SparklingSencha @sparklingsencha - Tumblr Blog

Prompt: Drawing on them (Doodling on their skin w/ notes) Variant: ROTTMNT + 2012! TMNT Characters: Leo, Don, Raph, Mike Format: Headcannons + Imagine Warnings: None. Request: N/A. SenchaOriginal A/N: Long fic incoming! Ahhhh. My first post for the fandom. So exciting >_<

ROTMNT:

Neon Leon

Leo insists on being the “least accessible” surface for notes because he claims it is about “aesthetic boundaries,” and "How can you paint upon what is already a masterpiece?"

And yet, every time you need a pen he suspiciously has one? For someone who trains on the daily, it's very easy to pull his arm towards you and pop the cap off between your teeth. Nardo's just chiseled out of marble, y'know? So chill that he doesn't feel the pen on his skin. He totally isn't whipped or anything. Pshhh.

He secretly loves it when you write grocery lists, reminders, or takeout orders on his hand like he is your personal messenger. He especially likes when you add dramatic little arrows and underlines, because it makes him feel important in the most ridiculous way possible.

His favorites are your doodles and notes of encouragement. They're tucked under his hand wraps for protection, like your own little mystic voodoo on his moral. Especially when he's forgot about it after a bad day, and is greeted with a surprise 'Call me when you're free <3' on his wrist when washing up for bed.

Not like he was going to sleep anyways, eh?

Leo has a lot of opinions about his personal space, and most of them state that your space belongs to him but not vice versa. At least without proper warning.

“See, the issue,” he said, lifting one finger like he was delivering a very important lecture instead of lounging upside down across the couch, “is that I am a masterpiece. A work of art. A symbol. How can you paint upon what is already a vision?”

You don't even look up from your phone, checking off coupon clippings for sales in the undercity. “You are not a museum display, and the only symbol I associate you with requires the median of my five fingers”

“Okay," he whistles low, "Rude.”

“Also, you have to sit still if you want me to write the grocery list legibly.”

Leo huffs, but the smug little curve of his mouth gave him away. “Fine. But only because I am generous, and because I don’t want the peasants to starve.”

"And if we're the peasants then what are you, king?"

"Mayyybe."

He extends his hand like he was offering you a priceless artifact.

You accept it without ceremony. A little scoff, but he pined for it obviously.

For someone who spent half his life in motion, Leo was annoyingly easy to catch when he wanted to be. Training had made him quick, sure, but it had also made him loose in that infuriatingly confident way of his. You could tug his arm down, twist his wrist palm-up, and he would go with it like he had never once considered resisting. Like he was letting you win every little squabble before it began.

Which he absolutely was not. Obviously.

You uncapped the pen with your teeth and started writing across the back of his palm.

eggs

ramen

popsicles (SHERBERT)

Duct tape

Okay. That one spawns a question that Leo is certain has a fun answer.

IMPT: don’t let donnie pick the drinks again (buy a FLAVORED juice or we will have war)

Leo watched, chin propped on the back of the couch, gaze lidded and amused. “You are criminally unappreciative of my natural gifts.”

“Didn't know you had any,” you snort, moving to underline ramen twice.

Ouch. K.O.

“Wow. Bold. False, but bold.”

You add a 'x2' beside eggs, then circled it for good measure. He does recall Mikey wanting to make a cake.

His fingers twitched once beneath yours, not enough to escape, just enough to be felt. He glanced down at the list and gave a pleased little hum, like he was admiring a fine piece of calligraphy instead of a reminder to buy bread and detergent before dad’s good robe started to smell like the backside of Jersey.

There was no real reason for him to have a pen on him. It’s not like he had pockets or anything.

And yet every time you needed one, Leo mysteriously had one tucked into his belt, wedged behind his ear, or hidden somewhere in those wraps of his. Every time you asked, he acted like it was coincidence.

It was never coincidence.

Leo turns his wrist slightly, admiring as you pop the pen cap on, all satisfied with your work.

“…You forgot the dumplings,” he tuts after a beat.

You glance up. “You skim through everything else but that’s what you care about?”

“I am a man of priorities.”

You sigh, but you’re already adding it in, squeezing it between two lines with a dramatic arrow pointing down so he doesn’t forget. Even though he knows you left them out on purpose.

"There. Happy?"

He leans over the side-cushion to bop your forehead with two fingers, "Abso-tiddle-lutely~"

Leo flips off the couch before you can fight back. Although the way you flock to take the spot he left behind suggests there's nothing to worry about. When you sink into the cushion, he expects to find you clocked out in that exact spot for the night.

“Y’know,” he says smoothly, “this is a lot of responsibility you’re putting on me. I’m basically your courier now. Your—your champion. Your chosen vessel.”

“Then don’t forget anything.”

“Puh-lease,” he scoffs. “When have I ever let you down?”

You lift your up over the backrest, just so he can catch one dry-eyed blink as a response. Yeah.

He slices open a portal without arguing.

“…Okay, once,” he amends, already walking backwards. “But in my defense, there’s a reason the guys don’t put me in charge of our money! Or literally anything!”

“Leo —“

Double-D

Donnie pretends he is above “wasting time” on sticky notes, then immediately becomes addicted to having you write entire equations, appointment times, and invention reminders across his non-dominant forearm in neat little rows.

Nature's notepad, who? Don doesn't recall ever saying such a thing. You, my dear, need to stop lending Raph a listening ear. Otherwise you'll develop biased opinions. The chasm is infectious.

While not the grandest at physical contact, there are layers to this turtle. He likes being useful, and this is indeed a use. A use AND an excuse for broaching that touch boundary. Let alone that it leaves behind evidence, aka. proof said natural contact was not imagined.

Definitely does not take pictures of them to keep in a personal folder on his phone before washing off.

Don tries to 'act' annoyed about being covered in ink, but he is very clearly pleased every time he catches himself glancing down mid-soldering and sees, "IF YOU CAN READ ME, IT IS TIME TO DRINK SOME WATER" written beside a tiny doodle of his face looking like a dehydrated sponge.

Ah. Another for the books. Pfft.

Donnie had been in the zone for the better part of an hour, which meant two things: one, that the lab was blissfully immersed in the most raunchy techno beats he could pirate, and two, that everyone else in the lair had learned not to interrupt him unless they desired their bones rearranged in alphabetical order.

Ah. Sweet, sweet solitude. Cue maniac hermit laughter, agogo.

Soldering tools were laid out in precise formation. A half-dismantled patrol robot from the hidden city sat on the bench in front of him, wires exposed like the droid he was rewiring had made the very poor decision to challenge him personally.

To which, Donnie would say "Yes". Considering the construct was an attempt to mimic his own beloved Shelldon. A mockery that will soon be reconstructed to serve as a butler for dear papa. Only with minor functions such as fetching goods or locating the tv remote, of course. Promoting his genius and solving a problem that seems to occur every hour. A fitting end with no bits wasted.

Donnie’s cotton-based brow was furrowed, mask bunching at the apex of his muzzle as eyes narrowed behind his goggles. He adjusted the final connection with the steady, practiced movements of someone who could preform sutures on a grape if they were offered the right price-tag.

He did it once, just to prove he was as capable as a neurosurgeon. It was a resounding success, naturally.

Only when his work was complete did the metaphorical and physical gloves strip themselves. He practically threw those latex fashion monstrosities onto the desk, free to crack his knuckles with a pop and pat his own shell after a job well-done.

'Oh good work Donatello. You're a genius, turning copper into titanium with just a bit of elbow grease. Why than you Donatello, I am acutely aware -'

Which was probably why it took him so long to notice the words on his own skin.

Donnie pauses mid-stretch, his gaze shifted, almost reluctantly, to his non-dominant forearm where the ink had settled in dark, neat letters along the curve of his wrist.

if you can read this, it’s time to take a brekkie! :p

Below it, in the corner, was a tiny doodle of his face. Not detailed. Just enough to make the point. Round goggles on his forehead. A little slumped expression with spirals for eyes and an 'x' for a mouth. He'd compliment the penmanship if he could remember where it came from.

He stared at it.

Then, very slowly, licked his thumb and made to rub the first word. When the markings stay exactly as they are, he has to remind himself that the artist is someone he would prefer remains alive. Maybe not in this exact moment but i has impulse control.

Sometimes.

“…Mmm. Cool, cool, cool? Cool, cool, cool.”

The words came out sharper than it should have. Not annoyed, exactly.

The memory arrives all at once, as if his brain had finally decided to stop being unhelpful.

You, earlier, standing too close to Donnie's workdesk while Raph was debriefing after the whole mimic technology situation. You pretending to pay attention to his brother, but your body angled toward Donnie instead. He noticed, and could tell whatever Raph said would need to be repeated later. Donnie would share his recording with you after you admit to spacing out and do the walk of shame.

You asked him, all casual and looking for a distraction, whether he could hold still for a second. He barely looked up from his diagrams. Almost missed the marker in your hand, but only froze up once when the pen first made contact. Improvement? Donnie considers it such.

You were idly drawing nonsense on his arm while he worked, just filling time even after Raph went off to check on how Mikey was coming along with dinner.

And now—

Donnie huffed, one corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. He mentally berates himself for forgetting, but remembers he's supposed to be working on that. So he settles for being miffed purely because this is going to be hell to scrub out later.

“Exaggerated sigh,” he mutters to the empty lab, as though the revelation had personally inconvenienced him. However his tone suggested fondness. “To be ordered around in my own domain? Mm. Will need to work on that."

Donnie brings his newest creation to life with a few taps on his wrist-gauntlet.

"Mmm. Fetchbot? Enter stealth mode. I'm craving Nardo's leftover pizza from the kitchens, if you please."

Raphala

Lots of surface area. Rather than a sheet of paper, his arms are full on poster boards to decorate as you please. Just steer clear of his shell. Raph understands that his spikes are perfect to look like dipped ice cream cones, but they’re not so sweet as the treat in question.

He also likes to watch you work. The gliding pen feels nice on his scales, a bit ticklish; yet it’s the ease you handle him with that makes his big heart grow six times until it’s busting out of his plastron.

Another who appreciates the reminder that you’re nearby. Especially since he can’t know where you are all the time given the whole … as Leo puts it, ‘situation’. You check seven out of seven for coming to see him every day of the week, but damn if you could just be the tattoo on his skin instead of these little pictures?

He has to settle, it seems.

Although it is quite the sight when Raph tries to use his intimidating appearance to his advantage, just for a villain to point out that his plastron is covered in flowers and polka dots. Is he going to wash it off? Nah. Raph will just smash. The ain’t gonna remember anyways.

His brothers are a different story but nope. Still won’t ask you to stop. Never.

The warehouse is already half wrecked by the time the fight really gets going.

Metal beams bent, crates split open, something sparking ominously in the corner—standard fare. Just another robbery the Turtles happened to cross while out on their usual spin of the city. Usually they leave this sort of low-grade human deal to the police, but the NYPD isn't the "best" at their job. Busting a few crooks and leaving them for the cops to collect is an easy deal. Thirty minutes. Tops.

These types of criminals are more bark than bite anyways. Most pass out from shock at the first glimpse of the Hamatos and make the job easy. Some try to bargain, but give in quick. Then there are the select few that try to make a break for it.

This is one of those times, and Raph's right on the frontline of it.

Big. Loud. Unstoppable.

Exactly how he likes it.

“C’mon!” he laughs, ducking a swing and slamming his fist into the ground hard enough to rattle the entire floor. “You’re gonna have to hit harder than that!”

Intimidate. Scare them, tie them up, and tip off the cops. That's the goal. he turtles don't harm if they can avoid it, and Raph's not above using his size.

Leo flips overhead, slicing clean through a dangling cable. “He says that now, but if you bruise his face he’s gonna cry about it later.”

“Raph does not cry about bruises! They're badges!”

Leo cackles overhead, stopping to hang off a hanging beam. He makes goo-goo eyes paired with mockingly exaggerated kissy face at his brother.

“I’d lie to myself like that too if someone was there to bandage me up every time —”

“Focus, geniuses!” Donnie snaps from the side, staff whirring as he deflects a blast. “Preferably before we all die in a very avoidable, very embarrassing fashion.”

Mikey cartwheels past, nunchucks spinning. “I dunno, I think we’re doing great! Ten outta ten teamwork, guys!”

The thief—some armored brute with more attitude than skill—stumbles back, clearly trying to reassess the situation. His small team was already knocked out on the side from shock. Raph isn't sure what he's aiming for by running off on his own - only scum leaves their team behind.

He doesn't care to understand though, puffing his chest as Mikey goes to cover the opposite exit. They thief's shocked, just a runner. Maybe 45 minutes this time.

The thug goes through stages of thought while eyeing the four brothers: fear, fear, fear -

Then his gaze lands on Raph.

And he does a double take.

The standoff hiccups for half a second.

“…Wow,” the guy says flatly, a bit breathless.

Raph blinks. “What?"

The villain points. Not at his size. Not at his weapons. Face. Color. The usuals.

At his plastron.

“…It is really hard to take you seriously,” the guy continues, squinting, “when you are covered in pink hearts.”

A beat passes. Raph's staged bravado dials back as he forgets himself.

Leo snorts. Loud. Raph hears a crash from behind, his brother fallen from his perch to wheeze on the ground.

“Oww — Raph, man, he’s kinda got you there.”

Mikey gasps, sparkles in his eyes “Wait, did you notice the flowers too? There’s flowers! I helped with the flowers!”

Donnie doesn’t even look up from his tech-gauntlet, amidst tipping off the police. It's become apparent that the usual facade has been long abandoned. “Statistically speaking, Raphala? Intimidation factor here has dropped approximately—oh, let’s say, seventy percent.”

Raph looks down at himself, and sees nothing wrong.

Across the front of his plastron are uneven rainbow hearts, some filled in, some not. Polka dots scattered between them. A couple of tiny doodled flowers tucked near the edges and your initials right over where his heart would be.

He tilts his head.

Then looks back up.

“…Oh,” he says, completely unbothered. He turns excited. “You like ’em?”

The thug gapes openly, likely questioning all his life choices. “Like—no. No, I—why would you—why do you have those?”

Raph grins.

Not sheepish.

Not embarrassed.

Just pure, unrestrained pride.

“Raph got ’em today,” he says, tapping one of the hearts with a thick finger. “Custom work!”

The villain gestures wildly. “Aren't yous' some kinda freak vigalante? Who'da touch you - how's that even help your gig?”

“Help?" The wrinkles on Raph's forehead make their scrunchy debut, " Raph doesn't need any help when he's got all these.” He replies easily, puffing his chest out to show all he is. His biceps flex for good measure with a bench press of 250 pounds behind their showmanship.

“You look like a cheap Valentine’s card!” The brute spits.

Mikey pops up beside him. “A very handsome Valentine’s card.”

“Thank you, Mikey.”

“I did the dots too!” Orange giggled. In the faint distance, sirens began their steady approach.

The villain pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is ridiculous. Yous' and your kiddie paintings are just wasting my time! I'm gettin' out of here, because one more minute looking at ya and my retinas are gonna burn off."

Raph’s bravado doesn't drop, but there's a shift in pressure. His muscles on display aren't just for show but if this guy doesn't want to believe it? Well...

“Hey,” he says, tone still light—but not necessarily chatty anymore. “Careful what you say next.”

The villain scoffs. “What, you gonna hit me with love and affection? Did I hurt your little feelings, turtle man?”

Leo winces, followed by a low whistle. “Ohhh, buddy. You picked the wrong thing to make fun of.”

Donnie finally looks up from his gauntlet. “I would highly advise surrendering.”

“The hell?!” the crook snaps. “Because I insulted his arts and crafts project?”

Raph cracks his knuckles, their loud crunch like pop rockets.

“Nah,” he denies, tittering with a restrained laugh. “Ya see, Raph was gonna go easy on ya.”

He rolls his shoulders, stepping forward just enough to block out the flickering overhead light—big, solid, impossible to ignore.

Then he smirks again, snaggle-tooth cutting past his lip. A brazen sight that morphs his grin from a cute quirk, to an alarming edge.

“But now I’m not feelin’ it.”

Michalena

Mikey is the absolute best canvas because he treats every new doodle personal graffiti. He's accustomed to using a canvas, but now he gets to BE the canvas.

His entire body ends up covered in tiny cartoons, goofy reminders, fake warnings, and messages left behind. He never remembers what half of them mean and often forgets to wash them off, so you can write “HONK IF YOU LOVE MICHAEL” on him and then spend the whole day laughing.

It's a personal show as Leo carries one of those squeaky plastic chickens and honks every time Mike pops out of his room just to watch him flail. Donnie is next with an airhorn soundboard on his tech-gauntlet. Raph joins with vocals. April, Splinter, and yourself have a money pool going on how long it'll take for Mikey to break.

News Flash: Five days. Followed by a gentle intervention in regards to how he needs to wash his shell more. After collecting your bank, of course.

He claims 20% as tax. Good joke, he's down, but you're paying for pizza the next day because he lowkey almost spiraled. Any toy that squeaks or honks has been banished from the lair.

Mikey is facedown on the couch like a fallen soldier. Ninja down! Ninja down.

One arm dangles off the side. The other is dramatically draped across his forehead, as if shielding himself from further emotional harm. His voice echoes, muffled and long-suffering.

“I’m not saying I’ve changed as a person,” he groans, “but I have seen things. I have experienced a level of psychological warfare that no turtle—no, no living being—should ever endure.”

From a spot pretzeled on the floor, you don’t bother looking up.

“That’s crazy,” you say, calmly stacking another bill on your pile.

Across from you, April snorts, tossing in her debt. “Five days, though? I thought you’d crack by day three.”

“I trusted you,” Mikey whispers to the heavens. “All of you. This was a betrayal of the highest order.”

Looming over the couch backrest, Raph is still shaking with silent laughter. “Man, you shoulda seen your face every time Leo honked that squeaker—”

“DO NOT EVER,” Mikey snaps, suddenly sitting up, “bring up the honking.”

Like summoned by the memory alone, Leo leans halfway out of the hallway, holding up the now-confiscated squeaky chicken with a grin.

“Honk?”

“LEONARDO—”

“Okay, okay!” Leo disappears again in a blink, laughing manically. Coughing echoes from the kitchens followed shortly by a garbled hack.

He'll live. Maybe.

Mikey slowly turns back to you, eyes wide and haunted. “Five days,” he repeats. “Five days of living in fear. Every corner a trap. Every sound a threat. I couldn’t even stretch without someone making a noise at me.”

Donnie, without looking up from his tablet, adds, “For accuracy, it was not every stretch. Only when your shell was exposed.”

“My shell is always exposed, Donnie!”

You hum, counting the last of the money before tapping the stack into a neat pile.

“Okay,” you say. “Final tally.”

Mikey watches you like a hawk now, instantly zeroing in. “Is that—wait, is that mine? That better be mine. I suffered.”

“You participated.”

“I was made a fool.”

April points at his shell, still decorated with graffiti albeit smeared. “You did walk around for five days with ‘HONK IF YOU LOVE MICHAEL’ written in giant letters.”

“I thought it was a positive affirmation!” He turns to you with the look of a kicked puppy, "You said it was a good luck charm!"

“It was,” Leo calls from the other room, sauntering in with a glass of water and his dignity on a thread. “We just loved you a lot this week, Hermano. Relaaaax.”

Mikey makes a strangled noise. Leo wasn't lying, but the love was laid on thick. Motivated by what makes the world go round. That sweet, sweet dinero. The Big Green. Dolla Dolla.

You finally glance up at him, biting back a smile, and pick off a portion of your winnings before holding the stack out.

He squints at it. Suspicious. “What’s this?”

“Compensation.”

“…For my trauma?”

“For your silence on the matter.”

Mikey gasps, offended, but he takes the money immediately, clutching it to his chest. “You cannot buy my forgiveness.”

A beat. He sniffs, and you have won.

“…This is a good start, though.”

You roll your eyes, but your hand comes up to gently tap one of the fading doodles on his arm—a little crooked star you’d drawn days ago. Specifically an evil little Luma from Super Mario.

“Anything else, your highness?”

Mikey sits up straighter, considering.

Then he points at you with gusto and does his best princely voice

“I sentence you to provide unlimited pizza!” he declares. The jury has spoken their verdict. Everyone else in a twelve foot radius perks at the idea of free dinner.

There goes your winnings.

“Alright, my liege." you sigh, raising your palms "nothing crazy though."

“And—” he leans forward off his seat and into your face, narrowing his eyes with exaggerated seriousness, “—you are legally obligated to smother me with affection for the next week.”

“That feels like an unethical demand.”

“It is recompense!" he insists. “You made me like this. This is your doing. I require emotional reparations.”

You snicker, reaching out to grab Mikey by the wrist and tug him closer. As if he had to ask for that.

“Fine,” you sigh the word out. “Pizza and my uncapped affection, but you’re washing your shell tonight before any further contact.”

Mikey immediately clings to you like a koala, completely abandoning all prior dignity. “Done. Agreed. Signed. Sealed. I am healed, baby!.”

2012!

Leo

Leo takes notes on him very seriously, like you have entrusted him with important command information. He sees the simple act as a sign of trust and domesticity. Be it a note, doodle, reminder, assurance, etc. Whatever it is, he likes the process more than he feels he is allowed.

He prefers clean, organized writing on his forearm or bicep: patrol routes, supply lists, training times, and little reminders from you to not overwork himself. He acts stern about it, but if you ever write something affectionate in the margins, he caves like a starving man just handed prime rib (or pizza gyoza, in this case).

Considering he is the one calling the shots most of the time, there is little room for silliness or small hopes to slither about in the mess that is his thought process. Which is exactly why the small 'Come back safely,' written underneath the access code to the team's next infiltration site is so important to him. A grounding moment, perhaps tailed with a brief laugh at the words 'ask April to buy milk too' smudged below.

He does get a tad miffed if you write anywhere he can't catch - like his shell. If he sleeps on his stomach and you draw a sea of stars on there with Krognar going to town on a hoagie? Well, he's going to find out in one of three ways.

Sensei will point it out (Amused, probably as a riddle. Depends on if he wants to extend a bit of mercy that day), one brother will be unable to resist cracking a joke, or both. It is almost always both. Splinter does love a good show.

Which is exactly why you take the chance whenever you are able, because those training sessions are the ones Leo sleeps best after. You'd know, because why else would he keep making the same 'mistake' of letting you near?

Leonardo woke to the soft, unwelcome reality the Space Heroes introductory song stuck on loop accompanied by a dry mouth and a crick in his neck.

For one disorienting second, he did not remember where he was.

Then he shifted, felt the blanket still pulled neatly over your sleeping form beside him, and the memory returned all at once: late evening in the conversation pit, a proposed Space Heroes marathon, the way you had swindled him in with the promise of takeout from Murakami's, the way he had meant to leave after one episode and then somehow stayed for all of them. One blanket had become two, then one again when you had curled over him in your sleep, and at some point Leonardo stopped pretending he was only there to put your mind at ease. Not when he can't remember falling asleep...or the last time he slept undisturbed.

Although there was a weight grounding him, so to speak.

He pushed himself up with a faint grunt, careful not to disturb you. You were still out cold, one arm tucked beneath your chin, face relaxed in a way that made his chest feel oddly, stupidly warm. He rolls the abandoned blanket into a pillow and slowly slips out from underneath you. He notes tattoos on your cheek left behind from his plastron, and practices discipline by not smoothing their pattern with his finger.

The room was quiet except for the low hum of the lair and the distant murmur of his father already awake somewhere nearby. Leonardo gathered the blanket higher over you without thinking, tucking it more securely around your shoulders. The motion was automatic, practiced in the way only things done often and sincerely could be.

Only when the tv shuts off, does Leonardo realize how late he's slept. There is no time for his usual morning routine. His feet rush to the dojo, and there Splinter waits for their pre-training morning meditation.

“Leonardo.”

Splinter’s voice came from under the grand tree, calm as ever.

When he entered, Splinter was already seated, hands folded, face serene in that way that suggested he had known something was coming before Leonrdo himself had. It spurred guilt in his son, even if Leonardo doesn't sense any scrutiny. Which is odd, considering his father's respect for holding oneself with strict discipline.

Leonardo kneeled in the doorway, "Hai, Sensei."

Splinter’s eyes opened halfway.

“Ah,” he said, voice smooth with amusement. “My son has chosen to join the morning practice. Enter.”

Leonardo straightened immediately, on his feet to his father's side. “Apologies, Sensei. I overslept.”

“Mm.” Splinter’s whiskers twitched. “A rare event.”

Leo narrowed his eyes slightly. That tone was one reserved for lessons he usually only understood after his father's advice wasn't needed anymore.

Leonardo straightens slightly, folding his hands into his lap. “I will ensure it does not happen again.”

Splinter’s eyes are already closed, posture perfectly composed.

“I wonder,” he says mildly, “if that would be such a tragedy.”

Leonardo blinks.

“…Sensei?”

No response. Just the faintest curve to Splinter’s mouth before he falls into an eased position to begin meditating.

They begin.

Breathing in. Out. Centering.

Leonardo does what he always does—pushes everything aside. Focuses on the rhythm, on the stillness, on the quiet discipline he’s built for himself over years.

And yet he does not fall into calm. There’s something off in the space he dwells in, and so his eyes open. When he spares a glance to his right, Splinter is already looking at him.

"Apologies, Sensei. I feel unbalanced for some reason." Leo blurts, having disturbed not just his own focus.

Splinter dismisses the concern, his lip twitches upwards and Leonardo can't help but feel like there's a piece he is missing.

“Not every session is meant to provide insight. You seem…" Splinter chooses his words slowly, "Lighter this morning.”

Leonardo’s eyes widen, just a fraction. He is unsure if that was a compliment or a hint to something he'll regret not realizing in training later.

“Uh..I don't feel any different?” His voice pitches, unsure.

Another pause.

“Perhaps,” Splinter continues, laughing minutely under his breath, “it is simply a good day. Yame, we will end here for today. Go brush your teeth in the kitchen before training. We do not need another of you following Michelangelo's hygienic routine."

Leonardo flushes and his shoulders climb up as he ducks to horridly check his breath. With Splinter's permission, he rushes to rinse his mouth out while his brothers fight over the bathroom.

He misses how Splinter’s eyes crinkle with a rare mischief behind the shogi doors.

—

Training starts not long after.

Leo just barely resettled himself when his brothers file in one by one, all of them looking just a touch too pleased with themselves for a simple morning session.

Raph cracks his neck first. Donnie adjusts his wrist wraps. Mikey is practically vibrating with contained energy, which is never a good sign considering he is at his worst during the mornings. Leonardo wonders what put them in such a good mood.

His gaze moves over them once, sharp and assessing, and the moment he catches the strange, shared flicker of amusement between all three of them, his posture stiffens on alert..

His eyes narrow. “What.”

Raph folds his arms, biting first. “What, what? Can't a turtle enjoy the morning sewer air?”

Leo looks to Donnie. Donnie, with deeply insulting calm, looks away. His eyes dart to the left, and sets suspicion further.

Then Leo looks at Mikey.

His youngest brother immediately fails to hold himself in line. As expected.

Mikey chokes, shoulders jerking once, and has to turn away fast enough that it almost looks like a coughing fit. A second later he drops to his hands and knees, laughing so hard he can barely breathe.

"Oh come on! Will someone just tell me what's so funny already?!"

The silence that follows is somehow worse.

Raph’s mouth twitches. Donnie presses a hand to his face. Even Splinter’s ears tilt down the tiniest bit.

Leo slowly turns to his father. “Sensei.”

Splinter’s expression remains serene, although he spares a moment to cough in his fist. "Enough chatting. Let us begin for the day.”

That single command should have been enough to reset the room to focus.

It does not.

Leo’s suspicion deepens, now hitting rock bottom. This morning could not be any more disorienting from the usual routine.

Still, he says nothing as they go through warm ups and katas.

Not until they pair off for sparring. Donatello with Raph. Leonardo with Mikey. He settles into form across his brother, swords drawn and assessment nudging his instincts to the slightest misstep.

Leonardo cannot recall the last time Mikey waivered during practice this much. When his brother's snout twitches, his cheeks grinning from ear to ear as he twirls his nunchucks, Leonardo wonders if it is a ploy. That Mikey perhaps trained alone, and is trying to place doubt so his opponent will lower his guard.

For a moment, Leonardo feels pride that his normally listless brother is exploring different methods in their shared art.

Only until Splinter draws in a quiet breath and lifts one hand.

“Ha—”

Mikey loses it all. Again.

He folds completely, one hand slapped over his mouth, the other braced on the floor as laughter bursts out of him and he crumples like paper. It is the sort of laugh that comes from the chest and refuses to be contained, bright and helpless and entirely too loud for the dojo.

"I can't fight him like this, Sensei! It's too cruel!"

Raph loses it next, a rough bark of a laugh that he tries and fails to smother behind a fist.

Donnie makes a valiant effort.

Fails by a mile.

Leo stands perfectly still in the center of the room while all three of his brothers dissolve around him, and something cold and suspicious sinks in his stomach.

He turns slowly toward Splinter.

His father, to his absolute horror, is smiling.

Splinter reaches one hand back toward the small shrine at the edge of the dojo, where the framed family photographs sit in their careful little row. He takes an ornate hand mirror from the display and, without a single word, offers it to Leonardo.

The gesture is gentle.

The timing is not.

Leonardo takes the mirror with the precise stiffness of someone accepting a bomb.

For one terrible, silent second, all he can do is mourn the loss of whatever respect his team had for him.

Because your handiwork is everywhere.

Across his cheeks are exaggerated blush lines, neat and unmistakable.

Over his mask are thick, dramatic eyebrows drawn in with extra care to move with his forehead wrinkles

And across his mouth is an exaggerated, ridiculous smile. Ear to ear.

The kind that makes him look less like a proper leader and more like a host in one of those cheesy kiddy arcades with the animatronics. Smile too big to be anything but desperate for freedom.

“Sensei,” he says, voice perfectly even in the way that means he is one sharp edge away from breaking, “may I be excused for a moment?”

Splinter accepts the mirror and inclines his head towards the main shogi doors. “Of course.”

That is all it takes.

The sliding door to the dojo slams open hard enough to echo through the lair, and Leonardo's voice carries after it with an unmistakable target on his tongue.

“Y/N!”

The sound of his sprint fades down the hall, Splinter replaces the mirror in its place with quiet dignity, then folds his hands into his sleeves and looks after his eldest son with serene approval.

“…Yes,” he sighs fondly, as if to no one in particular. “Much lighter indeed.”

DeeDee

Donnie is more likely to use your notes like an actual planner, except the things you write on him matter because he will absolutely forget to take care of himself while working. He likes having formulas on his wrist and reminder notes on his palm, especially if they are written in your handwriting, because it feels strangely grounding during long nights in the lab.

This here is a terrapin of sentiment. The first time you used him as a notepad was like Armageddon in his mind. Every joint lockes in place as if the mere twitch of his finger would deter you. Be it a little note or just a smiley face, Donnie has it pictured and tucked away for safe keeping.

Secretly, he wants to return the favor. Although he isn't brave enough to reciprocate. The action isn't inherently bold. Mikey draws on both himself and everyone else to an annoying extent. Yet Don worries too much, and marking you in any way feels taboo.

The closest he came was a small dot on your hand. He chickened out at the last second and made the attempt out as reaching for a nearby paper. Nevermind that it was YOUR paper. He fumbles horribly. Don't correct him or he'll just combust on the spot.

Donnie trusted you with his computer the way a dragon might trust someone with its most precious coin from its hoard: reluctant, cautious, and only after several months of explaining the ins and outs of his meticulously arranged files.

Nonetheless, he did eventually trust you. Which meant the world, because knowing the code to his CPU was like having access to the trenches of his mind. Although you were almost certain he religiously wiped the internet history on this thing. Apparently Mikey could not be trusted.

“The file you need should be in the recovered evidence folder,” Donatello said, not looking up from where he was hunched over a dismantled half-open Kraang bot on the workbench. “If the security code is embedded in the metadata, I should have it extracted in—”

He paused long enough to adjust a tiny wire with the tip of his tool, his tongue sticking out between his teeth in focus. Adorable.

“—an estimated seven minutes. Use the dencryptor I showed you last week and let me know what numbers are highlighted in red."

You type in his password and get ready to sift through. Apparently the last mission was a major score, and the guys might've cracked the code to locating any hidden kraang bases. With the file and the droid he was disassembling, it could save days of tracking.

You, for one, were excited to sift through boring data for once.

You gave him a look from your seat at the monitor station. “An estimated seven minutes, or seven 'Donnie' minutes?”

After all, he loved using 'estimation' as an excuse for all the nights a 'quick tinker' turned into six hours and callused fingers.

“You're pushing me.” That earned you the briefest huff through his nose, not without a font lit to his cheeks, "but seven actual minutes. The computer operates on finite unit rather than my personal agenda."

You snicker, he limply points his screwdriver at you in warning, and that's when you salute the great Dee for his service. The great terminal hums to life as you get to work.

The home screen soon became cluttered in the usual way: schematics, folders, half-open diagnostic windows, and a long scroll of notes so technical it almost looked like another language. It was, to be fair, although you're still unsure what the official tongue of Kraang was called. Krangese?

Donnie, always three steps ahead, left the information you needed in a folder marked with capital letters, and for a while you did exactly what you were supposed to do.

You searched.

You filtered.

You opened the evidence documents and skimmed them for the security code he wanted. Pulled and placed ones you suspected might be of use into the decryption module.

An hour passed and you began to feel the boredom check in. Donatello lied. Seven minutes per scan may be accurate, but when you're working through dozens of documents it doesn't count.

Almost by accident, your cursor drifted to the internet browser icon tucked away in the corner. Definitely not aiming to put a podcast on or sneak a few funny cat videos while Donnie is in the zone.

Yet rather than double click, you hesitated to goof off when Donnie ws so excited about this possible breakthrough.

That brief moment caused the curser to highlight the "browser" name.

"clickformotivation"

You stared at it for a second, because you were certain not a single browser in existence had that name.

Then, because curiosity was one of the very few impulses stronger than common sense, you clicked.

Rather than the internet hub you were used to, it opened a file. A secret file, you realized to late. One Donnie disguised to look like a browser tab.

Cheeky. Classic Dee.

And suddenly the screen filled with images.

Photographs, scanned and saved in a neat little archive, of all the things you've drawn on Donnie over the years. What started as a way to keep contact became a habit, one you weren't aware he paid too much attention to until this moment.

Your handwriting on his wrist in black marker: Murakami's. 9:00. Don't be late, dummy. (affectionate ^_^)

A tiny doodle on his forearm, half hidden under his wrappings of a crooked turtle with a thermometer in its mouth. You give a laugh, remembering when the whole lair was targeted by some pollen-shedding mutant. Stupid bees.

Some physics equation written across the back of his hand in blue ink, your notes crowding the margin with questions. You had no idea what they meant. Just that your physics professor was an asshole, and you needed Donnie to help arrange study materials.

A reminder on forearm - "EAT ME COOKIES. BRAIN FOOD YUMMY" with a poor depiction of Sesame Street's Cookie Monster next to it, the words crooked because Donnie had probably been moving while you wrote it.

You see they're organized by date, but can be filtered by viewing date. You click the file with the most views, your heart pounding.

'I love you, Dee <3' - Written along the inner side of his third finger. In the photo, he has his middle and third pressed in a circle so they can be seen clearly.

Some were blurry. Some were taken at odd angles, you can only imagine how he got the ones on his shell. Some looked like they had been snapped in a hurry.

There was a lot of evidence to be sorted through. Just not the kind you expected. Donatello doesn't realize it but you're more than happy with this breakthrough today. Not that the kraang bases weren't important.

You clicked through the folder slowly, time doesn't matter anymore.

A doodle of bubbles on his wrist.

A tiny “good job! victory!” tucked beside a bandage on his calf. You remember that one, he still had the scar, and apparently your attempt at comfort too.

You're lost in the sentiment. No mater how far you scroll, the collection keeps going. It really makes you realize just how many years you've spent alongside the Hamatos. So many little moments you've overlooked, yet the smartest of you all held with care. It wouldn't surprise you if he had backups. Neither if he had backups OF the backups.

Then, from behind you, Donnie’s voice pierces straight through the wave of affection that you have no clue how to handle.

“Have you found it yet?

You froze, the reality that you're snooping is present and the consequence nigh. Computer privileges may be lost permanently for breeching his privacy.

Click. Click off! At least answer him, you idiot!

"Hey, do you need a break? I can ask Leo to order..."

A heartbeat later, Donatello's chair scraped backwards. You hear his breath catch, that familiar garbled squeak pulled from the back of his throat.

Then his footsteps, quick and hurried until something tugs the back of your chair. Not in a dramatic swivel, but you feel the slight tug and weight.

He came into view in your peripheral, goggles pushed up on his forehead, hands still faintly grease-smudged from the bot he’d been working on.

Donatello took one look at the screen, and then every single system in his body seemed to seize up at once. Then crash.

“Oh - Oh no.”

It was barely a whisper, more like a whimper? Donnie's Adam's apple moved as he swallowed, and you felt guilty for walking in on something he clearly cherished. Even if it's the sweetest thing a guy has ever done, and you felt nothing short of cherished.

However you appear to Donatello in this moment, it only serves to flush him further.

The same Donnie who could improvise on the fly under pressure. The same Donnie who could outthink any machine, turn a wooden staff into a weapon with his mind, and out-sass almost anyone in the lair if he needed to.

Gone.

In his place was a turtle going through all stages of grief. Which was unnecessary.

“I can explain,” he blurted out, sweaty and shaken.

You glanced back at the screen, keeping your voice as kind as you can. “You really saved these?”

He made a small, helpless motion with one hand, like he was trying to physically catch the words before they got any louder. “It was not— I mean, I did not mean to make it weird. I'll delete them if you want, I swear! Please don't think I'm a creep or leave or anything. Please.”

“Weird?” you repeated, and now you were smiling from cheek to cheek, "A secret folder dedicated to my doodles, disguised as a web browser? I'm impressed, Dee."

His eyes widened a fraction.

“That folder name was — I was using it as a reminder. For morale. It is not—” He exhaled sharply through his nose and runs a palm down his face. “It is not what it looks like. I swear.”

It looked exactly like what it was.

"Really? Because it looks like you love me a whole lot, or at least these little drawings. So I hope I'm right and you're wrong, at least this time."

A hidden archive of every little mark you had left on him.

Every reminder. Every doodle. Every note.

Saved. Kept. Catalogued with more care than he would ever admit out loud. You were so sure Donatello disliked them. At least the hidden ones he couldn't find right away, or with more suggestive writings he could be teased about. Yet even those were catalogued.

You turned the chair fully to face him, knees tucked between his legs as you kick your feet like a giggly schoolgirl, and watched as your words compute. If Donatello could retreat into his shell right now, you're certain he would. Yet he knows you would merely peer inside, and wait for him to come out.

“Donnie.”

He flinched at the softness in your voice.

“It was not meant for anyone to see,” he muttered, but no longer panicked. “I thought it would be useful to keep a record of...of you."

Then he seemed to realize what he had just admitted, because his whole face seemed to tighten all over again.

"Not that you're something I have a right to record or anything! It's jst that some days I find my spark gone and when I think of you, it comes back. There is no better motivation for me when I need to try harder."

Your impish lit disappears as you melt into his chair, like a puddle of sweetened sherbert just moments away from joining icecream kitty in his freezer abode. What did you do to deserve him?

“And,” he added, meek as can be, “I did not think you would mind. H-hoped you would not mind.”

There it was. The true worry. The one that suggests you might think this is too sentimental or him too much. An insecurity you've reassured over and over, that you would continue to correct.

You collected yourself from the puddle with effort, and when you reached for his hand, he looked briefly like he might combust on contact alone.

“Donnie,” you said gently, “I don't mind. In fact, I've never felt more loved or appreciated in my entire life."

He made a sound that was somewhere between a protest and a surrender.

You opened the folder again, just to prove your point, and set the filter to put the oldest at the very top. You made sure to ignore his weak protest, and not let go of his hand.

The first dates all the way back to the very beginning. When you were just a teen in need of a piece of paper to write a meetup time for Mikey's improvised krognar marathon, and Donnie was a convenient alternative. Before you even had a T-phone of your own. When the world sparkled a little less, and purple was only close to your heart for being the shade of your favorite tunic.

You laughed under your breath, utterly smitten. “I can't believe you've kept all of these."

Donatello tapped his index fingers together in a nervous tick, sheepish and perfectly himself. “I was not aware there was a limit.”

Raph.

Raph will absolutely pretend to complain about anything written on him, especially affectionate things, but he keeps every single note as long as he can. The pretending is only in front of his brothers and friends. If you’re there? He won’t encourage you but he also won’t say anything snide on the matter.

That is…until he hears the snickering. Totally not whipped 2.0. This one is like a chestnut. He isn’t soft on the inside, but he is perfectly toasted. The others are in for a knuckle sandwich if they keep it up, but the moment you look at him? He’s whistling all nonchalant.

He likes reminders that someone is on his side, even if the reminder is written in glitter marker and disguised as a joke. Like the eldest, he feels wrong for indulging in something that makes him feel so normal.

Side note: You use sharpie marker for the sole purpose of pissing him off. Don’t think for a second that he won’t screech bloody murder from across the lair after getting a good look at your paint job in the mirror. Best get your ass over those turnstiles and maybe make a meat shield out of Casey.

By the time the sun drops behind the trees, Raphael already regrets coming on this pilgrimage.

Not enough to say it out loud, obviously. He’s got a reputation to maintain, and his brothers are all trying too hard to act like this “training” is some kind of sacred rite instead of what it really is: sleeping on the ground, eating whatever passes for dinner, and pretending the city isn’t still out there needing them. That they have hope.

Raphael shifts where he sits by the fire, arms crossed, jaw tight. His eyelids clenched tight in an attempt to meditate. Which was desperate, even for him.

The woods are too quiet and too loud. He and his brothers have become too soft, sitting on their shells with no direction. It's beyond frustrating.

He hates the way every branch snap sounds too far away, the way the wind through the trees doesn’t cover the thoughts in his head the same way city does. No traffic. No shouting. No familiar noise from the lair or the bustling streets or you - hell. He missed you.

Soft. He's too soft.

It’s only been a few hours and he already wants to go back.

Not because he’s weak. Not because he can’t handle training. His stomach can go on empty so long as he has a goal and something to channel his nerves towards.

No. It's because everything important is there — back in the city, back at the farmhouse, back with the people the turtle quartet has left behind to find themselves.

But they’re out here for a reason.

To get stronger.

To save New York.

So Raph grits his teeth and tries to channel the bit of direction they seemed to dig from under their nails and three months of loss.

Leonardo discusses watch rotations while Donatello sets to make a fire. Mikey whines about wanting to roast marshmallows and sleep in his fluffy bed back at the house, but no one tells him to shut up. His ramblings, normally annoying, are a reminder of good thoughts. Which Raph thinks are pointless but his little brother needs some kind of optimism.

Optimism.

Raph tunes out, his eyes slit open to eye his guarded arms folded over his chest. The chill hits harsher when he loosens up, brushes his scales as he unwraps the guard covering his right wrist.

To the ink still written there in your careful hand—

家族

Family.

The memory of you is fresh and sharp in his mind. Your fingers catching his arm before the brothers departed, marker uncapped, refusing to explain what you were doing until the last stroke was finished. Pressing the inside of his wrist toward him and telling him quietly, So you don’t forget who’s waiting for you to come home.

Raphael had no idea when you learned this word, or how. Last he checked, you only knew the phrases Leo uttered during sparring like the cocky show off he was back then. Raph missed a lot during that time, it seems. Not just about his brother, but you too.

Raph wondered if you learned for him. If you would tell him more. What else you've hidden. There wasn't time to ask.

At that moment, he rolled his eyes and told you he wasn’t going to forget something that obvious.

Now, alone in the dark with the woods pressing in around them, he stares at that single word like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored.

And when training starts again at sunrise, Raph is the first one on his feet.

Because if this is what it takes to protect the people waiting for him?

Then he’ll give everything he has.

Then more.

Because that’s what family deserves.

Mikey

Mikey is a disaster in the best possible way, so writing on him becomes a running joke, a game, and eventually a whole communication system. His shell gets covered in doodles, warning labels, fake membership badges, nicknames, and absurd little declarations like 'House Gremlin: do not feed after midnight' or 'kewl guy right here'.

In turn, your arms and legs are positively covered in sleeve tattoos made of glitter, ink, and whatever questionable sauce he found in the fridge earlier. Don’t ask.

He’s super ticklish, so the moment the pen hits he can’t sit still. Although the sunshine practically cascades in waves whenever you sit next to him and just tug his arm in your lap to start messing around.

Finger puppets? Finger puppets. One day the power went out, and you both staged a Telanova while Donnie got to work on the generator. Best hour ever, even if no one else will ever admit it.

Out of all the little things…his favorite is when you connect his freckles like constellations. It takes him right to the stars with all his favorite heroes, and you have to get close when doing the ones on his face. The best constellation are the small hearts strung together on his cheeks, because yours are right there and the perfect shade to draw one to match.

Mikey practically vibrates with excitement the second he barrels into his room with the box held over his head like he’s won a prize. Every molecule that composes this turtle spazzing out all at the same tie.

“Check it out!" he announces, breathless and grinning, “you are so not ready for this! I gotta whopper right here, m'dude.”

What a rare day for Mikey to use that word for anything but a burger request. Which in it self was a rarity as well, considering there was only one thing on his mind when takeout was on the table.

You look up from where you’re lounging on the floor amid a pile of comics and half-finished ramen. “That depends. Did Donnie actually find you something cool for once at the dump?”

Mikey gasps, scandalized on his brother's behalf. “First of all, rude. Second of all, yesssss.”

He plops down beside you with no restraint, the now shared beanbag bouncing you airborne for a brief second, and tears open the box with glee.

Inside is a set of paints, still wrapped, brightly colored and untouched.

He stares at them starry eyed. The look he reserves for cute animal videos, orange soda, and - on occasion - you.

“…Those are new?” you can't help but smile, his happiness is infectious.

“I KNOW, RIGHT? ” He shakes the packaging like he's mined gold. For Mikey? It might just be so. “Who just throws out perfectly good paints?! That’s like, a crime!”

"It's not a crime, but I do agree that it is incredibly wasteful." You hum, taking the box from him. This was a conversation you typically had with Donatello after his foraging. A bit of common ground, as you were a bit nature-forward and did appreciate how he could make brilliant inventions with items that people abandoned.

You turn the box over in your hands, reading the label. "According to this, it's washable paint. The kind kindergartens let kids use to they don't stain their clothes. Probably from some school’s old art supply stash."

You deliver the news a bit dejected, since you were certain Mikey wanted this to work on his paintings on the sewer walls.

"Sorry Angie," you click your tongue, passing it back, "what if I buy --Uh. What is that look for?"

You had turned to find Mikey’s face was barely an inch from your own. His cheeks stretched to their full, eager extent, freckles pulled as he practically tried to crawl in your shirt with how he leaned in.

"Can you please paint my shell? Please. Please please please please pleeeeeeeaaaasssseeee." His voice pitched three octaves on the tail in a while that surely would've had Casey shove a puck in his mouth.

You blink, taken aback. “Your shell?”

“Yes! Like, custom paint it to be pretty? Make it awesome.”

The request is certainly out of nowhere, and yet you're just grateful he isn't bummed about Donnie's 'mondo find' being a dud. A glance at your comic and you realize the story was a bit lackluster to dive back in.

There is no reason not to play along, and you never wore anything you didn't mind getting stained in the lair. Or in the turtles general vicinity, with how Mikey throws those egg bombs.

"Okay. One custom look for your character, coming right up."

You shoulder him lightly so he’ll lie flat, slumped on his plastron against he beanbag while you prep the paints. Mikey shimmies with delight the second the first brushstroke goes down, and you have to warn him more than once to keep the canvas still. Otherwise he will have nothing to flaunt but the equivalent of a bad hair day to his family.

You start with a yellow base, then orange, then red, layering the colors across the curve of his shell until it looks exactly like what it should have been all along.

A pizza.

A giant, ridiculous, beautiful pizza. Michaelangelo's true form.

Mikey cranes his neck as far as he can manage to look back at it. “Oh my gosh," he wheezes, wistful and in love, "Oh my gosh, it’s perfect.”

You add little pepperoni circles. He makes a squeal like he’s about to cry from happiness.

“Now, tell me this doesn’t rule,” you say, drawing some texture on the outer ridges to look like perfectly golden crust.

Once you're finished, he flips off the chair and wiggles around to help the paint dry faster.

“It rules so hard,” he whispers, so serious that you snort a laugh. Then he straighten, pointing at you. “Okay! Your turn.”

“My turn for what?”

His grin turns wicked.

“For art, silly.”

Before you can protest, he snatches the brush and settles it in his hand with the beaming confidence of a true menace. You try to run, but it's useless to try and beat a ninja on a mission. You shriek as he grabs your arm, tugs it to his mercy and starts painting without a single ounce of mercy.

There is no plan. Only Mikey.

He draws stars first, then a crooked moon, then a string of tiny hearts climbing up your arm. When he moves to your other wrist, he adds a turtle shell doodle along with orange and yellow ribbons wrapping you up like a present. Your legs get a ridiculous smiley face on both knees. Then a little pizza slice with sunglasses on your ankle before he starts going crazy and splotching rainbow all over like a wild canvas.

“Michael,” you say, trying not to laugh, “what is all this even supposed to be?”

“A masterpiece,” he declares, and holds his brush like an art prude unveiling their magnum opus.

“It looks like a kindergarten art project got into a fight with a glitter bomb.”

“Exactly. And it was a tie! Happy end.”

He leans closer, tongue peeking out in concentration as he paints a tiny cluster of freckles along your cheekbones. Just like his, but with blush pink. He admires his work after each dot, although you think he's taking his time on purpose. You cannot move, after all. Retribution for scolding him so much.

Mikey tilts his head, looking at you for a long second before drawing a tiny heart on your cheek, then a sloppier one on his own since he did it without a mirror.

He beams at the result like he’s just created the greatest thing in the world.

“There,” he says proudly. “Now we’re both the coolest students in the dojo. "

“Pretty sure we crossed the line from cool about ten minutes ago.” you snicker. In your book, he was the 'coolest' every day. Chilly even. Brrr.

“Yeah,” Mikey says, completely pleased with himself. “But we look awesome.”

"Want to go show off to your brothers?"

"Shell yeah!"