I know you are already making me something but the “I love you whispered in the dark” is so cute :(((( could you do it with Donnie please?
Here you go! Donatello (TMNT) x Reader Rated: T Prompt: “I love you” whispered in the dark for @whygz
You look up from your computer at the sound of a tap on your window. At first glance, all you see is a dark streak across the glass. You quickly abandon your work and rush to the fire escape. It’s late into the night but earlier than you’re expecting. Donnie comes by after patrol every now and then. After talking to him this afternoon, you had a feeling tonight was going to be one of those nights. But you hadn’t expected him to show up before midnight.
You open the window and you don’t ask questions. He doesn’t like to answer them, and neither of you likes the lies he tells to cover up the truth. You know he’s working on something big. Something beyond ridding the city of local scum. But he’s been tight-lipped about the whole thing and it leaves you on edge. It makes you anxious because you suspect one of the reasons Donnie doesn’t explain–knowing the truth has to be even more dangerous than being left in the dark.
When Donnie steps into the room, he braces himself with a hand on your shoulder and gives you a weak smile. Without his mask and goggles, you can see him properly. He looks exhausted. And he’s holding his left hand close to his chest.
“What happened?” You reach for the bandana that’s been tied around his palm. You adjust the wrappings and hold his hand in yours.
“The cut’s deep enough I can’t hold my bo. Leo sent me home.”
“But you came here,” you say. And even as the words form in your mind, your heart swells to think that maybe Donnie considers your apartment just as much a home as the lair. With all the time he spends here, with the way the weight of responsibility falls off his shoulders, you know he at least finds this a place of comfort. But, a home. The butterflies that have seemed to take up permanent residence in your belly, now, take flight
Donnie looks down at your hands, still cradling his injury, and takes in a slow, shaky breath.
“You’re tired.” You state the obvious, but you doubt anyone else has bothered to acknowledge the fact.
Donnie nods. His shoulders slump. You’ve never seen him so fatigued. He looks like he’s practically asleep on his feet.
After letting him shower and helping to patch him up, it tugs at your heart to know he’ll be heading back into the night again - injured and alone.
“Are you sure you’ll find your brothers?”
Donnie has all kinds of tech, trackers among them. Of course he’ll be able to pin their location. Still, it worries you to watch him go without backup close by. The streets have been getting more dangerous by the day. With aliens and time travelers popping up right and left, no one knows what lurks around the corners anymore.
“I’m sure they’re headed back to the lair by now,” Donnie says, and for some reason your brain sees this is the perfect opportunity for you to ask him to stay. “Here?” he asks, like he’s genuinely unsure if he heard you correctly.
“Yeah.” Now that the question is out, there’s no turning back. “Stay here, with me.” He considers it a home, right?
You had seen Donnie when he came out of the bathroom. Fresh from the shower, without the layers of sweat and grime concealing the truth, his eyes were set in dark circles, bruised with exhaustion. Even now, he walks slumped forward as if his shell carries the weight of the world.
“You can sleep here,” you suggest, nervously. You’re already fortifying yourself with reasons for why it’ll be safer for Donnie to spend an entire day at your apartment than to leave right now–because Donnie is a ‘reasons’ kinda guy.
But instead of the argument that you’re ready for, Donnie looks wistfully at your double bed, the downturned blankets, the pair of overstuffed pillows, and the quilt your roommate’s nana gave you when she found out you didn’t have a living grandmother of your own.
Only two letters are spoken, but it’s enough to knock the wind out of you.
He looks at you and says them again. “O.K."
Donnie shrugs off his gear and hides what he can under the bed. Then strips until he’s down to his boxers and socks and slides between the sheets. He’s half-hugging a pillow to his chest, breathing shallow, but already making some sleepy noises, as he snuggles down.
You don’t think he’s awake enough to notice you anymore, but he gently lifts his head when you begin to tiptoe away. “Hey, w-where are you-”
“Oh, I’ll just-” The sofa really isn’t that uncomfortable. And there are a few spare blankets you can grab from the communal living room. “It’s fine,” you say, but the owlish expression Donnie wears has you reconsidering just how ‘fine’ it really is–and fine for whom.
You’re halfway to the hand-me-down loveseat by the television when you wonder if maybe Donatello doesn’t want to be left alone. “I’m gonna grab us some water, that’s all. I’ll be right back.”
When you return with two glasses, Donnie has turned down the opposite corner of the comforter. Your suspicions are confirmed. You take in the sight as you place the waters on the bedside table with twin *clunks*. The invitation to join him sends your butterflies into a frenzy. You turn off the lights, both excited and scared. Trembling with each inch you’re taking towards new intimacy, you climb into bed behind Donnie’s shell.
“Thanks,” Donnie whispers into the dark. And his voice sounds broken and worn thin. He shimmies deeper under the blankets, seeking warmth and comfort, and you reach over to properly tuck him in. It settles you, taking care of him.
As you pull the quilt to his shoulder, your hand grazes the edge of his shell. The scales are hard and rough; they tickle your wrist, but it’s Donnie who shudders. There’s a rumble in his chest. It lingers in the air, a churr. You know from experience that it’s an involuntary response that brought on when Donnie’s feeling especially relieved, contended, or grateful–and you freeze.
You realize that, right now, this is Donnie’s appreciation for your touch. And the realization steals your breath. It sends your heart swooping into your stomach.
The next time you lay your hand on his shell, you do so with purpose. You move closer on the mattress so that you’re tucked around his shell and you press your forehead flat against his scales. As Donnie’s shell rises and falls with a breath, you finally release the one you’ve been holding.
The two of you lie like this for what must be an hour. In the silence of your breaths. In the delicate whisper of your fingertips brushing his shell. Donnie’s breathing has been so even, it surprises you when his next exhale shakes and falters.
You stay quiet, cuddled against his back. You wonder if he can feel the difference between the pressure of your lips versus the touch of your forehead on his scales.
You caress the curve of his shell with another languid sweep of your hand. You nuzzle your cheek against the swirling pattern of his scales. You imagine you can hear his heart beating as you ride the waves of his breaths.
When he whispers, "I love you,” you think you must have fallen asleep. It must be a dream, because Donnie can’t be saying those words to you.
But when you pet his shell again, Donnie releases a low, resigned sigh. “I just wanted you to know.”
Your response is softly spoken. It’s a struggle to get it past the tight emotion in your throat. And it’s muffled further by the press of your lips to Donnie’s shell. You hope he can hear your words, because the hammering of your heart against your chest is so loud you can hardly hear yourself. “I love you, too."
Your confession is sure to change everything. But Donnie doesn’t move. He doesn’t turn toward you and he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t say anything in reply. You hear him sniff and swallow and sigh. And you worry that maybe you misheard him. Maybe it’s like you thought–you dreamed the whole thing.
Then, in the quiet, in the dark, you hear his churr.
