milykins

[milykins]

The Turtle's Song

Hello everyone, I'm sorry I haven't been as active on here lately, but I finally have something to post.

I'm working off of this prompt from the lovely @thelaundrybitch

The turtles have, and continually practice a "Turtle Song." Their mate(s) or potential mate(s) is the only human that can hear/ reacts to said song. That's how they know the person is "The One."

This is my take on that prompt with Mikey of course and how his song leads him to the one he's meant to be with. I put a bit of a fairytale twist on it too. This one-shot is from the perspective of a female reader.

TW: Mention of mistreatment toward the reader and one instance of physical abuse towards the reader.

Special thanks to @adebauchedsloth for giving it a once-over!

Please continue reading under the cut and let me know if you enjoy reading it. Thank you!

For most of his life, Mikey had been humming a song, a tune unique only to him and the person he was meant to be with. That perfect person he could only dream about having. It was a legend, an ancient tale he’d beg his father to regale him with at bedtime. The Turtle’s Song. He didn’t know whether it was real or not, but he’d wanted so badly to believe it was. The human princess falls in love with a turtle creature because, out of every suitor, none could identify her song except for him.

Michelangelo had always been a romantic at heart, and for a long time, he believed that the perfect person was waiting for him somewhere. He waited, hopeful she’d come along, but as the years went by and he got older, the idea of true love started to fade, and a harsh reality threatened to take hold. Maybe it was just a childish fantasy—something only found in fairy tales. No, he refused to lose hope! He couldn’t allow himself to fall into that dark pit of despair; he refused to.

Mikey was thirty years young, according to him anyway. For the most part, his life was good. He and his brothers had continued with their sheltered lives, but their presence as the protectors of New York was no longer a big secret. Mikey was a popular video game streamer and had a sizable online following. He didn’t bother hiding his face because what was the point? There were no longer any dangerous threats to worry about. He and his brothers had saved the city multiple times and taken jobs from Chief Vincent on a regular basis. Humans, for the most part, had accepted him and his brothers. The only thing left to do was to leave the sewers and live among them as proper citizens of New York.

Mikey knew his mate was out there. He could feel it! One day, she'd hear his song and come shining into his life like a beacon of hope. He tried to imagine how she would look. Beautiful, of course, no matter what she looked like, with eyes that shone with kindness and hair like silk. Somehow, he knew she was a woman—sweet and lovely, with soft curves and rosy cheeks. He probably spent an unhealthy amount of time thinking about this mystery girl, but who could blame him?! His brothers had already all found their mates, and he wanted it to be his turn.

One day, when hope was almost lost, he heard it. The song. He didn't realize it then, but his mate was stuck, trapped in a loveless marriage to another man.

-----

You didn't think things could get much worse. Your witch of a mother-in-law, yet again, had taken time out of her day to remind you what a useless and incompetent wife you were, and your husband had been acting as cold as ever. You'd cry if you hadn't grown numb to this type of treatment long ago. If you weren't financially dependent on him and in need of a place to live, you'd have left a long time ago.

It was clear you were both miserable, yet every time you brought up the topic of divorce, he refused and warned that you would be homeless if you left him. So, you stayed, enduring the cruel treatment for years like some housebound Cinderella character, since it was your responsibility to keep the house in order. 

You had been married for several years, and though you tried, it seemed you were unable to have children with him. Labelled barren and useless by your mother-in-law and husband, you’d all but slipped into depression, feeling broken and deserving of the contempt directed toward you.

There were two things that brought you comfort in your darkest moments. First, there was tending to the rooftop garden at the top of your apartment building, and second, a soft, familiar melody that you hummed as you went to sleep. You’d been humming it since before you could talk. On those nights, you had a recurring dream. It was always the same. You could never make out his face, but he was familiar, kind, and more than willing to take you away from all of this. You felt the outpouring of love and affection, so pure and beautiful it made you want to weep.

You couldn't shake the feeling that this was who you were meant to be with, and lamented the fact that he wasn't real. Such things didn't exist in real life, after all. No Prince Charming was coming to save you, and the sooner you accepted that, the sooner you would save yourself from any further heartbreak.

Still, you craved those dreams. Your only escape from reality was a pair of baby-blue eyes and the words, 'You are my mate.'

It seemed hopeless, as if things would never get any better, so you had to suck it up and keep it together as best as you could. Still, the dreams of your saviour kept that flicker of hope alive. You started hiding money from your husband, squirrelling it away in a metal tin to buy your freedom. You hummed the song while you worked, the melody bringing you comfort and helping you stay positive. You were careful not to let it show around your husband or his mother, in case they suspected anything.

One day, you were leaving, and nothing was going to stop you.

-----

On particularly lonely nights, Mikey often took to the rooftops for some peace, taking time for himself to think and reflect. It was one of those days when everything felt like too much. It seemed as though his brothers were being extra affectionate with their mates. Their actions, though not deliberate, only served to stir up unpleasant feelings of jealousy within him. He had to get out of there.

Moving swiftly into the night, Mikey decided to explore a little. For once, he allowed his instincts to guide him, jumping across rooftops and taking in the sights and sounds of the city as he went. He couldn’t explain it, but it felt like there was somewhere he needed to be right now.

His actions brought him to a charming little rooftop garden. Clearly, someone had invested time and effort into maintaining it, as the plants and flowers appeared lush and healthy.

His heart nearly leapt out of his chest when he saw her, and his song stirred deep within his soul. The moment was cathartic, and he instantly knew she was the one. Staying hidden in the shadows, he watched her tend the garden, humming to herself as she deftly snipped dead flowerheads and watered the plants that needed it.

Feeling his heart swell even more, Mikey’s eyes filled with tears as he was completely overwhelmed by emotion. She was humming the song, his song, like a siren in the night. After all this time, he’d finally found her, and she was just as beautiful as he’d always imagined.

Everything inside him was screaming to make his presence known, yet he remained frozen in hiding. How was he supposed to approach her without scaring her? He’d imagined this moment a hundred thousand times in his head, but nothing compared to actually experiencing it. 

He was almost ready to throw caution to the wind when he saw something that made his heart sink. She had moved close enough that he could see a wedding band on her left hand. His face crumpled with sadness when he realized she was taken. Someone had found her before he did, and from her demeanour, he could only assume she was happy.

He left quickly, crushed with the weight of his discovery. She wasn’t his, she’d never be his, and he would never experience the kind of relationship his brothers shared. Fated to be alone forever. He ran, tears streaming down his face until he could no longer see where he was going. He sobbed, clutching his chest with each heaving breath.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but she was meant for him, wasn’t she? He’d expected her to be wary at first, but ultimately come to her own realization that this was right. That they were meant to be together.

Another terrible thought crossed his mind. What if she had children? There was no way. Even if he had announced his presence, he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to tear the family apart. As much as it hurt, he’d just have to accept that this was never going to turn out the way he thought it would. 

He hated the idea of heading home, feeling like a failure and a loser, the only one of his brothers who would remain alone forever. The last shred of hope had been torn away from him the moment he realized he’d never have her.

For the next few days, he kept to himself, staying in his room and only coming out to eat or use the washroom. All attempts to speak with him were met with one-word answers or silence. Everyone was becoming quite concerned, but none more than their father, who was determined to get to the bottom of it. 

On one of Mikey’s trips to the kitchen and back, the old rat thumped his walking stick on the floor to catch his youngest son’s attention.

“You will join me for a cup of tea.” It was a simple request, yet one his son could not easily refuse. He could see his resolve was hanging by a thread and longed to ease his troubles, whatever they may be.

Hesitantly, Mikey followed, his footsteps heavy, as if even his small trip to his father’s room took more effort than necessary. He watched as his father lowered himself neatly onto his cushion and gestured for him to do the same.

“Kneel before me, my son.” Mikey did as he was told, still reluctant to speak as Splinter gently placed a small cup of tea into his hands. “Tell me what is troubling you. What has happened?”

Mikey knew that if he were to explain everything, he would break down completely. He sipped his tea and resolved to keep it together, instead directing his anger and frustration at the one person who could and would handle it.

“You lied.”

“To what are you referring to?” Was his father’s calm reply.

“You told us…” His voice was shaking a little. “That we would find our…” His hand clenched around the cup as he swallowed thickly. “The one who could hear our song…”

“Ah, your song? I assure you, I did not bend the truth in any way.” He sipped, ready for his son’s next outburst of emotion.

“YES, YOU DID!” Mikey slammed the cup down, causing the small wooden table to shake slightly from the force. “It’s never gonna happen for me! There must’ve been some mistake, some kind of fucking mixup because she’s…!”

Still remaining calm as ever, Splinter began to piece things together. Everything was about to be explained. “You have found her, haven’t you?”

Mikey’s lip trembled as he slowly nodded, furiously wiping at his eyes. “I was stupid to think it could happen for me…” His father patiently waited for him to explain, placing his aged hand upon his.

Speaking barely above a whisper, Mikey looked down at his knees. “She’s… she’s married… I saw the ring…”

Though his heart went out to his son, Splinter knew there had to be more to this. “Oh, my son, I can imagine the pain you must have felt, but I must remind you, fate makes no mistake. You must dig deeper if she is truly the one.”

I can’t...” he mumbled. “I’m not a homewrecker…” There was no holding back the tears that came streaming down his cheeks. His heart was broken, caught in a vice-like grip of despair. He angrily wiped at them until his father gave his hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Michelangelo, do not be so quick to mourn. You assume it to be a happy marriage, yet she, and she alone, is the only one who can hear your song. There are far too many unanswered questions that must be addressed. You must go back.” His words were firm with an air of finality.

His crying had stopped, his father’s words making him reflect on a few things. He was right; Mikey hadn’t stayed long enough to see the full picture. Could her marriage be a happy one? Maybe it wasn’t. In fact, it was entirely possible she married the wrong person.

Sucking in a breath, Mikey suddenly feared that maybe her husband didn’t treat her well. Maybe she was in trouble. “Dad, I..!”

“Go to her.” He sipped his tea calmly. “I sense that you are needed.”

Mikey was up and out of that room in a flash. His heart was pounding as he raced through the tunnels to the surface. Hold on, I’m coming!

This was it. You were finally getting out of there. Having gathered enough money, you packed a bag and waited for him to fall asleep before retrieving your stash. You’d placed it in a small metal box that you buried in the soil of the rooftop garden.

When you went to retrieve it, you were horrified to find that it was missing, no longer where you had carefully hidden it just days earlier. After a few frantic moments of searching, you heard mocking laughter behind you and froze.

“Looking for this?” It was your mother-in-law carefully holding the object in mind, a smug look on her face.

You felt your stomach drop as you stammered. “Th-that’s… how did you—?“ This was not good. You were screwed, and things were about to get even worse.

“I knew you were worthless, I didn’t know you were a filthy little thief, girl.” she spat. “Good luck explaining this to the police.” She was already pulling out her phone, and you were panicking.

“W-wait! I was just trying to-“

Slap!

It was your husband, having appeared behind his mother just as you were trying to prevent her from calling 911. “You steal from me? I gave you a home, food to eat, and this is how you repay me, you ungrateful bitch?!”

“I want a divorce!” You sobbed, holding your cheek. “Just let me leave!”

Mikey heard the slap and felt it reverberate through his very soul. Someone was hurting her, his mate, and in that moment, he saw red. Fuck staying hidden; she was in trouble, and he had to act now. 

Before you even had a chance to shed a tear, you heard his mother emit a blood-curdling scream and felt something rush past you with a swiftness that did not seem possible. Something resonated within you as your husband was knocked to the ground with a yelp of pain while clutching his nose. It was the song you’d been humming for years; you could feel it deep within your soul. Could it be...?

Your husband's mother was still screaming about a monster and yelling into the phone that she needed officers there now before it killed her son!

You felt absolutely no fear as you focused your gaze on the large creature? Turtle? Turtleman? Then he turned, worry and fear etched on his face, as he seemed to prepare himself for you to pull out your phone and call the police on him as well.

His eyes… bluer than the sky on a perfect summer’s day met yours, and you gasped aloud. You knew those eyes, you knew him! He’d finally come for you, and when he'd determined that you weren’t going to run from him, he quickly offered his hand to you.

“Come with me, I’m gonna get you outta here.”

You didn’t think twice. Taking his offered hand, you were swept into his arms and carried off into the night, away from the two people who had caused you so much pain, mistreated you for years, and were still faintly screaming in the distance. 

This turtleman was covering a lot of ground very quickly, but you held on tight, armed with the knowledge that you were finally safe.

Once both of you were far enough away, he gently set you on your feet and took a few steps back, feeling the need to give you some space while speaking very quickly.

“…Sorry, sorry! I didn’t mean to—the police were on their way, and he was hurting you and I just-“

You silenced him, holding your hand up. Now was not the time for explanations and regrets. You needed answers.

Clearing your throat, you began to hum, starting low and hesitant before increasing in volume and pitch to see how he would react.

Mikey stood rooted in place for a few seconds. Happy tears began streaming down his cheeks as he gently took your hands, his own low-pitched voice blending with yours until you both were humming and crying, overwhelmed with happiness and the joy of finally finding each other after all this time. 

“It really is you…” you smiled, managing to choke out the words.

Mikey squeezed your hands. He felt a mix of relief and inner peace as he managed to rein himself in emotionally. He needed to know why you seemed to know him already. “H-how come you weren’t scared of me?”

You did the same, taking a few deep breaths before speaking. “I dreamt about you, I knew your eyes and your voice, you told me you were going to rescue me and take me away from… him." You waited a moment before continuing, feeling the need to explain everything.

Now, Mikey was getting the full picture. Yes, you were married, but it wasn’t the happy union he thought. There were no children involved either. He listened as you spoke about how you’d been saving money for years, planning your escape, and how you’d been caught that very night. He understood you needed to keep up appearances beforehand, which meant wearing your wedding ring and acting the part of the meek little housewife. 

Said ring was most definitely absent now. You’d left it on his side table with a note.

“I’ve already got the papers in order for the divorce, I just need to—” Your final words lingered on your tongue as he tugged you close against his chest, wrapping his warm, muscular arms around you. The way he held you made you feel as if he was afraid you’d disappear on him—careful, gentle, yet reassuring.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered. “I should’ve found you sooner, I’m so sorry you had to go through all of that.” He spoke with such regret that it made you want to cry all over again. “I promise, no one is ever going to hurt you again.”

In theory, this was crazy. You’d only just met him and didn’t even know his name! Yet, it all felt right. Being in his arms felt so natural. You’d never experienced a feeling this with anyone before, and somehow, you knew he was being honest with you.

“What’s your name?” The words were whispered against his chest as you tilted your head to look up at him.

“Michelangelo, but call me Mikey… heck, you can call me whatever you want. What’s yours?”

You giggled, telling him your name in return before asking another question. “What is this? How did I know your song without ever meeting you?”

Now it was Mikey’s turn to speak, and he started from the beginning, weaving together the classic origin story of him and his brothers along with the old legend. “My brothers have already found their mates… I was the last one.” He finished quietly.

Oh, your heart just about broke hearing that. He’d been searching for you all this time.

“Hey… better late than never, right?” This was your attempt to lighten the mood, and it worked. He smiled and squeezed you a little tighter before letting go slightly.

“Um, I know this is a lot to take in, but is it okay if I take you home with me? I won’t send you back to them, but if you’re not ready, we could find a hotel for you or something.”

It was very sweet of him to be so considerate of your feelings and you took a moment to think over your options. You knew your now ex-husband would have told the police that a ‘monster’ punched him in the face and that his wife tried to steal his money, but you hadn’t actually taken any of it. You doubted he had a case anyway and found the idea of separating yourself from your hero to be quite unpleasant indeed.

“I’ll go home with you.”

The way his face lit up, you’d think he had just been told he won a million dollars. You had no idea what you were getting yourself into. It was all so fantastical and unbelievable, yet he was right here, standing before you like the lead character in a romance novel.

You thought he might kiss you to complete that little fantasy, but he shyly backed away from it and offered to carry you again instead.

Things moved quickly after that. Mikey took you into his home, a cozy underground lair where he and his brothers took refuge with their father and partners.

He narrowly evaded getting an earful from his older brother in blue as he stepped aside, letting you come into view. You shyly waved with a small “hello.”

He was warmly congratulated by everyone, as each member of the clan came out to greet you. They were so pleased and relieved that he had found you. Although the situation was complicated, you were assured that everything would be taken care of. It felt like another one of your dreams, how they all welcomed you so effortlessly. You’ve never seen this level of kindness and acceptance before.

His purple-banded brother, who was something of a tech genius, immediately began sorting out the situation with the police. It turned out that Mikey and his brothers had a partnership with the NYPD and thus had protection against incidents like this. No charges would be laid against you either, and your divorce would be finalized the next day. 

The brothers offered to retrieve your belongings, which you gratefully accepted. Some of your heirlooms were irreplaceable, and you wanted your clothing returned.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Mikey sensed that you were tired and guided you to his room to rest. You both still felt a little shy, especially when you borrowed one of his T-shirts to sleep in. He politely turned around to give you privacy to change.

Though you were tired, when the two of you lay in his bed facing each other, you found yourself full of questions. What did he like to do? His favourite foods? You wanted to know everything about him, and he was more than happy to explain.

He accepted you fully and completely, even after you told him you feared you couldn't have children. Mikey was quick to reassure you that there was no rush and it was likely that your ex was the problem, not you.

In the early hours of the morning, you had slipped into his arms again, feeling sleepy and content, with a sense of peace you had never experienced before.

“Mikey…? I want…”

He knew and carefully placed his hand on the back of your head. A gentle press of your lips to his, and he was gone, lost in the feeling of you. The song within you both ringing true in your hearts.

If you didn’t believe in fate before, you certainly do now. It was truly like a dream come true, and if you were Cinderella in this situation, then Mikey was Prince Charming, the perfect fit for you, just like the glass slipper.

The End

Taglist:

@danceingfae @thelaundrybitch @iridescentflamingo @redsrooftopprincess @ninnosaurus

@the-cauldron-witch @thepinkpanther83 @avery73 @adebauchedsloth @sophiacloud28

@definitely-canon @scholastic-dragon @truffle-reblogs @fyreball66 @yorshie

@jenuinelycurious

[milykins]

Hey! Someone sent me an ask about writing this, but I can’t seem to find it anymore 😭😭

Either way, thank you to whoever suggested it

I hope you like how it turned out!

Mirror Talk

Bayverse Michelangelo x fem!reader

You’d never been very good at falling asleep when he was around.

Not because he was loud, though to be fair, he absolutely was but because having Michelangelo in your apartment meant having the human (or rather, turtle) equivalent of a party popper beside you. Even in silence, even wrapped up in your blanket watching old cartoons on mute, he vibrated with energy. Big, messy, alive energy.

You weren’t sure how he managed to take up so much space without actually doing anything. But it wasn’t a complaint.

Right now, he was lying on your floor, feet up on the couch, hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows. The light from your TV flickered across his plastron. You were half-asleep on the couch cushions above him, head resting against a throw pillow that still smelled like laundry detergent and takeout.

“I’m bored,” he announced suddenly, kicking his feet up and down like a kid at a sleepover.

“You’re watching a movie,” you said, eyes closed. “You chose the movie.”

“Yeah, but now I’m watching you sleep instead and that’s not technically entertainment unless you start snoring.”

You cracked one eye open and gave him a look. “Do I snore?”

He grinned. “Nah. You make these little pfft noises with your nose like a sleepy baby hedgehog. It’s adorable.”

“Should I be flattered or mildly concerned that you know this?”

“Yes.”

You groaned, dragging a pillow over your face. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet.” He wiggled his fingers in the air. “You’re still dating me.”

“Remind me why?”

“Because I’m the total package, babe. Brains, beauty, biceps.” He flexed one arm, which promptly hit your coffee table with a thunk. “Also, I do great impressions.”

You peeked at him from under the pillow. “Impressions?”

He cleared his throat, sat up slightly, and in a high, nervous voice, said:

“Hi, uh, you probably don’t wanna go out with me, but if you maybe did, like, want to get pizza or something sometime… I mean, unless you hate pizza, then we could get, like, tofu. Or air. Or I could just cry into my pillow—”

You were laughing before he finished the sentence.

“What was that?”

“That,” he said dramatically, resting a hand over his chest, “was me. Two weeks ago. In the mirror. For like forty-five minutes.”

You blinked. “…You practiced asking me out in the mirror?”

“Bro, so much.” He flopped back down with a groan. “You have no idea. I stood in Donnie’s lab with a broom and a helmet on top and practiced every version of asking you out that a person could possibly imagine. Smooth guy Mikey. Sensitive poet Mikey. Straight-up ‘I wrote you a rap’ Mikey.”

“Please tell me you didn’t write a rap.”

“Oh, I did. I deleted it. But it rhymed ‘booyakasha’ with ‘your aura’s like matcha.’ I was proud.”

You buried your face in the blanket, laughing so hard your ribs hurt. “That’s terrible.”

“I know! That’s why I deleted it! But you were so cool and chill and smart and pretty and I was like “oh no, she has actual standards, I need to rehearse or I’ll ruin everything”.”

You turned toward him, still laughing, but softer now.

“You didn’t need to rehearse, Mikey. I liked you already.”

“Yeah, but like… you’re you,” he said, half-laughing, half-sincere, sitting up now, cross-legged and looking a little pink beneath the orange. “I didn’t wanna mess it up by being, y’know, me.”

You leaned down and kissed the top of his head, resting your forehead against his.

“You didn’t mess it up.”

“I didn’t?”

“Not even with the matcha rhyme.”

He grinned, wide and boyish. “Then I guess the mirror speech worked after all.”

“Oh my god.” You pushed his shoulder. “I’m dating a dork.”

“I’m your dork.” He tackled you back onto the couch, dramatically, like a Broadway fall, arms flailing. “And this dork wants cuddles, please and thank you.”

You squealed as he flopped half on top of you, a giant living weighted blanket in a hoodie, all warm muscle and ridiculous affection.

“You’re crushing me!”

“I contain multitudes,” he mumbled, face buried in your neck. “I contain love. And also dumpling farts. But mostly love.”

And somehow, despite the chaos, the noise, and the sheer amount of shell currently pressing into your ribs, you felt completely at peace.

Two weeks in, and already, you couldn’t imagine anything else.

[milykins]

I was in the mood to write something romantic 🩷

Hands Say More Than Lips

Bayverse!Leonardo x Reader

The rain had been falling for hours.

It wasn’t violent or sudden, just steady, like the sky had quietly decided it couldn’t carry everything it was holding anymore.

You sat on the edge of your bed, legs drawn up to your chest, chin resting on your knees. The room was dim, lit only by the soft, shifting glow of streetlights filtering through your rain-slicked window. Your phone lay face down on the blanket, screen dark.

You weren’t sure why you texted him.

You didn’t even type anything important. Just: “Can’t sleep. It’s storming.”

You never asked him to come.

And yet… he did.

The window creaked open at the corner of the room, quiet, practiced. You turned slightly, already knowing the rhythm of his entry. The heavy silence gave way to the faint rustle of gear, the quiet exhale of breath.

“Did I wake you?” you asked softly, barely above a whisper.

Leonardo didn’t answer right away. He stepped in with the grace of a shadow, closed the window behind him, and let the damp night air linger on his skin.

“I wasn’t asleep,” he said finally. His voice was low, almost reverent.

He didn’t move to you not at first. Just stood there, as if uncertain, as if your quiet pain might splinter at the wrong approach.

You shifted your legs, giving him space beside you.

He took it.

And then, silence again. But not the bad kind. Not the kind that presses into your chest like grief.

The kind that wraps around two people like a blanket.

You didn’t look at him. Not right away. You couldn’t.

But his hand found yours.

Slowly. Hesitantly. Like a secret being shared one fingertip at a time.

Calloused, broad, warm.

It didn’t slide into yours. It didn’t clasp. It didn’t demand anything.

It just… rested.

A quiet promise.

Neither of you said anything for a long while. The rain filled the room with its rhythm. It echoed off rooftops, bled into gutters, soaked the world in slow forgiveness.

You felt the weight of his thumb grazing the side of your index finger. Back and forth. A slow, steady gesture. Soothing. Familiar.

Like a heartbeat learning yours.

And then:

His palm moved to yours, more intentional now. Still gentle.

Still wordless.

You turned your head, finally meeting his gaze. His expression was unreadable at first, until you noticed it:

Not worry. Not pity.

Just presence.

His other hand rose, almost like he was asking permission without words.

And when it found your jaw - the barest edge of it, just his thumb brushing under your cheekbone, you didn’t flinch.

You leaned in.

There was no kiss. No breathless rush. No tangled bodies or movie-scene climax.

Just that hand. That one hand, cradling your face like you were made of something fragile, ancient, sacred.

“I don’t know what to say,” you whispered, throat thick.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “I’m not here for words.”

His thumb traced a line just beneath your eye. Maybe there were tears. Maybe not. He didn’t name them. Didn’t make you feel small for having them.

It was strange, you thought how someone could hold your silence with more care than most held your laughter.

You turned your face slightly, letting your cheek press into his palm.

Like an answer.

His hand on your knee shifted then, slid up your arm in a careful path, stopping at your shoulder. The weight of it was grounding. He didn’t pull you. Just waited.

But you moved.

You folded into him like it was the most natural thing in the world like your body had been waiting to be still next to his.

His arms wrapped around you, careful but firm, one broad hand splayed against your back, the other still at your face.

He held you like a prayer.

Neither of you moved for what felt like forever.

And in that quiet, your thoughts drifted:

To the way he never rushed you.

To how he always gave space, but never disappeared.

To the fact that his hands were made for fighting and yet tonight, they were the gentlest thing you’d ever known.

And you wondered

Wasn’t this love?

Even if no one said it.

Even if no one dared speak it out loud.

Eventually, your breathing evened out. You were still wrapped in him, head tucked under his chin, your fingers tangled lightly in the strap at his shoulder.

“You fall asleep?” he asked quietly.

“No.” You murmured against his chest. “Just… resting.”

“Good.”

There was something in his voice, not relief. Not pride. Just… peace.

Like being beside you was a kind of stillness he didn’t know he needed.

Before he left - hours later, long after the rain had turned to mist - he stood in your window. The moonlight cut across his form in fractured silver

He didn’t say goodbye.

But his hand reached for yours one last time.

No grip. No tug. Just the brush of his fingers against your wrist.

A promise, sealed in skin.

You watched him slip back into the shadows, quiet as always.

And when you closed your window,your heart didn’t ache.

It burned.

Warm. Quiet. Steady.

Like his hands.

————

This one is dedicated to one of my favorite people on this platform 🩷 @adebauchedsloth I hope you like it!

[milykins]

Mysteries of the Universe

Story Prompt: “Turtle Song”

A/N: The idea behind this is that each turtle has a unique 'song' they sing, and that only their soulmate can hear it.

Ever since he and his brothers had been young, they’d each had a unique tune that they hummed to themselves in moments of quiet and calm. They did not know where the tune came from, but knew it all the same. It was as much a part of them as the shell on their back, or the beat of their heart. Sometimes they questioned how they knew this song or why they felt compelled to sing it, but even their father did not know, so they let it be one of the mysteries of the universe.

Donatello liked to solve the mysteries of the universe, however, and promised himself that one day he would figure out the why of it.

When they got older, however, the same song that had brought them comfort as children somehow made them feel sad when sung now. There was a longing there at the heart of it that none of the brothers could understand or touch. That was until Leo met the person who would become his mate.

The brothers all still continued to sing their songs to themselves in the quiet moments, despite the touch of heartache it somehow always brought, but their friend couldn’t seem to hear them, which puzzled them all. How could they not hear it? It was plain as day to the rest of them. Yet their friend said they could not… Donatello immediately wanted to investigate, and sat their friend down to ask more questions. He sang his song, but their friend simply looked at him in confusion and Don had to scratch his head and push down the feeling of frustration. What kind of puzzle was this? Could their friend be joking?

When Leo entered the room, however, their friend’s head cocked to the side as if listening. The response was immediate and instinctual, and Don narrowed his eyes.

“Leo sings beautifully, though,” they said, and Donatello was now more perplexed than ever. How could they hear Leo’s song, but not the rest of theirs?

The reason made itself apparent as Leonardo and their friend fell in love.

And then Michelangelo met someone who could only hear his song, and they, too, fell in love.

“It’s scientifically impossible,” Donatello had grumbled, disturbed by the fact that somehow, twice, there had been this phenomenon where it seemed that only one person could hear a brother’s song and they turned out to be made for each other. Donatello had never seen Leo or Mike so happy, in fact.

“Maybe it’s some kind of soul mate song. Who knows,” Raphael had offered and Donatello had scoffed.

Time went on, and then Raphael, too, found his song partner, and Donatello was at an utter loss. He did not want to believe that he was afflicted with something that could not be scientifically proven. Soul mates? He didn’t even believe in such a thing. And yet the evidence was directly in front of him with his three brothers happily partnered and even starting families.

And yet Donatello remained alone. He still hummed his song to himself, though much less frequent now. It was only when he was completely alone did it slip out, and the longing that it brought made him bite his lip to hold his mouth closed.

Time went on, his brother's families grew, and Donatello had to admit to himself that he was lonely. But he was a turtle of science. He couldn’t wait around for some sort of ‘magic soul mate song’ to do whatever hocus pocus out in the universe. No. He was more sensible than that.

He met someone. Someone kind and with a keen mind who, though not being able to hear his song, made him happy. He felt content, even in those quiet moments where his song still softly slipped out, bringing with it a bit of that old longing, though it was not as sharp.

Soon he followed along the same path as his brothers and he and his mate welcomed their first child into the world, and again, Donatello felt the mysteries of the universe surround him. How could he possibly love something so instantly? Be willing to die for it? Except this time it was not a mystery he needed to solve. It just was, and he was content with that. He held his child in his arms, rocking it gently as his mate rested, and in the quiet moment his song slipped past his lips, a sort of lullaby as he knew no actual lullabies.

The baby’s head turned towards him at the sound, its little face looking up at him with such awe and wonder and Donatello felt time stand still. He sang again, and the perfect little being in his arms stared at him in rapt attention, and Donatello felt such a surge of love that it nearly overwhelmed him.

He sang. He sang and sang until the child fell asleep in his arms, and Donatello marveled at the mysteries of the universe.

[milykins]

Random Turtle Thought...

"You're a Fighter."

Something was wrong. He could feel it the moment he slipped inside your window. Even before his eyes found you in the dark of your apartment. A type of heaviness that had settled itself in the otherwise welcoming tone of your home like an unseen fog.

His footsteps are soft and cautious. Gleaming orbs glancing around the corners of your private abode, though in truth he knew he'd find you in your room. A slight increase to his pulse. One he could feel in the side of his neck.

Oh yes, something was very wrong.

Your bedroom door sits ajar at the end of the hallway. The dim glow of your fairy lights standing out like a neon highlighter on black construction paper. All of his senses are on high alert as he approaches. He doesn't hear sniffles or tears.

But he feels it.

Nudging the door open with one knuckle he finds your form in the middle of your bed, curled atop your comforter. Discarded tissues, crumbled and tossed aside like fragments of a dream liter your floor. A few books and one of your favorite pictures sit in a disheveled heap on your desk, your favorite plushie beside it. Clearly the victims of an outraged throw.

Raphael doesn't need you to tell him. He knows this one is bad. And familiar insecurities bubble up inside his chest as he shifts uncomfortably in your doorway. The big bara isn't good at this.

The thought flashes through his mind that he wished he could think of the perfect thing to soothe you, like Leo would. Or know how to make you laugh despite feeling like you were falling apart, the way Mikey always seemed to be able to do. Or even offer a witty random fact to distract you from your sadness the way Donnie seemed to have an uncanny knack for doing.

That wasn't him though.

Shaking the feelings of self-impotence aside, the big bara strode inside. No - he wasn't good at words or feelings. But he was good at being there. And you were his partner. His everything. You didn't need words or laughs or factoids out of the blue.

You needed to know you weren't alone. That he was there for you.

He doesn't say anything as he scoops you up effortlessly with his massive arms. Doesn't try to make you look at him as he holds you close to his chest and settles back against your pillows. He doesn't even razz you about not greeting him as he would any other time.

Instead - cool but crude Raphael, the hothead, the punch first and ask questions later, never take no for an answer, fight prone turtle - simply holds you. Soft rumbles from deep in his chest relieve your ears from the deafening sound of your own breathing. It's not the usual thunderous churring you're accustomed to from him. The ones that make you jump every time and force your teeth to chatter if he's close to you. This is more like a cat purring, and it makes you look up at him.

You can see the concern in his eyes. The worry. Your stomach drops as you prepare yourself for him to ask you to tell him what is going on. What's wrong. To tell him what to do to make it better.

He means well. You know this. But you just don't have the energy to explain the overwhelming sense of your world careening down on top of you to him right now. No voice left to explain how very close to the breaking point you are.

The red banded turtle doesn't ask though. He doesn't need the details to know that, in all reality, there isn't a damn thing he can do it make it better right now. Execpt for him to just be there.

He leans down slowly to press a firm kiss to your forehead. His lips linger there against your skin for a long time. Long enough that you're finally able to take a deep breath. He keeps purring. Soft and soothing. Holding you tight in his massive arms. Making you feel safe. Feel protected.

Breaking his touch away only a moment, he nuzzles into your hair. "Hey," he finally whispers into the faint glow of your room, as if chasing the shadows out. "You're a fighter. Always have been. You got this."

Perhaps the words are more for him than you. But he flexes slightly, giving you a little squeeze. Hoping that the action conveys how much he means the words though.

"No matter what, beautiful. I know you'll overcome this. Yer the strongest person I know. K?"

A wet laugh breaks free. Uncurling your hands from your chest for the first time tonight, you lay your tough over the cap of his shoulder and squeeze back. Tears are coming back. Yet these ones don't feel like defeat.

Resting his cheek on your head, Raph continues his soft rumbling. His arms unyielding as he holds you close. You uncurl a little more. Snuggle into his embrace. Breathe a little easier.

"I don't think I can overcome this one," you quietly admit.

"You will," he states after a moment's pause. "Ya got knocked down. An' sometimes that fuckin' hurts worse than anything you've eva felt before. But yer gonna get back up. An' I know when ya do, yer gonna kick some serious ass. Right?"

He bounces his arm just a tad. As if he's nudging you. And it makes you laugh a little louder. But his reassurance is just enough to make you nod.

"Yeah," you whisper, unsure if the word is really tangible right now or not.

But it's enough for Raph.

It's enough for tonight.

"That's my girl."

><><><><><><><><

@luckycharms1701 @yorshie @justalotoffanfiction @definitely-canon @writinandcrying

@donniesgirlie @gornackeaterofworlds @thelaundrybitch @sophiacloud28 @iridescentflamingo

@the-cauldron-witch @redsrooftopprincess @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @ninnosaurus @tmnt-tychou

@thepinkpanther83 @akari180 @milykins @citruswriter @jenuinely-speaking

@androidships007 @chicchanmooshy @peachesdabunny @msjadamatthews @ahhhhhhhhhfuck

@theanonymousninja247 @tmntngl

[milykins]

A Shot In The Dark - Chapter 52

Breathe... and Kiss me.

Taglist:

@silverwatergalaxy @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @thelaundrybitch @luckycharms1701 @thepinkpanther83

@avery73 @the-cauldron-witch @redsrooftopprincess @iridescentflamingo @ninnosaurus

@milykins @yorshie @justalotoffanfiction @truffle-reblogs @adebauchedsloth

@raphsmuneca @theanonymousninja247 @leosgirl82

[milykins]

I'm proud of this one because I drew this without looking at a screen shot. Over the months I've been trying to learn to draw Bay Donnie, and screenshots have been invaluable. That said, I also missed just drawing from my head, so this felt good.

Coloring is still not my strong suit, but this ain't bad.

ADDED: updated alternate

[milykins]

Turtle 🌶️Shenanigans🌶️- hilarious shit during sexy time

Turtledoves, I have taken a dive, headfirst, into shenaniganous smut.

Enjoy my descent into being a fully-fledged heathen.

➡️ Aged-up, adult turts

@memes-in-a-half-shell gets the blame for this one. 🫶🏼💖

Hilarious shit that happens during sexy time:

❤️Raph❤️: gets a leg cramp as he's fucking you from behind, stands straight up in shock and nearly flings you off the bed with his dick.

💜Don💜: His glasses fall off his face mid-thrust, and he accidentally pulls all the way out trying to catch them. He fumbles and they drop, spinning across the floor and under a piece of furniture. Poor man is as blind as a bat - he can't even see enough to pick up where he left off. So, instead of even attempting to find them, he just pulls his goggles down over his eyes. He can now see you in 4k. The zoom is SO GOOD that he's analyzing your skin and giving you skin care tips as he's fucking you into his work desk.

🧡Mike🧡: has you bent over in a precarious position, unfortunately allowing a bit of *air* to escape as he pushes into you. The result is a flatulent noise that increases in sound and intensity the further he pushes in. While you are mortified, Mike doesn't care about the noises. Seeing your distress, he starts making more noises with his mouth, from a high-pitched woooooop! To a low-pitched woooooo! as he thrusts in and out of you, his sound effects turning you into a toot sweet lollipop.

Speaking of flatulence...

💙Leonardo💙: comes so hard that he rips ass at an inhuman decibel, loud enough that it echoes throughout the entire lair, and you can now hear his brothers belly laughing from out in the living room.

And let me tell ya...

It's definitely not silent but absolutely deadly.

Please don't steal my work. Reblogging for others to enjoy is highly encouraged, though🤩

~tags~

@leosgirl82 @atomicdaydream @scholastic-dragon @sophiacloud28 @the-cauldron-witch

@ninnosaurus @luckycharms1701 @yorshie @gornackeaterofworlds @avery73

@iheartchv @thomariealtsstuff @pheradream-15 @iridescentflamingo @adebauchedsloth

@milykins @thepinkpanther83 @tmnt-tychou @redsrooftopprincess @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos

@raphsmuneca @justalotoffanfiction @fyreball66 @celeste-clearwater-06

@peachesdabunny @zombiesnips-blog @rebel-hamato @wynndigogh @raisin-shell

@freakishfandomfiend @8pmblackcoffee @flaminglily @misty-angerose @the-dying-star

@shakeyourtrees @sorrynotsorrh @fluffytriceratops @akari180 @raphslovemuffin80

[milykins]

okay i read your latest bayverse raphael x female reader (don’t know when you’ll read my request so i’ll add that it’s the one where she ask raph for things to draw in her sketchbook and the brothers are watching them and teasing raph) and i want to ask a continuation to that! i’m not the anon who asked that request but it was sooooo cute and funny and my heart melted and i need moooooore! maybe the reader ask if she can draw raph because she thinks he’s handsome and he just short-circuits because what? the girl of his dreams finds him, a giant-mutant-talking-turtle with anger issues, handsome!?!? and then maybe the reader finds the courage to ask him out on a date because she can see that raph is really insecure and he would probably never ask, but she likes him a lot too and she wants to start a relationship with him. i just need more fluff and softness between them and someone who will show to raph that he can be loved even if he doesn’t think so! if you add some teasing but very happy for him brothers in the background again i would be very happy! you write their personalities so well, i was grinning and kicking my feet the whole time!

A/N: I’m so happy you enjoyed Drawn to You enough to request a follow-up! For anyone who hasn’t read it yet, please do so—because this sequel won’t be as impactful without its context!

I didn’t make Raph’s brothers appear quite as prominently as last time. Because I’d like to think Leo told Donnie and Mikey to give them some breathing room so Raph and the reader can figure things out. Gotta have the oldest look out for his younger brother after all—though even he can’t resist a little teasing himself. 😉

Sketched in My Heart (fluff/mild angst)

❤️ Bayverse Raphael/Female Reader ❤️

CWs: Fluff, mutual pining, insecurity, mild angst, confessions, teasing siblings, and some light swearing. All characters are aged-up.

You’re back on your perch on the couch in the lair.

Already, you’ve sketched a few things: one of Leo’s katanas resting beside a meditation mat, the lava lamp on the stand beside you, and a mug with Sensei-tional Brew written on it (a gift from Mikey to Splinter) on the coffee table. But you find your attention drifting.

In his room, Raph is delivering a series of powerful strikes to the punching bag—the one you had drawn a week ago. You recall how adorable he was describing each tear and flaw in the material. But it isn’t long before you start watching him, how the muscles beneath his skin coil and release like massive springs. How he moves with a brutal but captivating grace.

He finishes a combination with a final, resounding thwack, making the chains suspending the bag groan as it swings wildly. For a moment, he stands, chest heaving, sweat highlighting the planes of his formidable physique. He turns, wiping his brow with the back of his hand—and his eyes meet yours for a split second before he glances away.

Your pulse skips like it always does when Raph catches you staring. Softly, you clear your throat and look down at your sketchbook, pretending to adjust a detail, even though your pencil hasn’t touched the paper in at least five minutes. You take a breath and attempt to focus on your art, but it’s no longer a good enough distraction.

You steal another glance at Raph. He’s toweling off now, muscles flexing with the motion. You bite your lip as it hits you all over again; how can he not know what he does to you? The guy moves like a walking tank and has the gentlest soul hidden under all that metaphorical armor. You want to draw that—the real Raphael.

And maybe, for once, say out loud how you see him.

You stand up before you can chicken out, sketchbook in hand, your legs carrying you across the lair before your brain catches up. “Hey, Raph?” you ask, gently tapping the frame of his open door.

He startles a little, caught mid-dab with the towel. “Oh—uh. Hey,” he says, voice rough but soft in the way it always is when it’s you.

“I was wondering …” You chew on your bottom lip, then force yourself to look him in the eyes. “Would you mind if I … drew you?”

His towel pauses halfway to his broad shoulder. “… Huh?”

“Like—you, you. I just …” You take a breath, clutching your sketchbook like a shield and hoping you don’t sound as nervous as you feel. “You’re … really handsome. And you don’t have to pose or anything! Just be you.”

His jaw drops, eyes wide. He’s short-circuiting. You can see it—Raph, the brawler, the bruiser, the guy who once stood toe-to-toe with Shredder solo, is now rendered momentarily speechless by your words. His towel hangs forgotten in his hand and he looks at you like he’s not sure he heard right. “You … think I’m handsome?” he finally says, like the idea never even occurred to him before.

“I know you are,” you say, softly but firmly.

He makes a noise—something between a cough and a choke—and turns half-away, rubbing at the back of his neck, clearly trying to play it cool. But failing miserably. “I, uh … yeah. Sure. If ya want.” His voice is lower now, shyer. “Don’t see why ya’d wanna draw me, though.”

“You’re strong. And you carry so much on your shoulders, but you still protect everyone. That’s amazing, Raph.” You flush a little but push on. “And yes, you’re really handsome.” You offer a small, tentative smile. “And I think you should see how I see you.”

You don’t think it’s possible, but somehow his face gets so red, you think it might match his mask.

He swallows, a visible bob in his throat. The hand holding the towel clenches, then slowly unfurls. His gaze, which had skittered away, flicks back to yours, wide and uncharacteristically uncertain. The usual hard glint is missing, replaced by something softer. “Damn. That’s … that’s somethin’, alright.”

You tilt your head. “Is that a yes, then?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. What the hell—draw away.” He backs up and flops onto the floor mat with a heavy thud. “Just don’t make me look all broody like Leo in meditation, alright?”

You grin, finding a spot to sit nearby before flipping to a fresh page. “No promises, but you do have that tortured soul thing going on,” you tease.

“Ugh,” he groans. “You sound like Mikey.”

He shifts a little, trying to find a comfortable position on the mat, one arm draped loosely over his knee. His other hand toys with the edge of the towel, still fidgety in a way that makes your chest ache with affection.

You set your pencil to paper, letting the first strokes flow. You sketch his strong jawline, the furrow in his brow that never quite smooths out, and those eyes. Even when they’re avoiding yours, they hold a thousand emotions.

He stays still, though you can tell it’s not his natural state. Occasionally, his eyes flick to your face, then dart away again like he’s trying not to be caught looking. You pretend not to notice, even as your heart thuds louder with each glance.

After a while, you break the silence. “You know, you don’t always have to carry it all alone.”

He blinks, looking like you caught him off guard. “Huh?”

You look down at the sketch, then back to him. “The weight, the anger. The way you think you’ve got to be the strong one all the time.” You offer him a gentle smile.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just studies you, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he exhales a slow breath. “Yeah. I know. I just …” His gaze drops. “Sometimes it feels like I gotta be the wall. So nothin’ breaks through. For the family, you know?”

“I get that,” you murmur. “But walls don’t just keep things out. They can trap things in, too.”

He looks at you again, and this time, something in his face softens. Like a wall starting to crumble. “I ain’t used to people seein’ past the tough guy stuff,” he admits.

You hold up the sketchbook and turn it toward him. “Then maybe it’s time someone did.”

His eyes widen as he sees the drawing. It’s not perfect; some lines are rough, a few details unfinished. But the likeness is unmistakable. And more than that, it feels like him. Strong, yes. But thoughtful. Kind. Gentle. You didn’t just draw what he looks like.

You drew what he is.

He stares for a long moment, jaw slack. Then he huffs a breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “You got me lookin’ like I’m worth a damn.”

“You are worth a damn, Raph.” You meet his eyes and don’t look away. “You’re worth everything.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It’s charged, full of something neither of you have quite named yet. And honestly? It’s also about time someone did put it into words.

Raph’s voice is a low rumble when he finally speaks. “You really think all that?” He gestures vaguely between himself and the sketchbook, still looking a little dazed.

“Every word,” you confirm.

You see the flicker of disbelief in his eyes, the way he almost shrinks into himself, as if your praise is a physical weight he’s not used to carrying in a positive way. He’s so used to criticism, to being the tough one, that genuine affection seems to throw him completely off balance.

His gaze drops to the floor, and he mumbles, “Nah, c’mon. Don’t say stuff like that.” The insecurity is palpable, a heavy cloak he wears too often.

And that’s when you know. You can’t wait for him. He’ll second-guess himself into oblivion, convince himself he’s not good enough, that you couldn’t possibly mean it. But you do.

Your heart hammers against your ribs as you take a deep breath, the air in the room suddenly feeling thick. “Raph,” you begin, your voice a little shakier than you’d like, but you press on. “I really like spending time with you. And … and I like you. A lot.”

He looks up at that, his eyes wide and searching yours. The blush that had started to fade from earlier creeps back up his neck.

“So,” you continue, forging ahead before your courage can desert you, “I was wondering … if maybe … you’d want to go on a date with me?” You rush the last few words out, then clamp your lips shut, waiting, your own cheeks heating up.

The silence stretches as Raph just stares, his mouth opening before closing again. You, on the other hand, feel like your heart is trying to escape your chest with how fast it’s beating. Self-consciously, you wipe your sweaty palms on your pants but still refuse to break eye contact as you wait for his answer.

“A … date?” he finally chokes out, his voice cracking on the word. “With me?” He points at himself, as if to clarify which giant talking turtle with anger issues you could possibly be referring to.

“Yes, Raph. With you,” you say, a small, hopeful smile playing on your lips. “Unless over six-foot-tall, red-masked ninja turtles with a surprising soft spot and impressive muscles are forbidden from dating?” You try for a light tone, hoping to ease the shock radiating off him.

He runs a hand over his head, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape route or perhaps a hidden camera crew. “But why?” he asks, his voice raw with confusion. “I mean, look at me. I’m … this.” He gestures to himself again, a wave of that familiar insecurity washing over his features, momentarily dimming the hopeful spark you thought you saw.

“I am looking at you, Raph,” you say, your voice soft but firm, full of all the sincerity you feel. Gingerly, you move closer. “And I see someone amazing. Someone brave, and loyal, and yeah, a little rough around the edges,” you concede with a gentle smile, “but someone who cares so damn much it practically pours out of him. I see you. And I like what I see. A lot.”

Finally, he grins and shakes his head sheepishly, chuckling softly. “You really don’t quit, do ya? Seriously. A date?”

You nod. “Yeah. We can start small. Grab a slice. Watch a movie. Or, you know, sit in awkward silence and pretend we’re both not nervous wrecks.”

Raph stares at you for another beat. Then, slowly—carefully, like he’s touching something fragile—he reaches out and taps the edge of your sketchbook with one large finger.

“I ain’t good with words,” he says, apologetic. “But yeah. I’d like that. A date. With you.”

Your smile widens. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, the word husky and full of a warmth that makes your insides melt. “Really.”

Just as sweet relief and giddiness bubble up inside you, a voice shatters the moment.

“Oooooooh, Raphie’s got a giiiiirlfriend!”

Of course, that sing-song taunt could only belong to one turtle: Mikey. He stands in the doorway, cupping his hands around his mouth like he wants to announce the news to the whole sewer.

Raph jumps about a foot in the air, whirling around at him. “MIKEY! GET OUTTA HERE, YA LITTLE SNOOP!” he roars, his face instantly turning a shade of red that rivals his mask.

Close on his heels, Donnie peers inside, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “Statistically speaking, it was only a matter of time before someone found your emotionally repressed, brooding rage charming.”

“Get outta here, ya knuckleheads!” Raph snaps, balling his fists. “Ain’t you got somethin’ better to do than spy on people?”

“Spying? Us?” Mikey feigns an offended pout, placing a hand over his plastron. “Never!” He flops dramatically onto Raph’s mat, right next to your sketchbook, peering at it with stars in his eyes. “You drew him? Like one of your French turtles?!”

“MIKEY,” Raph snarls, lunging toward him, but Mikey rolls away with a laugh, skidding to a stop against the wall.

Leo appears beside Donnie, arms crossed and expression stern in the way only an older brother’s can be. “Alright, enough. Show’s over,” he scolds, nudging past Donnie to lean down and pat the back of Mikey’s shell. “Let’s give them some space.”

“Awww, but we just got here,” Mikey whines as he stands.

Leo sighs. “You’ve caused enough chaos,” he says, steering his chuckling, protesting brothers outside of the room. Before stepping over the threshold, Leo’s eyes flick toward you, then to Raph, his expression softening with understanding.

Though even Leo can’t resist a bit of teasing.

“We’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”

Mikey is still making kissing noises as Leo herds them out. He gives the two of you an apologetic smile before firmly shutting Raph’s door, the room suddenly becoming silent. Finally, you feel like you can breathe again.

Raph groans, rubbing a hand down his face as if trying to erase the past sixty seconds from existence. “I am gonna pulverize them,” he mutters, before looking at you with a grimace on his face. “Sorry ‘bout that. They’re … a handful.”

“Well, they are your brothers,” you point out. “Endless teasing is practically an unspoken clause in the sibling contract, right?”

“Yeah. You get used to it. Mostly.” He glances towards the closed door, a muscle working in his jaw as if he can still hear Mikey’s teasing. “They ain’t ever gonna let me live this down.”

You smile gently, closing your sketchbook and setting it beside you. “Maybe not,” you agree as you reach out to brush your fingers lightly over the back of his hand. “But I think that just means they’re happy for you.”

He looks down at your fingers, as if processing the sensation. Then, almost imperceptibly, the tension in his shoulders ease. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, glancing at the door again, “they’re happy they got fresh teasing material for the next decade, more like.” But there’s no actual heat in his words. “Guess you’re right, though. S’pose they’re happy … in their own annoying way.”

He shifts his gaze back to your hand on his. Slowly, hesitantly, he turns his palm upwards, fingers brushing against yours. You gently lace your fingers with his, a pleasant jolt shooting up your arm. He clears his throat, his eyes flicking up to meet yours, then quickly darting away again, a faint blush still dusting his cheeks.

“So, uh … this date thing,” he says. “You’re sure, sure?”

You bring your other hand up to cup his cheek, your thumb stroking the slightly rough skin just below his mask. His eyes widen at the contact, but he leans into your touch. “I’ve never been more sure about anything,” you say earnestly.

He swallows, his gaze locked on yours as he brings his free hand up to cover yours on his cheek, holding it there. “Damn,” he breathes, his voice thick with emotion. “You really know how to knock a guy off his feet, don’t ya?”

“Only the deserving ones.”

A small, almost shy smile touches Raph’s lips. “Deservin’, huh?” He looks down at your intertwined hands, then back up at your face. “You got a funny way of lookin’ at things. A good way.”

“I just see what’s there,” you murmur, your thumb continuing its soft caress on his cheek. He leans further into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

When he opens them again, there’s a new resolve, a flicker of excitement. “So … this date.” He clears his throat again, the blush still present but fainter now, more like a warm glow. “When were you … uh … thinkin’?”

“Whenever works for you. We could keep it simple. Your lair’s got character,” you say, a teasing glint in your eye, “but maybe somewhere a little more private for a first date? My place, if you’re up for it? Or if you know a quiet spot topside …”

“I know a few spots. Rooftops, mostly. Quiet. Good view of the city. Nobody bothers ya up there.” He looks at you, a silent question in his eyes, as if offering to share something personal.

“A rooftop sounds perfect,” you say softly. “And tonight, maybe? If you’re not too tired.”

“Adrenaline’s still kinda pumpin’, actually.” He pauses, then adds, “Tonight sounds … yeah. Good.” He hesitates then, his gaze dropping for a second before meeting yours again, earnest and a little vulnerable. “I ain’t exactly a pro at this whole datin’ thing. Just so ya know. Might mess it up.”

“You won’t mess it up.” You squeeze his hand. “We can just … be. Talk. Look at the stars. No pressure. The most important part is just being together, right?”

His eyes soften, the last vestiges of his tough-guy guard seeming to melt away in the quiet intimacy of his room. “Yeah,” he breathes. He lifts your joined hands, his gaze fixed on yours, and slowly, he brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss there. “Tonight, then.”

“Tonight,” you echo, your heart swelling.

He holds your gaze for another long moment. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he lets go of your hand on his cheek, though he keeps your other hand firmly in his. “I should, uh … probably clean up a bit more. Before we … y’know.” He gestures vaguely at himself, looking a little self-conscious.

“Take your time,” you say, giving his hand a final squeeze before slowly withdrawing yours. You pick up your sketchbook, a warm feeling spreading through your chest. “I’ll wait out on the couch.”

“Won’t be long.”

You return to the communal area and find your perch on the couch again, giddy as you replay the last hour in your mind. Thinking of the feel of his hand in yours, the tenderness in his eyes, the brush of his lips. You open your sketchbook, flipping back to the portrait of Raph. It’s still unfinished. But in a way, that feels right. There’s more to him yet to draw, more to learn, more layers to peel back.

And tonight, under the stars, maybe you’ll start to uncover them.

[milykins]

Music video link for Dog Days Of Summer song. Thank you again to #adebouchedsloth for letting me use their wonderful artwork.

[milykins]

@margoteve requested Rise Raph.

[milykins]

The Harmonic Equation (Pt.3 A Song For Two)

Story Prompt: “Turtle Song”

Donatello x Fem!Reader - Soulmate Song AU - Action/Romance

Masterlist

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Find the full series on AO3.

Trigger Warning: In this chapter there is smut, here there be cloacas and the naughties, if you don't like that, don't read!

Previous Chapter: Chapter Two: "Harmonic Anomaly"

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Three: “A Song For Two”

The light in the lab is different in the morning.

Softer. Less like electricity, more like memory.

You blink awake on a couch that was clearly meant for short naps and stubborn backs. The throw pillow under your head smells like dust and solder and something distinctly Donnie- like worn cotton, circuitry, and quiet focus. Your limbs ache, but not in a way that begs for movement. It’s a held ache. A waiting one.

When you sit up, he’s already awake.

Not hunched over blueprints, not lost in a glowing screen, not muttering to himself in technobabble like he sometimes does when his brain refuses to sleep. Just sitting. Nearby.

Perched on a lab stool like he’s been there all night.

Like he didn’t leave.

Like he couldn’t.

He’s watching you. Not with intensity or expectation- but with the same curiosity he uses to study something just on the edge of understanding. As if the longer he looks, the clearer you’ll become.

“Morning,” he says, quietly.

You return it just as soft.

There’s a silence that follows. Not awkward, exactly. But fragile. Like sound might break it into pieces you’d have to name.

He’d stayed up after you’d drifted off, barely daring to breathe as your weight settled against him like a warm constant. Every movement he made had been careful. Every sound, muted. He’d worked one-handed, scrolling through notes with his free fingers while the other rested lightly against your back, like anchoring you would keep the moment from dissolving.

Now, with morning in the air and your eyes on him, that silence has thickened. Grown limbs. Wrapped itself around the both of you.

You stretch, trying not to draw attention to the way your spine cracks. “I should probably head home soon. Feed the cat. Check emails.”

He nods, but it’s a few seconds late.

“Yeah,” he says, shifting on the stool. “Yeah, of course.”

But neither of you moves.

The lab’s warmth feels like it’s holding you in place. Or maybe it’s just him. Still seated, still looking like something unsaid is caught in his throat.

You glance at the cot. Then back to him.

“Did you sleep?”

He gives a little shrug. “Define sleep.”

“Donnie…”

“I rested. A little.”

You raise an eyebrow, but don’t push. You’ve both learned to speak in subtext. And right now, it says enough that he stayed. That he let himself stay.

You stand, finally. And he follows suit like your movement pulled him.

At the door, you pause.

You don’t know what you expect- maybe for him to say something. Or maybe for you to turn around and do something reckless, like kiss his cheek. Or take his hand.

Instead, you glance back and find him watching you again.

Still with that look in those soft hazel eyes.

Still listening for something in the quiet.

“I’ll come by later,” you say.

He nods. And this time, he answers faster.

“I’ll be here.”

The door seals with a low, hydraulic hush behind you.

Donatello doesn’t move for a long time after you’re gone.

The lab is quieter now. Not just in sound, but in presence. You took something with you when you left- something he doesn’t know how to name but feels in every unoccupied space.

He crosses to the couch without really thinking and stares down at the spot where you slept. The pillow is slightly dented. A single hair clings to the fabric. He picks it up carefully, stares at the strand like it’s data he could decode.

You’d fallen asleep on him.

Without fear. Without hesitation. Your body had trusted his, even in rest.

He lowers himself slowly onto the cot beside the pillow, lets one hand hover just above where your head had been. Not touching- just feeling the heat you left behind. Like the molecules haven’t caught on yet that you’re gone.

It should be simple, right? Human girl falls asleep in lab. Turtle man stays up and watches her sleep like a weirdo. Human girl wakes up and leaves. Life goes on.

So why does his chest feel full of static?

Why does he ache with the absence of a sound he doesn’t remember hearing?

He closes his eyes.

He tries to slow his breathing, tries to feel the shape of the moment without over-analyzing it. That’s what Leo would say: “Be still. Let it speak.”

But it’s not still. Not inside. There’s something humming under his skin like an unfinished circuit. A resonance.

He rubs at the side of his neck, presses into the muscle, trying to ground himself. Science first. Always. But this doesn’t feel like science. It feels like…

Emotion.

Or maybe- worse… myth.

He finds Splinter in the meditation room.

The light is dim and warm, the air faintly thick with sandalwood incense. Splinter is seated cross-legged, hands folded in his lap, eyes closed.

Donnie hesitates at the edge of the threshold.

“Sensei?” he asks, voice lower than usual. Uncertain. Not the usual data-seeking confidence, but something smaller, more fragile.

Splinter’s eyes open slowly. He studies his son in that quiet way he always does- like he’s already seen the questions waiting behind his tongue.

“Come sit, my son.”

Donnie moves in, stiff with conflicted energy, and lowers himself to the floor. He doesn’t fold his legs. Just sits, hands twitching restlessly.

“I need to ask about the Song.”

Splinter nods like he’s been expecting this.

“Ah.”

“That’s it? ‘Ah’?”

“I wondered when you would feel it.”

That hits like a punch. Donnie’s brow ridges shoot up.

“Feel it?” he repeats, already defensive. “I haven’t felt anything. I just- look, I’m experiencing some very specific auditory anomalies in the presence of a certain individual and I-”

“You hear her.”

Donnie stops. Blinks.

“…What?”

Splinter lifts his hand, taps two fingers to his own chest.

“The Song is not always heard with the ears, my son.”

“Okay, well, that’s… no. See, that’s the problem. That’s the part that doesn’t make sense. You told us that was just an old story. A fable. Something to help us feel less… alone.”

Splinter smiles gently.

“I told you the truth. You simply did not believe it.”

He remembers a moment, years ago. He’d overheard Leo snort at the concept, brushing it off like romance novel fluff. Raph had called it “Mate Bait.” Mikey had howled with laughter.

Donnie had been silent. Not because he believed- but because a small, traitorous part of him had wanted to.

And that part had quietly shut down when the others mocked it.

“And now?” Splinter asks softly.

Donnie shifts, uncomfortable.

“Now I… now I think I might be broken.”

That earns a chuckle from Splinter, dry and full of paternal warmth.

“You are not broken, Donatello. You are awakening.”

“Please don’t say it like that.”

“You seek logic, and I understand. But not all things that are real can be measured. Some truths live beyond proof.”

Donnie drags a hand down his face, muttering something unrepeatable under his breath.

Splinter’s expression sobers slightly.

“You fear this connection. Why?”

“…Because if it’s real,” Donnie says slowly, “then I don’t get to control it.”

“And if it is real,” Splinter murmurs, “you are not meant to.”

Donnie leaves conflicted- curious, unsettled, deeply unready to name what’s happening. But there’s no going back to silence now.

The Song has started.

The lab is quiet again, save for the rhythmic tap of Donnie’s fingers against his desk. His other hand is curled around a mug of coffee that’s long gone cold. The screen in front of him displays a waveform- your waveform, frozen mid-pulse, like a heartbeat caught between beats.

He’s been staring at it for hours.

Tracing the peaks and valleys with his eyes, memorizing the way it dips and rises like breath. Like life.

Splinter’s words echo in his skull, unwelcome and persistent.

"You are not meant to."

He exhales sharply through his nose, fingers tightening around the mug.

He’s a scientist. A rationalist. A man who builds his world out of logic and wires and code. He doesn’t do fate. Doesn’t believe in predestined connections or cosmic pull or- god help him… soulmates.

And yet-

And yet…

There’s no denying the way his pulse stutters when he hears you hum. The way his skin prickles with awareness when you’re near. The way his body reacts to you like it’s been waiting for this- for you all along.

He sets the mug down with a quiet clink and leans back in his chair, rubbing at his temples.

This is ridiculous. He should be able to logic his way out of this. Should be able to dissect it, analyze it, understand it.

But every time he tries, his thoughts scatter like static.

A soft chime from his gauntlet pulls him from his spiraling. A notification- a proximity alert. You’re here.

His breath catches.

He should stay seated. Should act casual. Should pretend he hasn’t spent the last six hours obsessing over the sound of your voice.

Instead, he’s on his feet before he even realizes he’s moved, crossing the lab in long strides.

The door slides open before you can knock.

You blink up at him, surprised, your hand still half-raised. “Oh. Hi.”

He swallows. “Hi.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then-

“You okay?” you ask, tilting your head slightly. “You look... tense.”

He exhales, shoulders dropping just a fraction. “I’m fine. Just... thinking.”

“About?”

About you.

But he doesn’t say it.

Instead, he offers a faint shrug and gestures vaguely toward the bench cluttered with circuit boards and data pads. “Just a few things I’ve been troubleshooting. The usual.”

You nod, stepping inside, letting the door hiss closed behind you. The soft chime echoes like punctuation on the lie neither of you names.

It’s business as usual. Supposedly.

You circle the table like always, scanning the updates on the latest build. He pretends to be absorbed in recalibrating a sensor array. You point out a minor error in his thermal mapping code. He corrects it with a tight-lipped “good catch,” not quite meeting your eyes.

Everything is normal.

Except it isn’t.

You feel it. A low-level buzz just beneath your skin. Your chest is a little too tight. Your limbs are a little too loose. Like gravity itself has shifted a degree to the left and no one else noticed.

And he’s humming.

Softly. Absentmindedly. Just under his breath.

At first, you don’t register the tune- it’s so faint, so woven into the ambiance of him that it’s easy to miss. But then-

Then your body reacts before your brain can catch up.

Your breath hitches. Knees falter. Something low and warm pulses in your chest like it’s been waiting, listening, for that exact frequency.

Donnie doesn’t notice at first. He’s mid-adjustment, brows furrowed over a lens readout. But he must feel the shift in the air- because his fingers still, his humming cuts off abruptly, and he turns toward you.

You’re staring at him.

He straightens. “What?”

You blink rapidly. Swallow hard. “That- uh. That song. Just now. What was it?”

His brow ridges lift faintly. “Nothing. Just… something stuck in my head. Background noise.”

You shake your head slowly, expression distant. “No. That wasn’t background noise. That was… familiar.”

A moment passes. Two. Then-

“Do you… hear it too?” you ask, voice low, not entirely steady.

The question freezes him. Entirely. Like you just dropped a magnetic pulse that shorted out every signal in his system.

His lips part. No sound comes out.

He’s silent long enough that you almost retract. Almost say never mind. Almost chalk it up to stress and leave it alone.

But then-

“…Yes.”

One word. Barely breathed.

His eyes meet yours like he’s terrified and relieved all at once. And it’s there- undeniable now. That resonance. That deep, bone-level recognition like something ancient has just clicked into place.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment.

Then, cautiously, voice barely above a whisper, he says, “It’s… not just you. I’ve been hearing it all my life, it’s gotten stronger since I’ve met you. In my head. In the air. When you’re near. And when you’re not, I-” He falters. Exhales. “It doesn’t stop.”

Your heart thunders in your chest. “I thought I was imagining it.”

“You weren’t.” He steps closer, slowly, like you’re a perimeter he doesn’t want to breach too fast. “I didn’t want to bring it up. I thought maybe it was… residual harmonic interference from your voiceprint. Or a brain loop. Or stress. Or maybe I was just-”

“Broken?” you supply quietly.

He stops in his tracks.

“…Yeah,” he says, barely audible.

You step closer. Now you’re both inside each other’s orbits. Within inches.

“I don’t think you’re broken,” you whisper.

He breathes out a laugh. It’s tight. Disbelieving. “No? Because I feel like I’ve been hacked by the universe and nobody left me a manual.”

You smile faintly. “Me too.”

Another moment passes.

And then, almost too soft to hear:

“I think it’s the ‘Turtle Mate Song’.”

His gaze locks with yours. Vulnerable. Unmasked. Searching.

You incline your head, confused. “I don’t understand.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, fingers flexing at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for you. "It's... an old myth. Something Splinter told us when we were kids. That our kind- mutant turtles, have a... a song. A vibration. A frequency only our true mate can hear." His voice drops, rough with disbelief. "I thought it was just a story."

Your breath catches.

The air between you hums with something electric.

Donnie watches you process this, his expression tight with tension. "I know how it sounds. Believe me, I've run every test I could think of to disprove it. But the data-" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "The data keeps pointing back to this. To you."

You swallow hard. "So what does that mean?"

He steps closer. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his plastron. Close enough that his breath ghosts over your face when he speaks.

"It means," he murmurs, voice thick with something primal, "you're mine."

The words shouldn't send a thrill down your spine.

But they do.

His large hands come up to cradle your face, his touch impossibly gentle despite the possessive hold. "And if this is real- if you are my mate- then I need you to understand something." His thumbs stroke along your cheekbones, his gaze burning into yours. "I won't let you go. Not ever."

A shiver wracks your body.

Donnie's nostrils flare, his pupils dilating at your reaction. "Say it," he demands, voice dropping an octave. "Say you understand."

You whimper. "I understand."

His grip tightens fractionally. "Good."

And then his mouth crashes down onto yours in a kiss that feels less like affection and more like claiming.

You melt against him with a moan, your fingers tangling in the straps of his tech gear as he devours you. His tongue swipes along the seam of your lips, demanding entry, and you grant it without hesitation.

The lab fades away.

There is only Donnie- his taste, his scent, the possessive rumble vibrating through his chest as he pins you against the nearest surface. His hands roam your body with single-minded intent, mapping every curve like he's committing you to memory.

His hands are everywhere at once- gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, tracing the dip of your waist before dragging you flush against him. The hard press of his plastron against your chest makes your breath stutter, and when his teeth scrape lightly over your bottom lip, you gasp into his mouth.

Donnie’s chest rumbles at the sound, low and possessive, his fingers tightening in your hair as he angles your head to deepen the kiss. His other hand slides down to grip your thigh, lifting you up effortlessly until your legs wrap around his waist. He carries you like you weigh nothing, pressing you back against the lab table with a thud that sends tools clattering to the floor.

The noise barely registers.

His mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue stroking against yours in a rhythm that has your pulse hammering. You can feel the evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against you, the thick ridge of his cock already swollen beneath his pants. The knowledge that he’s this aroused just from kissing you sends a fresh wave of heat pooling between your thighs.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are panting. His hazel eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with need, and his lips are slick from your kiss.

"Tell me you want this," he rasps, voice rough with restraint. "Tell me you want me."

You don’t hesitate. "I want you, Donnie. Please."

His breath hitches, and for a second, his grip on you tightens like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Then, with a sharp exhale, he leans in again, his lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, "Then you’ve got me, sweetheart. All of me."

His teeth graze your earlobe, and you shudder, arching into him with a whimper.

Donnie doesn’t waste another second.

One hand slides under your shirt, calloused fingers skimming up your ribs before palming your breast. His thumb flicks over your nipple, and you gasp, your back bowing off the table. He does it again, slower this time, rolling the stiff peak between his fingers until your breath comes in short, desperate pants.

"Donnie-"

"Shh," he soothes, even as his other hand slips between your bodies to undo the button and zipper of your jeans. "I’ve got you."

He does. In every way that matters.

The sound of your pants sliding down your thighs is swallowed by the hush that’s settled over the lab, the air thick with a hum not quite heard but felt. Like standing beneath a power line in a thunderstorm, or hearing the faint buzz of old filament bulbs warming. But it’s not the room vibrating- it’s you. It’s him. Resonating in tandem, twin frequencies tuning into a single wavelength.

You see it in his eyes as he drinks you in, amber-flecked and wide, stunned in a way that no calculation could account for. He looks down at you like you’re quantum entanglement made flesh- an impossibility rendered intimate. His mouth parts slightly, like he might speak, but all that comes out is your name. A whisper, reverent. Worshipful.

“You’re still humming,” he says, voice thick with wonder. His fingertips skate gently across your hipbones, then rise to splay across your belly like he’s feeling the music from the inside out. “It’s not just in my head. It’s you.”

You nod, breath catching. It’s in your chest too- your pulse syncing to his like a second heartbeat.

He exhales shakily, resting his forehead to yours. “I’ve never… I didn’t think I’d get this. Not in this life. Not like this.”

One of his large hands rises to cup your jaw, thumb sweeping just beneath your eye like he’s memorizing every point of contact. His voice drops, a hush of a confession.

“It’s like you were written for me.”

Your breath hitches as Donnie’s hand ghosts along the hem of your underwear, but he doesn’t rush. He’s looking at you like he’s reading a star chart, like every inch of your skin is part of a long-lost equation he’s finally solving.

“I want to see you,” he murmurs, voice roughened by restraint.

“All of you. May I?”

The question is soft, but the way he’s breathing says he’s starving for the answer. When you nod, his lips twitch with emotion. With trembling fingers, he slides the fabric down, his eyes tracking every new inch of exposed skin like it might vanish if he looks away.

When you're bare before him, he doesn’t move right away- just looks. Takes you in like a miracle he never dared name.

“Perfect,” he whispers, mostly to himself.

Then, slowly, he shifts his weight back, one hand loosening his belt with practiced ease, the other still cupping your thigh like it grounds him.

His lower plastron flexes at the seams. His tail comes up beneath, the cloacal slit on his tail thickens with heat, flushed and twitching, already glistening with arousal.

You watch as the lips of his cloaca flex and quiver- sensitive, hungry, and Donnie shudders like he’s trying to restrain himself from vanishing into the floor.

“Donnie…” you whisper, breath catching.

He makes a sound- half whimper, half reverent groan, and leans in to press a trembling kiss to your shoulder.

“I- sorry, I’ve never… I mean, not with anyone. No one’s ever seen this part of me before,” he says, voice barely audible, full of awe and disbelief.

Your fingers brush gently along the slick folds of his cloaca, slow and reverent, and he trembles. His thighs flex involuntarily. His hands tighten on your hips.

Then- oh.

Something shifts.

A low moan breaks from his chest as his cloacal lips part further, and you feel it before you see it- his length beginning to emerge, thick and glistening, pushing forward from within.

His cock reveals itself in slow, aching inches- fleshy, flushed dark and pearled at the tip, ridged with subtle texture, distinct but undeniably him. Almost biomechanical in its uniqueness, shaped by evolution, purpose, and desire.

“Oh, my god…” you breathe.

Donnie’s face is flushed a deep plum, his breathing ragged.

“I-I know it’s a lot,” he says, voice cracking. “It’s different, but- please don’t stop.”

You don’t. You couldn’t if you tried.

You reach for him, fingers brushing down the length of his now fully unsheathed cock, and his entire body arches like he’s been hit with a current. His moan is wrecked, animalistic, echoing off the walls.

“Beautiful,” you murmur, meaning every syllable. “You’re beautiful.”

His eyes flutter shut like the words physically struck him.

“I only ever wanted one person to see me like this,” he rasps, voice torn and trembling. “And it’s you.”

You smile up at him, soft and certain, like a vow.

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

He swallows hard. His eyes shine like he's barely holding himself together.

“God, sweetheart…” His voice fractures into something raw. “You don’t- you don’t know what that does to me.”

“I think I do,” you murmur, trailing kisses along his throat, the curve of his shoulder, the rim of his plastron. Each one draws another choked sound from his lips.

You take his hand and guide it between your legs.

He goes willingly- tender, reverent, as his fingers slide through the slick heat of you, gathering it up like treasure. He moves slowly at first, then more confidently, circling and stroking, matching the rhythm of your breathing, the gentle rock of your hips.

Then… the moment shifts.

The pull between you intensifies, quiet anticipation giving way to certainty. You shift beneath him, spreading your legs further, guiding his hips into alignment with your own.

And when he moves closer, you feel it- his cock brushing against you in passing, leaving you hypersensitive, and twitching as he’s hot against your folds. It’s not the point of entry, not yet anyway, but the touch of it sends a current through you both.

It’s warm. Wet. Alive with electrical charge. A conduit of shared sensation.

The contact is brief, but seismic.

Donnie gasps, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Oh- oh my stars…” he chokes.

Then, with a trembling breath, he rocks his hips forward- and you feel him.

His cock- thick, flushed, him, pressing into your entrance with aching slowness. The stretch is sublime, delicious, as your body opens to receive him. He slides in deep, inch by inch, guided by instinct and your hands on his hips.

“You’re-” he gasps, face buried in the crook of your neck. “I’m inside you… I can feel you…”

And he can. Every pulsing, perfect squeeze of you around him. Every tremor of your muscles. And beneath it all, the constant, quivering press of his cloaca against you- slick and trembling, alive with the symphony of this shared joining.

Your bodies don’t just fit- they sing. A duet of wet friction and soul-deep resonance. His breath stutters as he bottoms out inside you, hips pressed flush, every inch of him trembling with restraint.

You’re flooded with sensation- his thickness stretching you, his cloaca twitching against your folds, that deep, shivering rightness that makes your whole body light up like circuitry catching fire.

“You were made for me,” he murmurs against your skin, awestruck.

And just as reverently, you whisper, “So were you.”

You shift your hips, just a little- enough to draw a sound from him that’s raw, unguarded.

“Do it again,” he pleads, voice thready. “Please… don’t stop-”

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him deeper into the rhythm, into you. Fingers map the lines of his carapace, his arms, his shoulders- memorizing him just as his hands chart you, mouth pressing desperate kisses along your clavicle, your jaw, your lips.

You move together in a rolling, sensual pulse, every breath synced.

No longer two.

Just one.

You find the rhythm together- slow, deliberate, the slide of him within you like a tide coming in. Each thrust is unhurried, reverent, as if he’s trying to learn every contour of your body from the inside out.

His forehead rests against yours.

Your breaths are shared.

Sweat beads at his temples, gathers along the curve of your throat.

The sounds you make are soft at first- gasps, sighs, the wet press of bodies moving in sync. But the deeper he moves, the more he lingers in that perfect stretch, the more those sounds come: broken moans and sharp exhales. His name- whispered like worship.

Donnie trembles.

“You feel…” he groans, the words failing him as his hips rock forward again, deeper, smoother. “…like heaven, sweetheart.”

His cock glides against your walls with exquisite friction, dragging over every tender, greedy nerve. And each time his hips meet yours, you feel that extra jolt- his cloaca, flush and sensitive, kissing your folds in a rhythm all its own, like a second heartbeat against your most secret place.

That dual stimulation sings through you- body and soul, primal and cosmic.

“I can’t-” he pants, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wild now. Pupils blown. Mouth parted. “I can’t hold back much longer, I- please…”

“Then don’t,” you whisper, clutching him tighter. “Let go.”

That’s all it takes.

His restraint shatters.

Donnie growls- low and guttural, pulled from somewhere deeper than language, and buries himself in you with a force that makes the air leave your lungs. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, anchoring you as he begins to move- no longer with practiced gentleness, but with unfiltered hunger.

Each thrust hits home. Deeper. Harder. Perfect.

Your back arches, mouth falling open in a cry as he slams into that sweet, devastating place inside you. Your bodies slap together in a hot, wet symphony, a tempo driven by instinct and pure, carnal need.

The cloacal contact becomes frenzied- slippery, slick friction that heightens everything, amplifies each thrust until your nerves are lit up like exposed wires. The suction, the pressure, the drag- it’s maddening.

You claw at his shoulders, leave subtle crescent moons in his scales.

“Donnie… God, Donnie-”

“I’ve got you,” he grits, voice torn and tender all at once. “I’m not stopping. You need this. I need this. Say it- say you’re mine-”

“I’m yours,” you cry, body arching into his. “I’ve always been yours-”

Something breaks loose in him. The rhythm falters, grows frantic. He growls into your throat, teeth grazing skin. And still, he fucks you- deep and claiming, his whole body shaking with the intensity of it.

You're so close you can taste it.

And when it crashes over you- when your climax hits, it’s blinding. A rush of white-hot pleasure that arcs through you like lightning. You convulse around him, gasping his name, your body trembling in his arms.

Donnie follows with a strangled shout, thrusting deep one final time as he spills into you, warmth flooding you as his cock pulses inside. His cloaca trembles, too- still pressed against you, still pulsing with aftershock after aftershock, like the echoes of a cosmic event.

For a moment, there’s nothing but breath.

Yours. His. Tangled.

The scent of sex. The burn of exertion. The sacred silence of being seen and still held close.

And then his arms are wrapping around you, holding you like you’re made of starlight. His cheek pressed to yours, breath damp and shuddering.

“You’re my everything,” he whispers.

And you whisper back:

“So are you.”

The lab is quiet now, save for the sound of your mingled breaths and the occasional soft hum of machinery in standby mode. Donnie hasn’t moved from where he’s draped over you, his plastron pressed to your chest, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His weight is comforting, grounding- like the world outside this moment doesn’t exist.

His fingers trace idle patterns along your ribs, slow and reverent, as if memorizing the rise and fall of your breathing.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion and something deeper- something tender.

You nod, your fingers dragging over the scales at the nape of his neck. “More than okay.”

A quiet rumble vibrates through his chest- contentment, satisfaction, something wordless and warm. He shifts just enough to press a kiss to your collarbone, lingering there for a long moment before exhaling sharply through his nose.

“I should probably... clean us up,” he mutters, though he makes no move to actually do so.

You laugh softly, running your hands down the ridges of his shell. “In a minute.”

He hums in agreement, nuzzling against you.

And then-

A sharp, sudden click from the lab’s main console.

Donnie stiffens.

The screen flickers to life, displaying a single line of text in bold, red letters:

[INTRUDER ALERT: SECURITY BREACH DETECTED]

His head snaps up, eyes narrowing.

“...What?”

The console beeps again, this time flashing a live feed from the security cameras- a shadowy figure moving through the tunnels just outside the lair.

Donnie’s expression hardens.

“Oh, hell no.”

He’s on his feet in an instant, grabbing his tech-bo from where it leans against the wall. His movements are fluid, practiced- despite the fact that he’s still half-naked and glistening with sweat.

You sit up, blinking. “Donnie-?”

He turns back to you, jaw set. “Stay here.”

“But-”

“Stay here,” he repeats, voice firm but not unkind. Then, softer, “I’ll be right back.”

And with that, he’s gone- vanishing. The lab door hisses shut behind him, leaving you alone in the sudden silence. The air still hums with the lingering energy of what just happened- your skin still tingles where he’d touched you, your body still warm and heavy with satisfaction.

But now there’s something else, too.

A prickle of unease.

You sit up fully, glancing at the security feed still flashing on the screen. The figure is closer now- hooded, masked, moving with deliberate precision.

And then-

A voice crackles over the comms.

"Donnie?" It’s Leo’s voice, tense. "We’ve got company. Foot Clan scouts, looks like. They’re poking around the east tunnels."

Donnie’s response is immediate, clipped. "On it, Leo."

A moment passes. Then-

"...Why do you sound out of breath?"

"Not. Now. Leo."

The comm cuts off.

You bite your lip, torn between staying put, like he’d asked, and following him, because hell no are you letting him face danger alone after what you’d just shared.

Then-

A shadow shifts in the doorway.

Your breath catches.

But it’s not Donnie.

It’s-

"Well, well. Looks like I interrupted something interesting."

A masked figure steps into the lab, arms crossed. Their voice is smooth, amused.

And behind them-

Two more.

Foot Clan.

Shit.

You scramble off the table, covering yourself with your discarded shirt, then grabbing the nearest thing that could pass as a weapon, a soldering iron, because why not?

The lead ninja tilts their head. "Cute. But let’s not make this messy, yeah?"

Your grip tightens.

"Touch her," a voice growls from the shadows, "and I’ll dismantle you joint by fucking joint."

Donnie steps back into the room, tech-bo crackling with energy, eyes burning with fury.

The Foot ninjas pause- just for a heartbeat.

But that’s all Donnie needs.

With a snarl he rarely lets slip, he lunges forward, staff singing through the air like a live wire. The lead ninja doesn’t even get a chance to blink before Donnie’s bo connects with their sternum, sending them flying back into a bank of monitors with a sickening crack.

“Donnie!” you cry, your voice both a warning and a prayer as the other two close in, weapons drawn.

Donnie’s already turning, body moving like a current of voltage and vengeance. He ducks the first strike, sweeps low, takes one ninja’s legs out from under him- and just as the second raises his blade to strike-

“YEEAAAHHHHH!”

Mikey explodes through the lab’s ceiling vent with a whoop, landing like a sugar-high meteor. He swings his nunchaku in a blur, catching the second ninja in the temple with a whack so loud you wince.

“Bro, were you two boning when the alarm went off?” Mikey grins mid-spin. “Because damn, talk about bad timing-”

“MIKEY!” Donnie snaps, dodging a throwing star. “Focus!”

“Right, right! No judging! Just kickin’ ass!”

Another blur at the door, and suddenly Leo is there, katanas gleaming under the fluorescents. His entrance is pure ninja poetry- clean, silent, brutal. With two swift, calculated slashes, the remaining ninja is disarmed and disoriented.

You’re still standing near the wall, clutching your shirt to your chest, soldering iron shaking slightly in your grip. Your heart’s slamming against your ribs like it wants to break out and run.

That’s when you hear it.

The unmistakable stomp of someone not trying to sneak in.

The door bangs open- again.

“WHAT the actual fuck,” Raph bellows, storming in like a wrecking ball in red. “We leave you nerds alone for five minutes and-” He skids to a halt, eyes landing on you.

He blinks.

Sees the soldering iron. The shirt. The carnage. The scent in the air that is very clearly not just ozone.

“Oh,” he says slowly. “Ohhhh.”

“Raph-” Donnie warns, breath heaving, sweat beading across his brow. There’s blood on the edge of his staff. Not his.

Raph raises his hands, trying- and failing, to suppress a grin. “Hey. No judgment. Just sayin’, next time maybe lock the damn lab, genius.”

You groan, your face blazing red. “Can someone maybe hand me some pants before the next wave of goons shows up?”

Leo, ever the consummate gentleman, averts his eyes immediately and picks up your discarded pants, tossing them to you without a word. “We’re clear for now. But we’ve got chatter on the comms. That was a recon team.”

“They weren’t just poking around,” Donnie mutters, running a hand through his still-damp brow ridge. His eyes flick to you, sharp and calculating. “They bypassed our external motion sensors. Targeted the lab entry. Avoided the main rooms.”

Mikey frowns. “You’re saying this wasn’t random?”

“They were looking for something,” Donnie says. A moment passes and he looks at you again. “Or someone.”

You swallow hard, clutching your shirt tighter. “Why me?”

There’s another pause- just long enough to let the weight of it sink in.

Donnie hesitates, then exhales slowly, like he’s been dreading this. “Because you cracked the relay code a few days ago- the one we pulled off that stolen Foot drive.”

You blink. “The prototype schematics?”

He nods grimly. “Their weaponized AI project. You’re the only one who’s come close to decoding the language architecture. They must’ve found out.”

Mikey’s face hardens in a rare show of seriousness. “So they’re not just pissed.”

“They want her,” Donnie confirms, eyes burning with something primal. “Either to silence her-” he steps closer, “-or to force her to finish the job for them.”

Mikey nudges Donnie with his elbow, trying to cut the tension. “Bro, if they were after her, they’re about to learn the hard way- nobody messes with Donatello’s girl.”

But Donnie doesn’t smile.

Not this time.

His eyes are locked on you. Serious. Protective. Possessive.

“No,” he says. “They won’t touch her again.”

Raph claps a hand on Donnie’s shoulder, hard. “Damn right they won’t. Not while we’re breathin’.”

You’re still trying to recover from the sudden whiplash of orgasm-to-invader-to-rescue-team, but some part of your mind registers what Donnie said.

Again.

Your eyes meet his.

There’s a storm brewing.

But this time-

You’ve got four walking weapons on your side.

💌 Author’s Note: This tale will continue in Raphael’s story: “The Feral Harmony”. 💋

Coming Soon...

Who loves TMNT, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @sophiacloud28, @redsrooftopprincess, @ninnosaurus, @iridescentflamingo, @adebauchedsloth, @eveandtheturtles, @thelaundrybitch, @tmnt-tychou, @milykins, @the-cauldron-witch

Masterlist

[milykins]

A Shot In The Dark -Chapter 51

Drinks at the bar, gonna need it Dance in the dark, if you feel it Just tryna start a conversation with you Maybe for once get the courage Known you for months still make me nervous What's holding me back I got nothing to lose

Thanks to @thelaundrybitch for the song recommendation!

Taglist:

@silverwatergalaxy @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @thelaundrybitch @luckycharms1701 @thepinkpanther83

@avery73 @the-cauldron-witch @redsrooftopprincess @iridescentflamingo @ninnosaurus

@milykins @yorshie @justalotoffanfiction @truffle-reblogs @adebauchedsloth

@raphsmuneca @theanonymousninja247 @leosgirl82

[milykins]

Oh! Happy birthday Mona!!! I would love to see the birthday girl in the bodyguard as with maybe two of her turtle body guards?

I am so sorry I never got to this from...Jeeze, last August. So you get a fully colored Bodyguard AU pic. And I put Raph in it since I know he's your favorite flavor. ;)

[milykins]

This drawing actually started as something different, but the Discord heathens (you know who you are) have infiltrated my brain, and it's Mother's Day so...here's Donnie with a baby, letting whoever mom is have a break.

[milykins]

I just wanted to post something as it'll be a while yet until I update Dog Days. Inspired by this Instagram video of a fireman getting out of his suspenders.

(FWIW, chapter 34 is pretty much done, but I gotta write a couple more first so I make sure shit matches up)

[milykins]

A Shot In The Dark - Chapter 48

We live and we learn To take one step at a time There's no need to rush It's like learning to fly Or falling in love (Just falling in love) It's gonna happen when it's supposed to happen Then we find the reasons why One step at a time

taglist:

@silverwatergalaxy @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @thelaundrybitch @luckycharms1701 @thepinkpanther83

@avery73 @the-cauldron-witch @redsrooftopprincess @iridescentflamingo @ninnosaurus

@milykins @yorshie @justalotoffanfiction @truffle-reblogs @adebauchedsloth

@raphsmuneca @theanonymousninja247 @leosgirl82