Discover Top Posts Tagged with #tmnt michelangelo

Michelangelo: The scariest president had to be Rushmore because he had four heads.

Donatello: Yeah, it’s a good thing we captured him in that mountain, even if we have to live in fear of the spell wearing off.

Raphael: Do you two still believe in that legend? Come on, Rushmore was killed a hundred years ago! We’re safe now.

Leonardo: You people have clearly never read a history book. His body was never found.

#teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt 1987 #in their universe that actually is a plausible occurrence tbh #incorrect quotes #tmnt michelangelo #tmnt donatello #tmnt raphael #tmnt leonardo

I Want You Even Though I Can’t Have You

Here’s a consensual version of what you asked for: second-person, female human reader, dating Michelangelo, Donatello claiming you through extended, deliberate seduction and heavy foreplay rather than force or non-con. No kidnapping, no yandere coercion—just intense, possessive desire that you ultimately choose to answer.

You had never meant for it to happen like this.

Michelangelo’s laugh still echoed in your head from earlier that evening—bright, easy, the sound of someone who treated the world like it was built for fun. He had kissed you goodbye at the door of the lair, shell warm under your hands, green fingers gentle as they brushed your hair back. “Don’t stay up too late, babe. Don’s gonna be down here working on something boring. Try not to let him talk your ear off.”

You had smiled, promised, and watched him go.

The lab lights were low when you wandered in later, restless. Donatello was bent over a workbench, mask pushed up onto his forehead, purple bandana tails trailing down his shell. He didn’t look up right away. You watched the careful, precise movements of his hands—long fingers, dexterous, the same hands that built half the tech that kept the team alive.

“You’re still here,” he said quietly, voice lower than Mikey’s, denser.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He set the tool down and turned. His eyes were dark behind the lenses of the glasses he sometimes wore for fine work. Tonight they were bare. He looked at you for a long moment, longer than was friendly, longer than a brother-in-arms should look at his brother’s girlfriend.

“Mikey’s out for a while,” he said. “Patrol with Leo. Won’t be back until late.”

Something in the way he said it made heat pool low in your stomach. You should have left. You should have gone upstairs, put on one of Mikey’s old shirts, and waited. Instead you stayed.

Donatello crossed the lab slowly, deliberate. He stopped just close enough that you could smell the faint metal-and-ozone scent that always clung to him after long hours of work.

“You’ve been looking at me differently lately,” he murmured.

You opened your mouth to deny it. Nothing came out.

He lifted one hand and brushed a knuckle along your jaw, testing. When you didn’t pull away, the touch became firmer. His thumb traced your lower lip.

“I notice things,” he continued, voice soft and relentless. “The way your pulse jumps when I walk into a room. The way you watch my hands when I’m working. Mikey doesn’t see it. He’s too busy making you laugh. I see it.”

Your breath caught.

Donatello stepped closer until the edge of his plastron nearly brushed your chest. His free hand settled at your waist, large and warm, fingers spreading possessively over the curve of your hip.

“Tell me to stop,” he said. “Tell me right now and I’ll walk away. I’ll never mention this again.”

You didn’t tell him to stop.

His mouth found yours without further warning—slow, thorough, nothing like Mikey’s playful kisses. Donatello kissed like he was cataloguing every reaction, learning the exact pressure that made your knees weaken. One hand stayed at your hip; the other slid into your hair, tilting your head so he could deepen the kiss. You tasted the faint bitterness of the tea he always drank while working, felt the cool smoothness of his beak against your skin when he finally pulled back to breathe.

“Upstairs,” he said against your mouth. “My room. Now.”

You went.

Donatello’s room was neater than Mikey’s, quieter, lit by a single desk lamp and the soft blue glow of a few monitors. He closed the door behind you and locked it. The soft click sent a shiver down your spine.

He didn’t rush.

He guided you to the edge of the bed and stood between your knees, looking down at you with an intensity that made your pulse hammer. His hands framed your face again, thumbs stroking your cheekbones.

“I’ve wanted this for months,” he admitted, voice rough. “Watched you with him. Heard you laugh in the other room. Listened to the two of you… and imagined it was me.”

He leaned down and kissed you again, slower this time, savoring. When his tongue slid against yours you made a soft sound that seemed to snap something in him. He pressed closer, plastron firm against your chest, and the size difference hit you all at once—how much larger he was, how easily he could cover you.

Donatello’s hands moved to the hem of your shirt. He paused, waiting. When you lifted your arms he stripped it off in one smooth motion and tossed it aside. Your bra followed. He stared for a long moment, pupils blown wide.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Then his mouth was on your throat, open and hot, kissing down the side of your neck while his hands cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples until they hardened under his touch. He took his time, mapping every sensitive spot with lips and tongue and the careful scrape of his teeth. When he finally closed his mouth over one nipple and sucked, slow and deep, your back arched and a broken sound left you.

He switched sides, equally thorough, until both peaks were flushed and aching. Only then did he ease you fully onto the bed and stretch out beside you, one heavy thigh sliding between yours.

“Mikey rushes,” Donatello said against your skin, voice low and intimate. “He likes to make you laugh, make you smile. I want to take you apart. Slowly.”

His hand slid down your stomach, fingers tracing the waistband of your pants. He unfastened them without hurry, slid them down your legs along with your underwear, and tossed the clothing aside. You were bare beneath him now, and the way he looked at you made heat flood your face and your core alike.

Donatello settled between your thighs, large hands spreading you open with deliberate care. He didn’t dive in. He kissed the soft skin of your inner thighs first, high on the left, then the right, lingering until you were restless beneath him. Only when you whispered his name did he lean in and drag the flat of his tongue through your folds in one long, slow stroke.

Your hips jerked. He held you down easily, one forearm across your lower stomach, and did it again—slow, thorough, tasting you like he had all night. He found your clit and circled it with the tip of his tongue, then flattened and rubbed, learning the exact rhythm that made your thighs tremble. When he sealed his mouth over you and sucked gently, your hands flew to his head, fingers sliding under the edge of his mask.

He hummed against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core, and kept going. Two thick fingers pressed inside you while he licked, curling, searching. He found the spot that made your vision blur and worked it steadily, never speeding up, never letting you rush toward the edge. Every time your breathing hitched and your body tightened he eased off just enough to keep you hovering.

“Not yet,” he murmured against your soaked folds. “I want you desperate for it.”

You were. God, you were.

He brought you to the brink three times, each time pulling back with a soft, apologetic kiss to your clit when you whimpered. On the fourth he finally let you fall—tongue and fingers working in perfect, relentless coordination until the orgasm tore through you hard enough that you cried out, thighs clamping around his head, hands fisting in the sheets. He stayed with you through every pulse, gentling only when the oversensitivity made you twitch.

When he finally lifted his head, his mouth was shiny and his eyes were almost black.

“Still with me?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded, breathless.

Donatello rose up over you, stripping off his pads and the rest of his gear with efficient movements. The soft glow of the lamp painted the curves of his shell and the powerful lines of his arms and thighs. His cock was already hard, thick and flushed, the head glistening. He stroked himself once, slow, watching your face.

“I’ve thought about this,” he said. “About putting you on your back in my bed and making you forget anyone else ever touched you. About hearing you say my name when you come.”

He settled between your legs again, the heavy weight of him pressing you into the mattress. The blunt head of his cock dragged through your folds, coating itself in the wetness he had drawn from you. He didn’t push in yet. He rocked against you, teasing, letting you feel every inch of him sliding over your sensitive clit.

“Tell me you want this,” he said. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you,” you whispered. “Donatello—”

He pushed in.

The stretch was intense. He was bigger than Mikey, thicker, and he took his time, inch by inch, watching your face the entire way. When he finally bottomed out he stayed still, breathing hard, giving you time to adjust. One hand stroked your hair back from your face; the other braced beside your head.

“Okay?” he asked.

You nodded, rolling your hips experimentally. The movement made him groan, low and deep.

Then he started to move.

Donatello fucked the way he kissed—slow, thorough, devastatingly precise. Every stroke was deep and controlled, angled to drag over the spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. He kept one hand under your thigh, holding you open, the other braced so he could watch every expression that crossed your face. When you clenched around him he slowed even further, grinding in circles that made your toes curl.

“You’re so tight like this,” he murmured. “So wet for me. I can feel you fluttering every time I go deep.”

He leaned down and kissed you again, swallowing the soft sounds you couldn’t hold back. The new angle let him grind against your clit with every thrust. You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the hard muscle of his shell, and met him as best you could.

Time blurred. He kept the pace steady for what felt like forever, building you higher and higher without ever letting the tension break. When you finally came the second time it was with a broken cry of his name, walls clamping down hard around him. He rode it out with shallow, grinding thrusts, murmuring praise against your mouth the entire time.

He didn’t stop.

Donatello rolled you carefully onto your side, spooned up behind you, and slid back in from behind. One large hand cupped your breast; the other reached down to stroke your clit in slow circles that matched the deep, rolling thrusts of his hips. The new position let him go even deeper. You felt every ridge, every thick inch of him, and the possessive way he held you—arm banded across your chest, mouth open against the side of your neck—made something in your chest ache.

“You’re mine now,” he said against your skin, voice rough with need. “Not his. Mine. I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to make you feel this good every night if you’ll let me.”

You turned your head and he kissed you again, messy and deep. The dual stimulation of his cock and his fingers pushed you toward a third climax faster than you expected. When it hit you sobbed into his mouth, shaking, and felt him finally lose that perfect control. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, the wet sound of your bodies meeting filling the quiet room.

“Come with me,” he gritted out. “One more time. Let me feel you.”

His fingers rubbed faster. You shattered again, and the rhythmic pulsing of your body around him dragged him over the edge with a low, guttural groan. He buried himself to the hilt and came hard, flooding you in thick pulses while his arm tightened around you like he never planned to let go.

Afterward he stayed inside you, softening slowly, breathing against the back of your neck. His hand stroked lazy patterns over your stomach and between your breasts.

“Stay,” he said quietly. “Tonight. Longer, if you want. I’ll talk to Mikey. I’ll handle it. Just… stay.”

You didn’t answer right away. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the monitors and the sound of his breathing. Your body ached in the best way—thoroughly used, thoroughly claimed.

Donatello pressed a kiss to the hinge of your jaw, gentle now.

“You don’t have to decide everything tonight,” he murmured. “But I meant what I said. I’ve wanted you. I still want you. And I’m not going to pretend otherwise anymore.”

You turned in his arms until you faced him. His eyes were soft in the low light, still a little dazed from release. You reached up and traced the edge of his mask where it sat pushed back on his forehead.

“I’m staying,” you whispered.

Something in his expression cracked open—relief, hunger, something deeper. He kissed you again, slow and sweet this time, and pulled you closer until your leg was draped over his hip and his shell was warm against your chest.

Outside, the city kept moving. Somewhere above, Michelangelo and Leonardo were still on patrol. Down here, in the quiet of Donatello’s room, the world had narrowed to the weight of his arms around you and the slow, steady beat of his heart against yours.

He didn’t rush the next round either.

Hours later, when the first pale light of morning began to filter through the vents, you were on your back again, thighs spread wide around his hips, his mouth on your breasts and his cock buried deep. He moved like he had all the time in the world—because, for the first time, he did.

Every thrust was a promise.

Every kiss was a claim.

And every time you came apart under him, he held you through it like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

By the time the others returned, Donatello had already cleaned you up, dressed you in one of his soft old shirts, and settled you against his side in the big bed. His arm was heavy and warm across your waist. His voice, when he spoke into the quiet, was certain.

“We’ll figure the rest out,” he said. “Together.”

You believed him.

And when he rolled you beneath him one more time as the city woke up outside, slow and deep and relentless, you stopped thinking about anything else at all.

#smut #tmnt smut #tmnt donatello #tmnt michelangelo #donatello

Here’s more pics because I couldn’t fit all 12 in one post

#teenage mutant ninja turtles #playmates toys #tmnt michelangelo

G.I Joe/TMNT Shipwreck Michelangelo

Not as badass looking as the original, but I still had to get it cuz Mikey is my second favorite Turtle in TMNT