Greetings, and welcome to my domain. If you’re new here, welcome! If not, then thank you for returning to my page.
My name is SparklingSencha. This is my TMNT dedicated side-blog >_<. I write solely 'yume' and 'xreader' content. Occasionally I like to draw comics as well.
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MasterList!!: Coming Soon. (Once I build some content)
Request Guidelines
Requests box is currently on pause! However, I only write for 2012, Bayverse and ROTTMNT. I have seen every iteration of TMNT, but these are the iterations I’ve studied enough to properly characterize. Crossovers are...okay? Like, if it was a fic that cameo'd another iteration (2003, etc.) I'd consider it.
No incest, no pedophilia, no self-harm, no psychological themes, no hate, etc. Examples of this are as follows: 'Turtles with a reader with suicidal thoughts,' 'Turtles with a reader who is bullied by April,' 'Turtles with a reader who hurts themselves,' 'Turtles with a reader who is a bully,' etc. There is a clear line between what is a fun dramatic topic (Ex: Reader who is a member of the Foot with a dark past) and something promoting awful behavior (Ex: Turtles with a reader who is a serial killer).
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Final Thoughts
Thank you for reading up until this point. It means a great deal to me! This isn't my first rodeo since I have a few blogs for other fandoms, but I've been itching to write for TMNT since I got back into the fandom a few months ago.
Prompt: “Cross my fingers, hope to die, or stick a needle in my eye” - you make a promise to them
Variant: 2012!
Characters: Leo, Raph, Don, aand Mike
A/N: Every time I try to write something sweet, it gets depressing I stg maybe I have a problem.
Leo - “I will always follow you.”
He has to make a tough call and the others are second guessing. Nothing new. Leo can't remember a time where his team followed blindly. He used to think it was a lack of respect, but now he knows better. It's good they question. That's what keeps them a unit. A family.
Except he's still the leader and the final call is always his to make. So when time's in short supply and the pressure's on thick, sometimes Leo wishes that someone - anyone - had faith in the call that he couldn't say with certainty was the right choice.
You side with him first. For better or for worse. No matter where he goes. You will always be right there by his side. He’s your leader, but he’s also your partner. Sometimes he forgets that but you’re there to remind him. When he waivers, you’re there to put the confidence back in him. When he fails, you’re there to make sure he learns but doesn’t dwell on it. When he doubts, it’s never you. Never, because you’ve never given a reason to.
---
Leonardo knew the plan sounded bad the second it left his mouth.
Not bad tactically, exactly. It made sense on paper. Donnie confirmed the blind spot in the Kraang scanners, April could cloak the shellrazor long enough to keep their get away clean, and if they hit the generator room first, they could shut down the portal before the Kraang even realized what was happening.
But it depended on timing so precise it made Leo's stomach knot.
And even worse?
It depended on him making the call at exactly the right moment. Donnie had to shut the portal off, Mikey and Raph were on distraction duty, Casey and you needed to clear the exit and keep the escape vent open.
They'd have seconds from close signal to the self-destruct protocol switching onwards. If Leo failed to signal Donnie at the exact switch point, they'd all die.
Yet if they failed, the chance of saving hundreds of lives was zero.
“…which means if we miss the window,” Donnie said carefully, arms crossed over his plastron, “the bulkhead seals and we’re trapped in there. For good.”
“Against a whole Kraang squad,” Casey added.
Raph let out a low whistle. “Yeah. Awesome. Maybe we can have a chat before the bomb turns us into turtle puree."
"Well technically the force at our proximity would leave nothing to recover."
"Not. Now. Donnie." Raph grit through his teeth, glaring just as their tech guru tucked his head between hunched shoulders.
"Ah! Sorry, sorry. My bad."
Leo stared at the base's holographic layout on the lair screen, trying not to hear the hesitation in everyone’s voices. Trying not to hear the unspoken thing underneath it.
This is dangerous. This could go wrong. Horrible wrong.
It will go horribly wrong.
Are you sure about this?
And the truth of it ?
No.
No, Leo wasn’t sure. Two hours ago they were about to start a cola-chugging tournament for the hell of it, and now his tail is one shake from being burned off.
But he was the leader, and leaders didn’t get to stand there admitting they were scared their plan would get everyone hurt.
So he straightened and willed his fists not to shake.
“It’s the only shot we’ve got,” he said firmly. “If we wait, the Kraang move the portal tech and we lose them completely. It'll only be weeks before the entire state is under siege."
Silence.
Leo swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat.
Master Splinter would know what to do. Maybe a better leader would know how to make them believe in this instantly instead of dragging everyone onto thin ice with him.
Why, after all these years, did he still struggle?
“I’m in.”
Leo blinked out of it.
You were already pulling on your protective gloves.
Like there hadn’t even been a question to join. Even though you'd been with them for years, he still hated the way those gloves were worn thin. Just like his brother's protective straps, April's leather holster, Casey's chipped hockey mask that they finally convinced him to put to rest just a month ago.
Casey looked over at you. “Seriously? No voice of reason here?”
You shrugged, stepping closer to the map. “Leo says this is our best chance, right?”
You shot the turtle in question a look and he gave a curt, slight nod. Leo’s chest tightened at your unwavering confidence. It was infectious.
“Yeah,” he answered, his voice low in his throat, "it's the best shot we have. Too many people are counting on us."
“Then we go.”
What did he do to deserve it? The carry in your voice. Like following him was the easiest decision in the world when even his own brothers looked skeptical.
Yet it was that confidence which bolstered them all into action.
Raph huffed through his nose. “Well, when you put it like that…guess if any of us kick it, we’ll just haunt the ones who don’t. Always wondered what it would be like to be a ghost.”
“Realistically?” Donnie sighed, shutting down the system, “the plan does have a sixty-three percent success rate. Best odds we’ve come across in the hour.”
“That is NOT comforting, Dude!” Mikey shrieked, yet made to holster his nunchucks anyways.
They were still unsure, but everyone was moving now. Grabbing their gear. Checking any last commitments. Complaining in that familiar way that meant they were on board despite themselves and were ready for another adventure.
Leo couldn’t move under the mask of a leader waiting for action. Yet he wasn’t thinking of the plan anymore or how they might fail.
No. Not with you by his side, standing at attention like this was normal. Like he was taking you out for dinner and not walking you into a deathtrap.
What's worse is that it likely was your normal. How any times have you stood with him? More than he's taken you to a fancy restaurant or for a walk on the beachside. The closest he's been able to get is pizza on top of Antonio's roof and walking the sewer maze while everyone else was asleep.
You catch him staring, a quirked brow and a muttered “Earth to Lee? Ready to go?”
He nods, a bit too stiff but you don’t push. He watches those eyes soften over him like he’s not asking the world of you when he doesn’t deserve it. Just like all the times before this.
What you’ve given him is better than any gift.
It’s trust.
It’s faith.
Leonardo’s not perfect. He doesn’t have the answers, even when he has to pretend that he does. Yet you choose him anyway.
Which is why he won't fail. He'll make the right call, so you can keep choosing him every time.
Raph - “I will never leave you.”
He’s going to ruin you.
If you don’t go, then he’ll say something he doesn’t mean and hurt you. He doesn’t trust himself enough.
You don’t go, because you trust he’ll never do it. Even when he can’t trust himself with your heart in his hands and your life tangent to his. Intersecting at the spot that Raph feels secure and comfortable at. Even when you’re not there physically, you’re with him. The little voice in the back of his head that tells him to be good — because you know he is capable of nurture as much as he is of destruction.
---
This serial killer had been slipping through New York's law for almost seven months now.
No ties to gangs. No connection to the Foot. Just a man leaving bodies behind in alleyways and abandoned apartments while the police came up empty every time. He picked vulnerable people. Runaways. People no one would notice missing right away.
There were no connections between the victims. No vendetta or motive. It was the first tie the turtles involved themselves with a case like this, because sometimes the law forgets that there are people out there who don't commit crimes with motive. There are those who just do it because it's in their blood. They do it because they can, and that's enough reason.
This is what vigalanties are for. To catch the ones that logic can't find. Only blades.
And tonight, the turtles finally had him cornered.
The warehouse he stalks sits on the lower docks by one of New York's abandoned trade piers. No one comes around since the purple dragons set up shop, and even though they're mostly gone, it's too much of a hazard for normal folks.
It reeks of rust and old rainwater in this dump, metal pipes shrieking every time Raph slams the bastard into another wall. The guy fights dirty — blades, broken glass, cheap shots — grinning the entire time like he enjoys hearing the turtles lose their tempers. Or rather, turtle. Since Raph's brothers are arguably still better at keeping things professional, even after all their years on the streets.
Raph twists the guy's wrist, effectively ripping a dirty needle from his grip and sends it clattering off to the side. He gets the guy on the ground before he can move, his scruffy cheek pressed to the floor while Leo works on clearing evidence of the brothers' interference.
“You think this stops with me?”
Tight laughter causes Raph to freeze for half a second. He jerks the man in an effort to scare him without showing himself.
"Go ahead," the man wheezes, "check my desk. You know you want to."
A silent look is shared between Raph and Donnie. No words. They were running too close to the police and the last thing they needed was this guy talking about mutants in the streets after everything in New York over the years.
Donnie slides his phone shut, done passing the coordinates to April for the tip off. He goes to the desk and pries open the top drawer with a kunai.
Raph hears his brother's breath hitch before Donnie starts digging.
Photos spill everywhere.
April leaving Channel 6 after overtime.
Casey outside the junkyard and sifting through his weekly finds.
You, changing the chalkboard sign outside the cafe you bartend at on the weekends.
Something inside Raph goes cold. That metal taste in his mouth amplifies.
“I know all your little human friends, turtles.” the man snorts when he sees Mikey slink into a shadow. “Figured once you freaks were dead, I’d have some fun with them too. Though I guess I was a bit sloppy...but it isn't just me, you know."
The next thing Raph knows, he has the guy pinned upwards by the throat. He forces his head forwards by the jaw, just so he can look Raph in the eye and say that shit again. Keeping anonymous was useless from the start.
His sai pressed against the man’s throat, a mere milimeter from skewering him. Raph's restraint frayed.
"The fuck did you just say?"
The warehouse goes silent except for Raph breathing. All he sees is this killer's bloody grin, and all the man in turn will know before he dies is Raph's glower.
Heavy. Furious.
"I said your little friends are dead," the man choked as his thorax took the weight of it all, "we've been knowing about you four. I wanted their trophies for my own collection but..."
He can hear Leo shouting something behind him. Mikey too. Donnie trying to pull him back.
Bloot spat over Raph's forearm. The bastard's chest daired to rise.
"...I'll be more than satisfied to meet you in hell."
Raph roars a battle-cry in his face but the man doesn't cower. He doesn't shrink into the stone where Raph wants to leave his bones ground into their molding.
He knows they need this guy. There might be others, but he could be bluffing. Yet if he isn't then they have to turn him in. They've already pushed too far by getting involved beyond the tip off.
It's because they took that chance that these random pickings now had a motive. One the police wouldn't chase because it's not like they'd know that Raph and his brothers got on some twisted freak's bad side.
None of the other victims had ties and they would've continued with that pattern. It's because the hamatos decided to help that this sick bastard - maybe more of 'em - got a mind for their bloodlust. Raph should be better but hells, he couldn't care less if it went on if he knew it would end up like this.
The thought of somebody hurting you....
The man beneath him smirks, blood in his teeth. “C’mon,” he taunts when Raph feels his hold slipping. “You wanna do it. You're just like me, only lying. Pretending to be a hero but you love that sweet metal flavor. It's all over your face."
And Raph does.
God, he does.
He leans inwards, adding pressure as his Sai drifts up to the man's eye. Ready to take what dared to look at his family with such sick lust.
Then your voice cuts through the noise in his head so clearly it hurts.
“Raph.”
Gentle. Coaxing his attention away from every throbbing vein in his body.
“You’re not made for this. You’re better.”
He bites his cheek hard enough to lap at iron.
“You don’t get to decide who lives and dies because you’re scared,” your voice tells him sternly. “This mans victims deserve justice. Not revenge.”
The sai trembles in his grip.
“You are good, Raph. I know you are.”
Good.
Nobody’s ever said it like they believe it. Not the way you do.
Raph shuts his eyes hard for one awful second before finally jerking himself back. He shoves the man down for good measure, only taking his foot off his chest when Mikey comes in with rope.
“Donnie,” he growls roughly. “Restrain him. Put him out for the police. Do whatever, I don't care, but I'm gettin' some air."
Raph leaves the scene first and waits on a nearby rooftop until he hears the sirens. He watches his brothers slink out to join him, and they all watch as the police find their convenient present. Soon the Channel 6 van pulls up and April hops out. She catches their position in less than a second, but doesn't wave or give any indication that they were there.
The four brothers linger until the criminal is dragged out by his biceps and shoved into the back of an armored truck. Even then, all Raph can think of is the feel of his throat. How if they were just a day or two late, it would be another victim collected from this warehouse.
His gaze drifted to April filming her news segment before pulling back up. He didn't need to look at his brothers to know they sat with the same thought.
By the time he gets home, his hands still won’t stop shaking.
Raph barely gets his shell over the turnstails before pulling out his T-phone and clicking your number. He can do it blindfolded but lingers long enough to watch your contact image light his screen.
You answer sleepily on the third ring. “...Raph?”
And the second he hears your voice, warm and alive and safe, something in his chest gives out.
“Hey there, sweetheart” he says quietly, sliding down against the wall. “Just…needed to hear your voice. Got a minute for me?"
Donnie - “I will always protect you.”
The brains. The medic. The one with the solutions. The weight on his shoulders is demand after demand. He doesn’t need your protection from enemies, but those expectations.
When the world cracks and he’s being pushed too far by both his team and himself…you step in, and protect him from the unyielding onslaught of stress and time. He doesn’t always appreciate it at the moment. Doesn’t always see right away when sleep deprived and riding the need to make himself useful.
Yet when the pressure lessens and the requests simmer out — and he wonders why it’s quiet enough to breathe for the first time in a fortnite of research…it somehow always trails back to you.
---
Ever since Karai had been mutated, Donnie barely left the lab.
Everyone was relying on him to fix it. Splinter’s quiet hope hurt worse than yelling ever could, and every failed test made the pressure in the room heavier. After nearly two straight weeks awake, running on coffee and desperation, Leo finally snapped and told him to “try harder.”
Donnie exploded after that. Before he could reason, his clipboard went flying across the floor along with all the hope he was trying to hold onto.
The argument between brothers echoed off the walls, before Donnie stormed back into his lab and locked the door behind him.
He expected someone to come after him eventually.
Leo, most likely. Maybe Raph.
Another reminder that Karai is running out of time. Another lecture about focus. About responsibility. About how they’re all counting on him.
Instead, hours pass in silence as he worked over the nth batch of retromutagen. Each test a failure. Each loss of both time and supply. There came a moment where Donnie grew tempted to sneak out one of the sewer grates and become a nomad in some other city's sewer. Like Boston. The thought left quickly enough with another pot of fresh espresso.
The only true interruption comes sometime around three in the morning the next day, when Mikey nudges the lab door open with a pizza box balanced in his hands.
“C’mon Dee, you gotta eat something or your brain will get all mushy,” Mikey said, setting it beside the keyboard like an offering at an alter. “And sleeping a bit too. Sensei even put the non-yucky incense in your room...So you can have an easier time of it? Uh. You can have my blanket too. For like, extra padding....'n stuff...”
“I’m close,” Donnie muttered automatically. He’d barely heard a word of whatever his little brother had to say while reconfiguring another test.
“Uh-huh,” Mikey rolled his eyes,”I bet you are but if you don’t get your shell in bed…they’re gonna kill me, man.” His voice turned hushed at the tail with a quiver of fear.
Donnie gave a noncomitted hum, sure Mikey was just seeing ghosts again or making up stories. He truly stopped paying attention after unlocking the door. There was too much to do and a power nap at his desk was enough for Donnie to get through it.
Mikey lingered just long enough to make sure Donnie actually took a bite before leaving him alone again, albeit shrunken in on himself. For a genius, Donnie missed the way his little brother lingered for no small amount of time.
More hours passed. No Leo. No guilt-ridden lecture. No Splinter. No one demanding another miracle from him.
It should have felt like peace.
Instead it felt suspicious.
By morning light through the upper grates, Donnie was still waiting for the next push. Yet he never was one to sit on his hands too long. Grudges? Oh, yes. Yet even this stubborn turtle is filed down by time.
With the empty pizza box in hand, Donnie stepped out of the lab for the first time in what felt like a few hours. Yet the calender suggested otherwise.
Which only made him feel worse, having nothing to show for two days of work. He braced for the incoming disappointment while passing the main lounge.
But the lair only hummed around him as Donnie took a calculated seat in one of the flattened beanbags. He pretended to read through findings on his clipboard. Yet it was pointless when the data was already ingrained behind his eyelids.
Leo looked up from his spot in the conversation pit, then looked down again. Space heroes was playing but the volume was barely above the third tick. No one was truly paying attention.
Mikey opened his mouth like he was going to say something, thought better of it, and went back to kicking his feet in front of the screen.
Even Splinter, when he passed by with a cup of tea in hand, said nothing about the cure at all.
The silence made Donnie’s stomach twist worse than any argument.
---
He finally caught Leo by the arm near the dojo shogi. Donnie could stand many punishments, but silence was one that burrowed into his deeper fears far more than he would admit.
“Uh. Leo…If this is about the other night, I am aware I was not—”
“It’s fine,” Leo said too quickly, fabric between his temple pinching.
“It is not fine,” Donnie shot back, hurt sharpening his voice before he could stop it. “Look, I know we’re on short supply but I’m doing all I can! I just need more time. I — I can figure this out…I just need…”
Donnie’s vocabulary rarely failed him, but he knew how much was on the line and his brain was one more sleepless night from circuiting out. Leo was being unreasonable, but their dad was counting on this to have his daughter back.
It was too much and Donnie was too little, but he couldn’t say that to his family.
“Enough.” Before Leo could answer, Splinter appeared in the doorway on his way out post-meditation, “there is no need for you to explain, Donatello. No one here is upset with you.”
Donnie turned, baffled. “Then perhaps someone could explain why no one's mentioned the cure all morning?”
Splinter’s whiskers twitched. It was the first ghost of a smile any of them had seen from him in days. “Because someone already did.”
Donnie blinked.
Splinter glanced toward the kitchens, as if reflecting on something only he knew, then back to him. Your name was not the one Donnie expected. “They spoke to Leonardo on your behalf last night.”
Donnie stared, stunned enough that he almost forgot to release Leo’s arm. His elder brother wouldn’t meet his eye, neither their father’s.
Splinter continued, almost amused. “Very firmly, I might add. Your brother appears to have been reminded that stress is not a substitute for support.”
Leo looked away, yet did not disagree. It was rare to catch the eldest put in his place by anyone but their father. Especially given all they’ve been through lately.
Donnie’s chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion. Something warm and aching and unbearably grateful.
You had noticed. You had stepped in. You heard the strain in the spaces he did not say aloud.
And somehow, without making a scene, without asking him to explain himself, you protected him from the one thing he never knew how to fight.
His own limitations.
The part of the world that kept telling him to give more when he had already given everything.
Donnie lowered his gaze for a moment, throat tight as he let go of Leo’s arm. His brother offered a muttered apology while rolling his shoulder, but Donnie barely caught the tail of it.
"I see. Thank you for clearing that up, Sensei." Then, very quietly, almost to himself, he murmured, “...Of course they did.”
And for the first time in over a week, the lab didn’t feel like a cage when he walked back to try again.
Mikey - “I will always listen to you”
Day or night. Rain or shine. You always answer the phone on the second ring or a text within minutes. When he speaks, you listen. You believe him when others don’t and you prod him for his input. You value his word, his heart, his humor, his worries, his everything. You value Mikey for all his smiles and his effort. He can’t recall a time you’ve dismissed his nerves or blew him off without a good reason.
You’re his diary and he loves that you’re one who remembers and still cares.
---
Mikey lies awake staring at the ceiling, listening to the old house settle around him, listening to Donnie’s slow breathing on the other bed, listening to the sick little ache in his own chest that keeps saying your home is gone, your dad is gone, everything is gone.
He does not want to wake anyone.
Leo's still recovering from his 'sleepy time'. Raph is already carrying enough like he's got a wedgie in his shell. Donnie spends most of his time locked up in the barn. April and Casey have been fighting on and off about stuff Mikey knows better than to get involved with.
It's all a mess. Life's just one big dumpsterfire.
So he slips out of the room and pads up to the small attic instead, tip-toeing all the way because this house is not ninja approved. Stupid squeaky floorboards.
He knocks once, softly.
Then the door opens a crack, and you blink at him through sleep-mussed hair.
“Mikey?” you whisper, squinting in the dark.
He tries for a smile, but it comes out small and crooked before the word vomit. “Sorry. Uh... I was gonna leave. but then I just didn't and I thought you might still be up - uh, guess I was wrong? Ahaha.”
You study his face for one quiet second, and whatever you see there makes your expression soften immediately. “No,” you say, stepping back. “Come on in.”
He hesitates only long enough to be surprised, then slips inside.
The attic is cramped and warm and dim, just a blanket of moonlight across the floor. You pat the space beside you on the floor mattress tucked against a corner without a trace of impatience, and when Mikey sits down, he's careful about it. His legs spread out to their full length on the wood floor.
He doesn't check, but feels you lean in towards him. “Tell me what's wrong.”
His mouth opens. Closes.
And then, because you are looking at him like you have all the time in the world, the words finally spill out.
“I just…” His voice cracks, and he laughs a little at himself, embarrassed. “I can’t sleep. It’s stupid. I know everybody’s stressing, and I don’t wanna be extra about it, but it’s just...” He rubs harshly over his eyes. “I really miss Master Splinter.”
Even though Mikey knows you'd never laugh at him, or tell him to go. He waits for the "It's three-am, Mike. Just go to sleep" because he knows you're tired too. Enough that when he cut the mustache off Captian Crunch this morning and glued it to Raph while he was sleeping, you didn't notice or laugh until Mikey's shell was getting beat.
Mikey feels you tuck your blanket over his shoulders, and slumps into the cozy hug.
“I miss home,” he admits, quieter now. “And everything before all this. And I know it was bad with the foot, and Karai, and the rat king, and the weird gouda stink in the kitchen that drove April nuts, but it was ours, y’know? Dad was there. Murakami-san. We were having all kinds of cool adventures 'n stuff. And now it’s just…” He swallows, feeling childish. “Different.”
Your hand finds his, warm and steady.
"I know." There isn't anything you can say to change it. Yet somehow, he feels a bit better with two little words.
Mikey blinks hard, and suddenly the pressure behind his eyes is worse.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t wanna wake you up but...”
You lean your head against his shoulder. “I’d rather you wake me up than stress eat our supply Captian Crunch.”
Mikey laughs at that. So you were paying attention earlier.
He didn't get his shell kicked for nothing.
"Sometimes I think everyone else is handling it better than me," he tacks on, sniffing before wiping at his snout with the back of his hand.
Mikey feels your hand squeeze his. The one not covered in snot, obviously.
“Michelangelo,” you say softly, like the idea itself is ridiculous. "You're allowed to be scared too. You don't have to always be the one trying to make everyone feel better."
You're right. He knows you're right. Except that's his thing, and so he's going to keep trying to keep everyone playing tomorrow. There were some water balloons he convinced Casey to pick up last time they went to the store.
But right now...he's still scared, and the attic is real comfy even though it's a tight fit. Mikey doesn't want to risk waking up Donnie either, not when he’a just got a break.
Mikey's breath shudders out of him, just before he feels your head on his shoulder. When he steals a look, you're up against him like you'd be back at home after three hours of krognar and post-patrol coca cola slushies. He misses that too.
Even if it's all bad right now...if none of this started, then he'd never have met April, or Casey. If they never went up top then they've never tried pizza or discover pinball or got to watch TV at Murakami-sans after sensei scolded them for sneaking out to skateboard.
And you.
Mikey doesn’t know how he lived before you came along.
He...it'll work out. It will, and it'll all have been worth it.
“I’m really glad I met you,” Mikey says, almost too softly to hear. Yet he smiles for the first time since the lights went out and it isn't for any reason other than one he's never had to fake
You squeeze his hand again. “I’m glad I met you too, Mikey.”
The comics were originally aimed at adults and there are so many deep, meaningful and dark storylines and character arcs which the kids shows just cant get anywhere near what it could be (although TMNT 2003 make a very good attempt at within the boundaries they have to adhere to.)
I think, done properly it would be super well received, especially by the millennial audience of the 90s-00s, and now the 2012 audience are also older.
Which production company do I have to bully to make this happen
I know it will never happen but I can only dream lol.
Pls. Pls. A version of TMNT where we can have actual blood//death and not have to do cover ups for it (although 2012 did a good job at showing injuries considering they couldn’t include the imagery. Same for 2018 when Don’s shell got…well, y’know).
Please though. Let them get darker. Let young fresh eyed Leo take his first life and give pause at the blood on his blade. Let him realize that his purpose in life is as much a beautiful craft as it is a damnation. Let Don see the power of his genius as both savior and death. Let Raph have bloody bandaged knuckles after training and let Mikey say ‘that’s bitchin’’. Once. Let him say it. We all know he wants to.
I’m 100% guilty of writing 2012 Donnie with an extensive vocabulary and word vomit -
But ALL Donnie’s got that temper lmao. What good’s a brain if you can’t make snappy comebacks on the fly. He is stressing at least 30% of every episode from the pilot lol
I just gotta say... absolutely lovely characterization of everyone. Your posts are a joy to read no matter what character you write. You write a damn good Mikey, and that's so hard to find!! Thank you for writing ❤️
Thank you so much! I agree with you on the Mikey bit because people usually characterize him in the baby brother role. Even though I’m not a Mikey stan, I try to do him justice <3
Prompt: "What's your type?" - In which you're asked what your ideal partner is, and they fit the bill.
Variant: 2012! TMNT (Characterization fits for Bayverse as well aside from a few 2012 plot refs.)
Characters: Leo, Don, Raph, Mike
Format: Headcannons ^-^
Warnings: None.
Request: N/A. SenchaOriginal
From teens way in over their heads and the world on their shoulders, to seasoned young adults that are still guessing how to make it in this crazy world. In the years you've been friends with the Hamatos, April O'Niel, and Casy Jones, you've never shown romantic interest in anyone. Not a hint, always the type to keep your cards close.
While vigilantes, highschool dropouts (*cough*Casey*cough*), and mutants alike - everyone has a type. A want for a special connection. Even if romance and friendship created drama that felt so small compared to the world turned upside down. It was those small conflicts that made everyone still feel like normal teenagers in the past. Even if many loves died out or never had a chance. C'est la vie.
Everyone had their story to reflect on and endure some nostogic teasing over...except for you.
Until one evening, when everyone's together in the lair in celebration of April being promoted from writing the daily horoscope to being an actual, bonified reporter for NY Times. Finally, out of the office and onto the field.
The Hamato brothers share in their favorite pizza, fighting over who gets the last slice of cheese when the only other option is Mikey's jelly-bean-and-habenero experimentation.
Meanwhile April, Casey, and yourself idle on the side with a few drinks. The brothers never partook, one of their few rules as on-call ninja. Intoxication wasn't a risk worth taking when there are other indulgences to relax with.
You weren't much of a drinker yourself, always willing to be the designated driver whenever April wanted a girls night out. Yet tonight you were all safe in the lair, and she was so happy that you figure a margarita won't hurt. Not enough to get hammered, but you were feeling the flush in your cheeks early on and the burn in your veins just turned from uncomfortable to toasty warm. Everyone's having a good time for what feels like months of grinding, and you're happy to idle as they all chat away.
Right when you go to lick the salt rim and ease off with some water, both April and Casey seemed to conjoin their remaining brain cells. When April slides off her seat to squeeze in next to yours, you cock a brow mid-suck on a lime wedge.
"Y'know...there's something I always wondered about you but never had the guts to ask." She said, her words slurring on their tails yet not incomprehensible, and your interest piqued.
You take a sip, putting a pin in grabbing water. "You shouldn't be afraid to ask me anything, April. I have nothing to hide from family."
That's all she needed to hear.
"Okay...biting the bullet then, but do you have a type?"
Ah.
You stiffen just as Casey slings his arm over your shoulder. He reeks of cheap beer bought from some guy behind a seven-eleven.
"Uh," your tongue hangs to dry, "I beg your pardon?"
Casey groans, "Dude! It's not that hard of a question. Do you like, got, anything? For the whole..yaknow..." He waggles his eyebrows too close to your face for comfort, and you shove him off on instinct. He hits the concrete ground with a weak groan. Yup. Definitely cheap beer.
"I was expecting a genuine concern, not some latent teenage gossip," you snicker, still with a bit of your wits.
Aside from Mikey and Raph sharing a high-five at Casey's expense, you miss how the brothers' conversation drifts to a standstill.
"Oh c'mon," April rolls her eyes, "you're so overdue for this it isn't even funny! Let loose for once in your life!"
Your lips purse, unsure if the flush on your collar is from the alcohol or how curious she seems to be. April's doe-eyes glaze over as she fixes you with the same dejected look that got her the bed back at the farmhouse, while you slept in a cocoon on the floor.
Casey pulls himself to a tilting sit, clutching his head.
"Not cool man," he shoots you a weak glare, "not cool. I bet you reproduce by...by...mee-toe-says...or whatever it's called."
From a few feet away Donatello scoffs under his breath, ''It's mitosis, you lug. Crack a book."
It's not that you don't have any interest, but there is someone in this very room that you would prefer to not connect any dots. With a friendship so precious it wears the cloak of family, you have been exceedingly careful to not lose what took so long to build.
"Please? Just a bit of gossip? We're basically blood, how does it look if I don't at least know wat kind of fictional character you like on tv!"
See, sober April would never say something like that. Yet with sweat dripping down your ass and Casey thinking he's smart by subtly pouring a bit more vodka out of the communal pitcher and into your cup...the mind slips.
Before you can gather some common sense, the buzz takes initiative. You feel better, a bit looser, and decide to let yourself speak unfiltered for the first time in years.
"Fine," you sigh and stretch to kick Casey square in his back for the earlier jab, "I do have...a preference, I guess. It's..."
Leonardo
“Mmm. The responsible sort. Yes, darlin'. Look at you paying your taxes. So so so sexy, mhm. Kill that spider for me. Fold that laundry. Vacuum under the couch. Be punctual to your appointments. Text me you’re home safe at night and I’m already halfway there. Love me enough to tell me when things need fixin’ for us and be part of the process.”
Pause.
Hard pause, because what spirit just posessed you to speak like that? Leo cannot recall a day in your shared time where your words ever came so dazed and soaked in honey. He’s known your compassion but is this what the voice in your head sounds like?
Leo is a turtle that respects boundaries. He was one more push from Casey from inserting himself into the conversation and bailing you out. Yes, it was April's big night. Yes, the gossip is relatively harmless.
Okay. Maybe the second statement isn't true. You are under the influence and may have regrets tacked alongside a hangover tomorrow.
And he? ...while Leonardo was curious, he was also afraid to hear the answer. Master Splinter raised the brothers to face their fears, to not let them control their actions, yet he was also raised to be a gentleman. Aged past your shared troublesome youth, he would not press for more. Having you in his life was already enough. The turtles could only welcome so many into their lives.
Complicating what you had with romance was too risky...and while Leader, there were some fears even Leo had trouble recognizing. Let alone internalizing and acting on. He had so much to learn before he could be on par with his Sensei.
Maybe he never would be. Maybe life was just meant to always have that feeling of something to risk. He didn’t know, and no one could offer an answer.
He always thought you would find a human in time. Like April and Casey found each other. Someone that might pull you from the Hamatos circle and into a life that resembled normalcy. Someone he and his brothers would have to welcome. For all his fears, Leo didn't think you would be with anyone they couldn't trust. You would never leave them. You were too devoted…a blessing, and a guilt on his shoulders.
You were smart. Careful. You always listened if they had a concern, even Mikey with his superstitions. If any of his family did not approve, you would cut the chord instantly. He wondered for a time if that pressure is what kept you from making long lasting connections with other humans. That it was their fault.
Leo thought about the type of person you'd spend your life with more than he should. He had no right, no claim to you, but it was always a matter of 'when' in his eyes. Not an 'if,' because who wouldn't want you? Someday. Somehow. You’d get there, and the circle in this room would change, and he’d have to accept it.
He just never had a clear picture of who YOU wanted...and now that he does? He isn't sure what to do with the information.
So he is the one to grab you that glass of water, steal that last slice of good pizza for your stomach, and offer his bed until you're sober enough to go home.
Yet when the party is over, and everyone's dispersed? April and Casey knocked out in the conversation pit. Raph to his room, Mikey at the TV, and Donnie off to tinker away in his lab...
Leo scrolls through his phone while sitting outside his bedroom in case you need him, shell against the door, and clicks your chat. While more of a 'phone call' guy than a texter, he's never once forgotten to tell you when he's back home safe and say goodnight.
Raphael
“Someone a lil’ wild, like - yes king. Let’s paint the town on a Monday night. That’s right. A work night. Ghost pepper nachos and the shittiest daft punk on hand. Remind me that I’m alive and not just surviving, and I’m yours.”
Barks a laugh. Except it’s not funny. Not one bit. Raphael is instantly put in the position of second male lead in his life.
He is not an idiot. That description is too specific to be about a general population. The hooded look in your eyes suggests that you have someone in mind and no one else will do.
Raph’s a guy that likes his privacy as much as the next. At first he found your reclusive nature off-putting. You were too much like an adult for him to vibe with when he was a teenager, but after the Kraang invasion? He understood. Shit happens that we can’t control, and it makes us that way
Someone always has to step up to the plate. While the start was full of wariness and distrust, Raph was just worried for his family. Humans never did them much good and he couldn’t read you like April, or relate to you like Casey.
Yet he always respected you.
If you ask when that changed to something more, he wouldn’t be able to name an exact moment. More like the attraction was always there. It takes a strong person to lay down roots in a concrete canyon like New York. You didn’t talk, but you were always there.
In his eyes, you probably had a life of your own up top. Some guy buying you flowers that none of them knew about. Did the thought piss him off? Yeah. It did, but you had a good head. No one’s going to be worthy of you in his eyes, but you look happy most days when he swings by your balcony. So you can have your secrets. He’ll leave it be…which for Raph, is basically a testament in itself.
All this is why Raphael can’t help but laugh, because that ideal description of yours fits him perfectly. He could walk into his room right now and find a shit daft punk CD from the 2010s in under ten seconds. He could jump from rooftop to rooftop with you in his arms until you have no choice but to look as the ground closes in. He could do it all on a work night, pick you up when your thread is thin and show you what it’s like to be young. To exchange flow in the way he once thought impossible.
Yet this faceless bastard gets the privilege to put that hooded, infatuated look on your face. When the only thing he has that Raph doesn’t is five posable fingers.
He’s human, and Raph’s not. All those times he reminded Donnie back when they were, and how humans could never look at them in that way, were really just freudian slips.
Raphael tunes out the rest of your conversation, sparing just enough of his effort to grab three glasses of water. No favoritism.
While the three shitfaced humans sober down, he goes to get some punches in on his old training dummy. Stuck in his mind like he’s been for years, Raph misses how your glazed-over infatuation never strays from his shell.
Donatello
“Functioning brain cells. If I don’t need to think my responses through then I don’t want him. Call me a masochist but I like to work for it. I have to look at him and know we’re not the same puzzle, but two that when put together crack the code of life. I need a man that can handle a whole woman and keep the chemistry. Pun intended.”
Donatello never fully recovered from his feelings for April. She would always be his first. His first friend, his first human contact, his first lab partner, his first crush.
Yet she wasn’t his first love. It took time and much reflection, but at some point he realized that what he felt for her was a deep seeded admiration. She was the first person to take his work seriously and genuinely express an interest in him as a living, sentient being. That protectiveness he felt for her was love, but not the romantic kind. He was just so afraid of all those firsts being taken away.
So yes. April will always have a special place in his heart. Her rejection also lead to him building carefully constructed walls around the organ.
Donatello had to accept that he could never be someone that he is not, and rather than looking for someone who has what he is ‘missing,’ he should hold his heart in hand and wait for the one who compliments it. If they never come, it would be okay. There are many forms of love.
Donatello was content to be as he was and care for the people he considered family and friends in his own way. He would not force anything.
Which is why when you spoke those words, his pulse jumped. His breath hitched in his chest, coming out a wheeze through his front teeth.
The ideal you described was exactly the same as his. Donatello wasn’t afraid of a challenge and he hoped that one day there would be someone who looked at him and thought he was the equation they were meant to spend years theorizing over.
And you…felt the same. He always suspected you were of alike minds on the matter. Was he curious why you never sought company? Certainly. Yet he understood how hard it was to open up, show someone all the gears that make your heart tick.
When he was still hung up on April, you helped him bare those pieces to her without judgement. And when he had to move on, he had to find the strength alone, but you helped him think of a new system for his cogs. One that still had April in it, and still had space for hope.
You were special. Always. To him. There has never been a doubt in his mind of that.
Which is why Donnie wonders, even if it is a fleeting moment, that if he cracks his chest open and lines his gears up next to yours…would they create something brilliant? Maybe with you, he might find that final first.
Michelangelo
“Silly billies. Like…golden retriever energy, y’know? If I don’t know you love me then we’re not meant to be. If I feel comfortable telling you that I just ripped a fart higher hit than MJ’s ‘teehee’? It just won’t work. When we get 4:00 am gas station sodas together and high off life itself, then I’ll have found my man.”
Michelangelo always knew you had a silly side. He has a sixth sense for this kind of thing, trust. Getting you to laugh was one of the easiest things in the world, because while you held back? Dr. Prankenstein never missed. There was always the gentle shake of your head before helping him out of a mess. The crinkle of your eyes when someone made a fart joke or anything April told him belonged at a playground.
You were way simpler minded than everyone thought, and Mikey was the one to figure it out first.
Whoopie cushion. Toothpaste filled Oreos. ‘Kick me’ signs. Off-tone singing while on a drive in the Shellrazor (purposeful, but he won’t admit it). Nights tucked under the blankets with old cartoons and buttery popcorn fingers.
You loved all of it.
And that meant a lot to Mikey.
Deep down, you were just as silly as him. He saw the cracks of yellow in your soul. If he had to draw it, the aura would be a meld of carnation and ivory. Except Mikey kept his energy high, his smiles big, so that his family would never get too serious - and you? You restrained that childlike wonder, so that when times got tough they could join in alongside him.
You held it together, but Mikey knew that the little things were what kept you…well, happy. Sparkling. Yeah. You could be a buzzkill sometimes…but it was usually because you cared. You never got mad unless someone was hurt really bad or told a lie.
From the very beginning, Mikey liked you. A lot. Buzzkill moments and all. He smiled big for his family, but for you? He did it just right. You were golidilox, and he was the perfect porridge. Enough to pull the carnation from where you hid it away when you least expected it,without losing your mix of ivory.
And he was confident that no one else could be the perfect porridge. Human. Mutant. Whatever. Maybe he was scared to act on how he felt, but that’s just because of timing. It was never good enough. Stupid Shredder. Stupid Foot. Stupid Kraang. Stupid people screaming when he tried to snag a few flowers of some lady’s balcony.
When you answer, Mikey’s already across the room. April yelps when he plucks you from the chair, spilling margarita and sending the other two humans to fall in on their own weight.
He spins until your laughter turns to a gag, and then makes a mad dash for the bathroom with his brothers yelling after him for being too reckless. Maybe so, but Mikey will make sure that tomorrow you’ve got a reason to smile through the hangover. After your guts empty and he snags you that 4am soda.
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.
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.”
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.”
Every once in a while I remember that there’s a commercial with 2012 Donnie in it where he is absolutely trying NOT to freak out, but is 100% failing….
And I’m surprise I’ve never seen it ever written about or mentioned in a fanfic…..
Shower thought and 30 mins. Idky I just thought Michaelangelo's girl name would be Michelina, and then I thought of the frozen alfredo. Mikey would probably eat those. They're convenient and go through enough processors that italians would say they're satan's preference next to olive garden.
Please accept my mini posters of the rottmnt boys as contribution to the fandom. I love all versions of tmnt, but it was only after watching Rise that I decided to make art for my wall. Maybe I was intimidated by the turtle anatomy until now (as you can see…they’re just floating heads. It’s okay. What they don’t know won’t hurt them). Originally I wanted to do this for 2012, but the Rise art-style is just…so colorful, popping, and after watching I adored the direction taken with their characters.