
“You have to stop doing this to yourself,” he pleads, taking a half-step forward before stopping himself. The fact that he stops, that he deliberately restricts himself from closing the distance, breaks you entirely. He won’t even comfort you. He belongs to someone else.
“How do you do it?” you sob, the dam finally breaking. The words tear from your throat, raw and jagged. “How do you just walk away? How do you look at her like that, when just a few months ago, you were looking at me?”
Leo flinches as if you struck him.
“Do you say the same things to her?” you demand, stepping toward him, fueled by a hysterical, desperate energy. “Do you call her the same names? Do you touch her the way you touched me?”
“Stop,” he says, his voice cracking. He holds a hand up, a barrier between you. “Please, don’t do this.”
“How does it feel to let go?!” you scream. “Tell me, Leo! Tell me how it feels, because I don’t think I’ll ever know! I’m dying inside, and you are just … you’re just fine!”
Leo closes the distance then, grabbing your shoulders. His large hands grip you tightly, grounding you as you shake and sob. The contact sends a violent shockwave through your nervous system. His hands. His beautiful, strong hands are on you again, but it’s entirely wrong. There is no passion. Only desperation and pity.
“Listen to me,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. He ducks his head to force you to meet his eyes. “I am not ‘fine’. Breaking up with you broke my heart. But we were destroying each other. You know we were. You were giving me everything, and I had nothing left to give back. It wasn’t fair to you.”
“I don’t care about fair!” you cry, trying to bury your face in his chest, but he holds you back at arm’s length. “I just want you! I want your hands around my waist. I want to wake up next to you. I want to erase her from your life.”
Leo’s eyes harden slightly, a flash of protectiveness for Mina cutting through his grief. And that micro-expression is the most devastating thing you’ve seen all night. “You don’t mean that. Mina has nothing to do with this. She’s a good person. And she makes me … she makes me feel quiet. Inside my head. It’s quiet with her.”
You stare at him, the breath knocked out of you.
With you, it was loud. That’s the unspoken sentence hanging in the air between you. Your love was obsessive, intense, a raging hurricane of emotion that demanded all of him. And Leo, broken, traumatized, exhausted Leo, didn’t need a hurricane. He needed a gentle breeze.
He needed Mina.
“How is she supposed to know?” you whisper, your voice cracking into nothingness. You look past his shoulder, toward the fountain where Mina is waiting patiently, scrolling on her phone. “How is she supposed to know that I still love you? How is she supposed to know that every time you tell her you love her, I lose everything all over again?”
Leo’s grip on your shoulders softens. His thumbs brush against your collarbones, a phantom echo of the tenderness he used to give you so freely. “She doesn’t need to know,” he says softly. “Because this isn’t about her. This is about you. You have to let me go. You have to find someone who gives you the quiet you deserve, too.”
“I don’t want quiet,” you whisper, tears tracking steadily down your cheeks. “I want you.”
He drops his hands from your shoulders. The sudden loss of his touch leaves you freezing cold. You shiver, wrapping your arms around yourself.
“I have to go,” Leo says quietly. Then he gives you one last, lingering look—a look filled with sorrow, guilt, and a final sense of closure. At least for him. “Don’t follow us. Please. For your own sake.”
He slices his swords in a wide arc, and the air tears open with a flash of blue light. He steps backward toward the fountain where Mina is waiting. You watch as she looks up, flashing him a bright, uncomplicated smile. She takes his hand again. Leo doesn’t look back at you as they step through the portal together.
It shrinks and collapses.
You are entirely alone.
You sink to the ground, the damp grass soaking through your jeans. The silence of the park is deafening, just like your apartment. You pull your knees to your chest, resting your forehead against them. The memories are rushing in, a relentless, suffocating tide.
You remember the way his blue mask tails would flutter in the wind when you stood on the edge of a skyscraper. You remember the rumble of his chest when he laughed at his own terrible joke. You remember the exact, precise pressure of his hands resting on your waist, pulling you into him.
And does she love the way it feels?
Does Mina know the treasure she holds in her hands? When she lies next to him tonight, when he whispers her name into the dark, will she understand the miracle of his love?
You press your hands over your ears, trying to block out the voices in your head, trying to erase the images of them together. But it’s impossible. The obsession is a parasite, feeding on your grief, keeping him alive in your mind even as he walks away in reality.
How does it feel to let go?
You look up at the canopy of the tree above you, the tears finally stopping, leaving behind a hollow ache in your chest that you know will never leave.
A/N: “Lavender Haze” describes the all-encompassing love glow of a new, deeply passionate relationship. The phrase means being in a blissful, honeymoon-phase love bubble and wanting to protect that peace from outside scrutiny, gossip, and societal pressures. (Also, it’s a shade of purple, more shallowly lol)
🎵 Inspired by Lavender Haze by Taylor Swift 🎵
CWs: Media scrutiny, paparazzi, anxiety/panic response, toxic and vindictive ex, invasion of privacy, cyberbullying, classism/wealth disparity themes, misogyny & outdated gender roles, public shaming, feelings of inadequacy, and imposter syndrome. All characters are aged-up.
The digital clock on the bedside table flips.
12:00 AM.
Meet me at midnight, he had texted you earlier today, right in the middle of a chaotic board meeting at the towering glass-and-steel headquarters of Genius Built. My brothers are currently banned from the penthouse for a minimum of forty-eight hours due to Leo’s unforgivable misuse of my espresso machine. The premises are secure. Bring yourself.
And so you did. You always do.
Now, you are lying flat on your back, staring up at the ceiling with him.
The expansive ceiling of Donnie’s penthouse master bedroom is not a flat, boring expanse of drywall. It is a shifting, mapped projection of the cosmos, overlaid with complex, slowly rotating geometric algorithms that he insists help him relax. But tonight, he has dimmed the neon of his signature purple tech down to a soft, diffused glow.
The color bleeds into the dark space of the room, casting a velvet, violet light over the white sheets, over your skin, and over Donnie’s green scales. Beside you, Donnie shifts, his hand finding yours in the space between your bodies. His thumb, slightly calloused from hours of tinkering with micro-soldering irons and other machinery, brushes over your knuckles.
He doesn’t ask you what’s wrong. He never says too much when you get like this. You’ve always appreciated that about him.
With Donnie, there is a mutual understanding of boundaries and emotional bandwidth. He is a genius of unparalleled proportions, the mutant who brought New York City into a new age of technological advancement with Genius Built, a company that skyrocketed him to the status of a multi-millionaire tech mogul. He understands complex data, intricate workings, and mechanics.
But he also understands that sometimes, your brain just short-circuits. He doesn’t poke and prod, nor does he demand you verbalize the heavy, sinking weight in your chest. He doesn’t really read into your melancholia; he simply offers his presence as an anchor until the storm passes.
And lately, it has been a veritable hurricane.
You sigh.
“Your heart rate is currently elevated by twelve percent compared to your usual resting baseline,” he murmurs, his resonant voice breaking the silence. He doesn’t turn his head to look at you, his brows relaxed as he continues to stare at the constellations above. “I can only assume your mind is running on that horrific hamster wheel of anxiety again. Should I deploy the weighted blanket? Or perhaps initiate protocol ‘Distract with Mindless Reality Television’?”
A small, genuine smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “No. No weighted blanket tonight, Dee. I’m okay. Just … thinking.”
“Ah. Thinking. A dangerous pastime.” He squeezes your hand. “Particularly for you, considering the sheer volume of idiocy the general public has been hurling in your direction.”
He says it so casually, stating it as a simple fact rather than a tragedy, and that is exactly why you love him.
You have been under the most intense, suffocating scrutiny for the past six months. It started the day the paparazzi finally managed to capture a clear photograph of the two of you leaving a high-profile charity gala. Until then, Donatello Hamato was known as the eccentric, reclusive mutant CEO of Genius Built. He was a hero to the city, an enigma to the press, and notoriously private.
Then, suddenly, there you were. A human woman. Holding his hand. Wearing a dress that perfectly color-coordinated with his signature purple attire.
The world lost its collective mind.
All this is entirely new to you. You are not a celebrity, not a mutant hero who has saved the world from the Krang. You were just a normal woman living a normal life in New York until you bumped into the smartest, most arrogant, most incredibly endearing turtle on the planet. The transition from anonymity to being the focal point of a media frenzy has been nothing short of a nightmare.
The flash of the cameras blinding you as you try to enter your favorite coffee shop. The endless, invasive articles analyzing your body language, your clothing, your background. The vicious comments section of every blog post, dissecting your worthiness to stand beside someone as wealthy and influential as him.
But Donnie? Donnie handles it beautifully.
You vividly remember the scene just three days ago outside the Genius Built lobby. You had gone to bring him lunch, a naive mistake during peak tabloid hours. A swarm of reporters had descended upon you the moment your foot touched the pavement. They had shoved microphones into your face, their voices blending into a cacophony of demanding, invasive noise.
“Is it true you’re only with him for the Genius Built fortune?!”
“How do his brothers feel about you?!”
“Are you a PR stunt?!”
You had frozen, your breath catching in your throat, the panic rising hot and fast. But before the anxiety could fully consume you, the reinforced glass doors of the lobby had slid open, and there he was. Donnie had stepped out, flanked by his personal security drones, radiating an aura of absolute, unbothered superiority.
He hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t panicked. He had simply walked down the steps, his posture impeccable, wrapped an arm securely around your waist, and tapped a button on his wrist pad. A localized, shimmering purple forcefield had instantly snapped into existence around the two of you, silencing the barrage of questions into a dull, muffled hum.
He rolled his eyes as he guided you safely into the building, not sparing the press a single glance. He had looked only at you. “Are you unharmed, my dear? Their flash photography is entirely offensive to the retinas.”
He had completely ignored the scrutiny. He didn’t care what they said about him, and he genuinely couldn’t fathom why anyone would care what they said about you. Because he knew you, and to him, his assessment was the only one that mattered.
Lying here now, staring at the ceiling, you feel that same protective barrier around you, metaphorically speaking. “I’m fine, Donnie,” you whisper, finally turning your head to look at him. The lavender glow illuminates his striking profile. “Just … tired.”
“Understandable,” Donnie replies, finally turning his head to meet your gaze. His eyes are sharp, analytical, but infinitely soft when they land on you. “The sheer audacity of the media is exhausting. I could, if you wish, route all of their IP addresses to a server located in a remote research facility in Antarctica. It wouldn’t stop the print media, but it would certainly cripple their digital footprint for a solid week.”
You laugh softly, the sound bubbling up from the melancholia that had been threatening to drown you. “As tempting as that is, you can’t wage cyber warfare on TMZ and The Daily Mail, Dee.”
“I am the CEO of Genius Built. I can wage cyber warfare on whomever I please,” he counters smoothly, shifting onto his side to face you fully. He props his head up on one hand, his plastron pressing lightly against your side. “But I will refrain, simply because you asked. Though I reserve the right to deploy EMPs if they camp outside your apartment again.”
You reach out, tracing the edge of his purple mask. He leans into your touch instinctively, a stark contrast to the aloof, untouchable millionaire the world sees. The world doesn’t know this Donnie. The world doesn’t know how he hums songs under his breath when he’s focused, or how he physically cannot sleep unless he knows you are safe, or how his scales are surprisingly warm to the touch.
This life, this man—this giant, brilliant, mutant turtle—it all feels like a dream that you somehow stumbled into. And when you are in this room, locked away from the cameras and the microphones, you shouldn’t give a damn what people say. Because in this space, there is no deal to be made with the public.
There is only you and him.
But the outside world is loud, and the echoes of it still ring in your ears.
“It’s just …” you start, your voice faltering slightly. You pull your hand back, fidgeting with the edge of the duvet. “It’s the stuff they write. The narratives they try to force on us.”
Donnie frowns, the drawn-on lines above his eyes furrowing. “Narratives? You mean the baseless speculation regarding our relationship dynamic?”
“Yes.” You let out a frustrated breath. “It’s so archaic. It’s like they’re trying to force me into this 1950s box.”
It’s true.
The media has seemingly decided that there are only two possible roles for a woman dating a powerful, wealthy man, mutant or otherwise. All they keep asking you, all they keep shouting at you through the camera flashes, is if you’re going to be his bride. They analyze the ring finger on your left hand in every photograph. They run speculative polls on morning talk shows about when the “Genius Built Wedding” will be.
And on the flip side, the darker corners of the internet paint you as a gold-digger. A one-night stand that somehow managed to overstay her welcome. They insist you’re just a temporary distraction for the great Donatello, a fleeting human amusement.
The only kind of woman they see is a temporary fling or a wife. There is no nuance. There is no room for the reality: that you are simply two people (well, one human and one mutant turtle) deeply, madly in love, trying to navigate a partnership. You don’t want the pressure of a highly publicized, circus-like wedding. You don’t want to be reduced to a trophy.
You just want him.
“They want to neatly categorize you,” Donnie says, his tone dripping with disdain. “Because ambiguity terrifies the simple-minded. They cannot comprehend a partnership built on mutual respect and intellectual equality, so they default to outdated, heteronormative societal tropes. It is, frankly, embarrassing for them.”
“I find it dizzying,” you admit, closing your eyes. “I can’t open my phone without seeing my own face. And … and they’re bringing up my history.”
That was the part that had triggered tonight’s melancholia.
Earlier this evening, before you came to the penthouse, an article had gone viral. Some opportunistic tabloid had tracked down your ex-boyfriend from three years ago—a bitter, insecure guy who was more than happy to accept a paycheck to spin lies about you.
He had painted you as erratic, manipulative, and desperate for fame. They had dug up old, embarrassing photos from your college days. They had scrutinized your old retail jobs, your student debt, every minor mistake you had ever made, all to craft a narrative that you were unworthy of the Genius Built empire.
You feel a sudden spike of shame, remembering the cruel headlines. You look away from Donnie, staring at the glowing stars on the ceiling again. “They interviewed Simon. They published all this garbage about me. It’s everywhere. Millions of people are reading about my past and judging me for it.”
Donnie is quiet for a moment. Then, he shifts closer. The mattress dips under his weight, and suddenly, he is right there, his face mere inches from yours. “My dear,” he says, his voice low, steady, and commanding in a way that demands your full attention. “Look at me.”
You turn your head back to him.
“Do you honestly believe I care about what some mediocre, emotionally stunted ape from your past has to say?” he asks, his eyes locking onto yours. “I didn’t read the article. I didn’t care to. But I am aware it exists because my AI flags any mention of your name in the press.”
“You … you knew about it?” you whisper.
“Of course I knew about it. I know everything,” he says, a hint of his usual arrogance bleeding through. “But you want to know what my reaction was?”
You swallow hard. “What?”
“I had my secondary servers scrub the more defamatory claims from the primary search engine algorithms, and then I instructed Shelldon to systematically flag the author’s personal email for high-volume spam relating to male pattern baldness.” Donnie smirks, a devious, satisfied little expression. “As for your ex? I wasn’t even listening to his pathetic attempts to remain relevant. I simply had his Wi-Fi throttled to dial-up speeds for the rest of his natural life. He will never stream a movie in HD again, let alone 4K.”
A surprised, watery laugh escapes your throat. “Donnie! You didn’t.”
“I absolutely did,” he replies, completely deadpan. “I consider it a measured and merciful response. The point is, my love, they are bringing up your history to a man who literally holds the future in his hands. Why would I look backward when I am standing right beside you?”
The words hit you right in the chest, warm and overwhelming. The anxiety that had been clawing at your throat all day begins to loosen its grip. “But the public—” you start.
He cuts you off by reaching out and gently taking your smartphone from the nightstand. He looks at it with deep disgust, as if it’s a piece of archaic, broken tech.
“Get it off my desk,” he says firmly.
“What?”
“It’s a metaphor,” Donnie says somewhat playfully, though his eyes remain serious. He tosses your phone onto a plush armchair across the room, out of sight and out of reach. “Let them talk their talk. Let them go viral. Let them trend on whatever mindless social media platform they prefer. It does not matter. The opinions of sheep do not concern the shepherd, nor do they concern the shepherd’s fiercely intelligent, incredibly beautiful partner.”
He reaches out, his large hands cupping your face. His thumbs brush away a stray tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “I do not need their approval,” he continues, his voice softening into a tone he reserves only for you. “I just need this. You and I, in this penthouse, building our own world. Let them scream into the void. They cannot touch us here.”
You look into his eyes, illuminated by the purple ambient light, and you feel the last remnants of the outside world fall away. He is right. He is always right, but right now, he is right in the most important way possible.
The paparazzi, blogs, expectations, the demands for a wedding or a scandal—it’s all just noise. It’s a circus happening on a completely different planet. You don’t want to play their game. You don’t want to step out into the blinding, harsh flashbulbs of the paparazzi.
You just want to stay in this lavender haze.
“You’re right,” you breathe, leaning into his hands. “I know you’re right. It’s just hard to ignore it sometimes.”
“I am aware,” Donnie says softly. “Which is why I am here to serve as your highly effective, technologically advanced firewall. Against the media, against your exes, and against your own melancholia.”
He pulls you closer, and you go willingly, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He wraps his arms around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. The sheer size and strength of him is a physical barrier against the world. You can hear his steady heartbeat, a rhythmic, calming sound.
“I love you, Donnie,” you whisper into his skin.
You feel his arms tighten around you in a fierce, possessive hold. “And I love you. More than I love titanium plating. More than I love uranium-powered energy cores. It is, frankly, a statistical anomaly how much I love you.”
You smile, closing your eyes. That is the highest compliment Donatello Hamato could ever bestow upon a person.
The lights on the ceiling slowly rotate, casting soft, shifting shadows across the bed. The lavender haze is thick in the air, a surreal, insulating bubble. Out there, in the city below, people are likely still typing out angry comments. They are still debating your worth. They are still asking if you’re going to be his bride, or if you’re just a fling.
But you find that you truly, deeply, do not give a damn.
You aren’t playing their game. You aren’t giving them a statement, or a perfectly staged photo op, or a tearful interview. Let them talk. Let them go viral. Let them exhaust themselves trying to figure out the puzzle of your relationship. They will never understand it.
This space—this glowing, purple, midnight sanctuary—belongs only to you and him.
“Get some sleep, my dear,” Donnie murmurs, one of his hands gently stroking your hair. “The world will still be spinning on its axis tomorrow, and I will still be here to ignore it with you.”
“Okay,” you whisper, your body finally relaxing completely against him. The dizzying spin of the day has stopped. The history they tried to drag up feels like dust blowing away in the wind.
You watch the ambient violet light dance across the sheets. It’s surreal, this life you’ve chosen. It’s chaotic, heavily scrutinized, and terrifyingly public.
But as Donnie’s steady breathing lulls you into the edges of sleep, wrapped securely in his arms and hidden away in the highest tower in New York, you know one thing with absolute certainty.
So, uh, I’ve realized I’ve accumulated a lot of fic drafts on my drive over the past two+ years. Some are nearly finished, some are rough around the edges, and some have been sitting there collecting digital dust while I kept telling myself I’d get back to them “soon.”
Well. Soon is now.
Between now and Kinktober, I’m going to see how many of these fics I can edit, polish up, and actually post. No promises on exact numbers, but I’m determined to make a huge dent in the backlog and get some of these stories out into the world.
Hi! 👋 Felt the need to leave a little bit of praise for Ivy’s ch.6. I really enjoyed how you wrote the tension there—Leo was lowkey terrifying towards Reader (imo anyway), and I mean that in the best of ways. The drama is immaculate 😩👌✨
"And when you’re left with nothing, I’m coming to collect what’s mine.” Horrifying, 10/10.
The bad blood between him and Donnie is going to be interesting to see more of. And with Donnie being completely unfazed by his brother’s threats carries a scary threat of its own. It’s very exciting to read their dynamic. Great chapter! ☺️
Thank you so much! 💜
Leo’s possessiveness is starting to bleed through the cracks and I’m delighted it came across as unsettling. And the Donnie & Leo situation … oh, those two have Issues. The fact that neither of them is backing down should probably concern everyone involved.
I’m honestly so happy you’re enjoying their dynamic because writing scenes between them feels like juggling lit matches. There’s so much history and resentment tangled up between them that every interaction turns into a power struggle. And poor Reader is just standing in the blast radius like 🧍
Raph and Mikey deserve compensation at this point for having to deal with them. 😩
This is my first time participating in a DTIYS challenge ♡
I really love @mkthedingus ‘s comics, so I was super happy to have the chance to join!
I should probably share this before I start pointing out all the things I’m not happy with… (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )づ♡
KKAY SHARE. WHO CARES. I CAN FIX ANYTHING ANYTIME!
Okkay just one thing! ,,,
I don’t understand why but it’s still super hard for me to not stick to the style of the show… I… want to change this… I will do my best and practice more 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
