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stellaspectral · 1 day ago

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Could I request headcannons on how the rise! and 2012turtles would react to artist reader, who draws them for fun, is embarassed to admit it though but they catch a glimps of a drawing of them which they made? :)

A/N: Sure! 💖

Rise & 2012 Turts React to Artist!Reader

💚 ROTTMNT & 2012 Turtles/Gender Neutral Reader 💚

CWs: None. All characters are aged-up.

Rise!Leo

He’d spot your art with a smirk. “Well, well, well, what artistic endeavor are we hiding here?”

Once he realizes the artwork is of them, and especially him (hopefully in a dynamic, cool pose): “Oh ho ho! You’ve captured my good side! And my other good side!”

Finds it immediately hilarious and endearing. Like, “Aw, you’ve been drawing my perfect face this whole time?” 100% teases you about it but never in a mean way.

He’d absolutely lap up the attention, even if it’s accidental. He’d tease you good-naturedly about your “secret fan art.”

“Don’t be embarrassed! Clearly, you have excellent taste in subjects. Especially this handsome devil.” *finger guns*

Might start posing more dramatically around you “just in case” you want to draw him again. “You know, I am your muse now. That’s canon.”

Like he’ll dramatically fling himself onto the couch, “Oh, woe is me, struck by the sudden urge to be artistically rendered in a moment of heroic contemplation!” He’ll then wink.

Lowkey keeps checking your sketchbook when you’re not looking. Not to snoop—just in case you drew him again.

Rise!Raph

At first, upon seeing your art, he’d be like, “Huh? Whatcha got there?”

Once he sees it, especially if it’s a cool action shot of him looking heroic: “WHOA! Is that ME?! That looks SO COOL!”

He’d be genuinely impressed and flattered, not really understanding why you’re embarrassed. “Why hide this? It’s awesome!”

Raph will pretend he’s not paying attention, but he’ll definitely be flexing a bit more or holding his “cool big brother” stance a little longer if he thinks you might be drawing him.

Raph wouldn’t request, but if you drew a really good action sequence of him protecting his brothers, he’d stare at it for a long time with a big smile.

Gets all flustered but proud. Keeps sneaking peeks at your sketchbook like he doesn’t want to be caught doing it.

Sometimes acts nonchalant, but if you show him a drawing you’re proud of, he gets super shy.

If you ever draw him looking soft or happy, he’ll stare at it longer than he means to. Those are the ones he secretly likes most.

Rise!Donnie

He’d approach your art with scientific curiosity. “An unauthorized artistic rendering? Intriguing.”

He’d analyze the style, the accuracy of his tech and the anatomical proportions. “Hmm, the depiction of my battle shell’s articulation is surprisingly accurate. Did you have reference material, or is this from memory?”

He’d be genuinely impressed by the skill, even if his compliments sound a bit clinical. He might subtly suggest improvements for “technical accuracy” next time.

Probably starts asking technical questions about your process before realizing you’re blushing like mad. “Wait, you’re embarrassed? But you … nailed my jaw structure.”

Donnie might “casually” start working on a particularly intricate piece of tech nearby, angling it so you get a “good view of its complex inner workings, should you choose to document it.”

Donnie might offer to 3D print little maquettes of them for you to use as reference. “It would improve anatomical accuracy by at least 15%, though your current observational skills are, frankly, quite impressive.” He’d also be fascinated if you drew their mystic powers, analyzing how you interpret non-physical energy.

Starts leaving small upgrades for your drawing supplies—new pens, sketchpads, even a custom-built stylus if you’re digital.

Might ask if he can scan your sketches into his files for “data preservation.” (It’s 100% just because he wants to look at them.)

Rise!Mikey

Pure, unadulterated excitement upon seeing your art. “O! M! G! Is that US?! You DREW us?!”

He’d be bouncing off the walls, absolutely thrilled. “This is the COOLEST THING EVER! Look at me, I look so dynamic! And the colors!”

He’d be the most understanding of your shyness but also the most enthusiastic about getting you to share. “Aww, don’t hide it! This is amazing!”

Would probably hug you and the drawing (if you let him).

Mikey is your hype-man. He’d also try to “collaborate” by adding his own doodles or stickers to your sketchbook page if you let him (and sometimes if you don’t).

Wants to see every single page. Will not drop it even if you’re begging him not to look.

Might tape one of the sketches to the wall in the lair, claiming it’s “museum-worthy.”

Starts calling himself your “muse supreme” or “artspiration.”

2012!Leo

Sees the sketch accidentally while helping you pick up something. His leader instincts would kick in. “What’s this?”

Once he sees it’s them: a moment of surprise, then a small, almost imperceptible smile. “You … you drew us?”

He’d be quite touched. “This is … very good. You’re very talented.”

He’d be gentle about your embarrassment. “There’s no need to be ashamed. It’s clear you put a lot of effort into this.”

He’d appreciate the gesture deeply, seeing it as a sign of your trust and friendship, but might subtly ask if you’ve shown anyone else.

Leo might “coincidentally” practice his katana forms where you have a good vantage point, holding poses slightly longer. If you look up and catch his eye, he’d offer a small, encouraging nod before resuming.

“You drew me … with my swords out. That’s … really cool. And kinda flattering.” He’s a little shy about it but tells you he likes it. Probably doesn’t mention it again unless you bring it up, but will treasure the mental image. Secretly hopes there’s more.

Also secretly keeps a folded version of your sketch in a book or drawer. Doesn’t talk about it much, but it clearly means a lot. He’ll defend your art fiercely if anyone downplays it.

2012!Raph

“Hey, what are you hidin’?” Gruff as usual when he spots your art, but still curious.

Sees the drawing. Eyebrow ridge raises. A beat of silence. “… Is that supposed to be me?”

At first, he might joke a little to hide how touched he is. “Could’ve made me buffer, but okay.” Gets a little red in the ears. “Thanks … for drawin’ me, I guess.”

If you made him look tough and cool, a tiny, almost invisible smirk might appear. He’d scoff at your embarrassment. “What, you think it’s bad or somethin’? It’s … not terrible.” (Which is high praise from him).

Might try to act like it’s not a big deal, but he keeps checking if you’ve drawn him again.

If you catch him staring at a drawing for too long, he’ll grumble, “It’s not like I asked you to draw me lookin’ cool …”

You notice he starts sticking around longer when you sketch, trying to act casual. And he might leave little “suggestions” like: “If you’re gonna draw me again, maybe this pose would be cool. Just sayin’.”

Once, after a hard mission, you gave him a sketch of him looking strong and protective. He kept that one.

2012!Donnie

His initial reaction is genuine curiosity. “Oh, what have you got there?”

His eyes would widen slightly upon seeing the drawing. “Fascinating! Is that … us? Your grasp of our unique physiology is quite impressive! Did you use references? This foreshortening is impressive.”

He’d be technically complimentary. But then he looks up and sees you looking like you’re about to evaporate and realizes—oh. You were keeping that private.

He’d be understanding of your embarrassment. “Oh, please don’t feel self-conscious! It’s a wonderful piece of art. Perhaps you could even help me design some new tech interfaces with your artistic eye?”

He’d probably ask if he could scan it to “analyze the artistic rendering techniques for his database.”

Donnie might start explaining the mechanics of his latest invention to you in more detail, “hoping you can visualize it.” A subtle hint for you to draw it.

Donnie would scan them at high resolution and keep them in a password-protected folder on his T-Phone, possibly analyzing your evolving style over time.

He’d love a drawing of you and him working on tech together. He might even frame it in his lab.

2012!Mikey

Upon seeing your art: “What’s that?! Ooh, a drawing!” Then his jaw would drop. “NO WAY! YOU DREW US?! THAT’S AWESOME-SAUCE!”

He’d be incredibly hyped, grabbing the drawing (gently!) to get a closer look.

You’re dying inside but he’s already flipping through your sketchbook. “Why didn’t you show me sooner?! We could’ve been an artist team! I model, you draw—BOOM.”

He’d be completely oblivious to why you’re embarrassed, or rather, he’d try to overwhelm your embarrassment with pure enthusiasm.

Would immediately start posing and asking you to draw him right now.

Mikey would have a “super-secret awesome art stash” hidden somewhere only he (and maybe Ice Cream Kitty) knows about.

Wants to hang the art in his room. Constantly asks when the next “issue” of “Mikey Art” is coming out.

If you ever get insecure about your art, he’ll hug you tight. “Dude. You made me look awesome. That’s, like, peak talent.”

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abbotjack · 7 days ago

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Happy Father’s Day, Jack

TLWG bonus chapter (part 4.5 : in between phase six and phase seven of sticky fingers, quiet mornings )

LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3

a/n : part two to the prequel is still in the works, but thought I'd offer this bonus chapter for you all! wc: roughly 2,300

Father’s Day begins exactly twelve minutes after Jack Abbot walks off a trauma floor that nearly broke him.

It’s 7:12AM.

Pittsburgh humidity clings to the porch railing like breath. The street’s quiet. A dog barks three houses down. Somewhere in the distance, a train rolls through, low and steady. Your windows are cracked open, just enough to let the air in, not the heat. You’ve already brewed the coffee. Toasted the waffles. Set out the card. Tucked her handprint painting between the sleeves of the new Steelers sweatshirt you bought him, folded carefully, placed right on the arm of the couch where he’d see it first. Everything’s ready. You’ve been up since six.

You’re wearing a pair of biker shorts and his old PTMC long sleeve, the sleeves pushed to your elbows, the neckline slouching over one shoulder. There’s a small smear of pink paint on your wrist from when she wouldn’t stop “signing” his card with the side of her fist last night.

The front door opens.

And then he’s there.

Jack Abbot. Black scrubs, soaked in overnight shift fatigue, shirt clinging at the collarbone, badge unhooked, stethoscope looped tight in one hand. His eyes are bloodshot. One shoulder visibly lower than the other, like the weight of the shift is still hanging off him.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sees you in the kitchen and stops like something hit him square in the chest.

You meet his eyes.

“Happy Father’s Day,” you say, quietly.

Jack blinks, stunned for half a second, then sets his stethoscope down like he forgot he was still holding it.

“You did all this?” he says, voice rough. “For me?”

You nod. “Of course I did.”

He rubs a hand down his face. “I was gonna pretend I didn’t care. Be chill about it.”

“You? Chill?”

“I had a speech ready.”

You look at him, curious. “For Father’s Day?”

Jack nods, smile barely there, just a flicker at the corner of his mouth, sleep still hanging off him like a second shift. He steps closer, the hem of his black scrubs brushing your hip as he leans against the counter. “Yeah. Figured you’d do something. Thought I’d try to be smooth. Say thanks, maybe kiss you slow. Try to talk you back into bed.”

You snort. “You practiced that in the trauma bay?”

He shrugs, cracking the faintest smile. “Tried. Didn’t get far. An intern asked me about marriage,” he says. “Like, dead-ass. During rounds. Whole hallway smells like blood and ketamine, and he goes, ‘Dr. Abbot, is it worth it?’”

You laugh under your breath. “And what’d you say?”

Jack’s hand comes to your waist, fingers curling in over the long sleeve's hem, thumb pressing into the soft skin of your hip like he’s grounding himself.

“I said—‘Imagine the worst shift of your life. Like, seven codes, backboarded GSW, a social worker crying in the supply closet, just hell. And you come home to someone who doesn’t ask anything from you. She’s just there. Coffee ready. Kid babbling in the crib. And you still get to love her like you’ve got time to spare.’”

Your throat tightens. “You said all that?”

He shrugs. “He’s lucky I was running on adrenaline. Any other time I’d have told him to shut the fuck up and chart.”

You grin. “That’s disgusting. I love you.”

“I love you more.” He tilts his head, eyes flicking down your body. “You wore this for me?”

“Maybe.”

“You trying to get me to cry or get me to fuck you?”

“Why not both?”

Jack groans softly and presses his forehead to your shoulder.

“I’m so tired,” he whispers. “And you’re making it worse.”

“I made waffles.”

“You’re trying to seduce me.”

“They’re heart-shaped.”

Jack mutters something against your skin that sounds like Jesus fucking Christ and then kisses your shoulder. Slow. Open-mouthed. Like he’s remembering you’re real.

Then—

Crackle.

The monitor hums. Both your heads turn.

And there it is.

“DAAA-DAAAA?”

Jack’s breath catches.

You wait.

Then her voice rises again, louder now, sweeter, almost like a song:

“DADA COME NOW. DADA COME.”

You glance up at him.

He’s frozen, eyes locked on the monitor. Silent. Like the sound cracked something open in him and he’s trying not to let it spill out.

Last year, she couldn’t even form the word. No teeth. No words. Just soft coos and gummy grins. Now she’s standing in her crib, gripping the rails, calling for him like he’s the whole damn sun.

You rest your palm over his chest. Feel the breath rise sharp beneath it.

“Go,” you murmur. “She’s been practicing. I caught her saying it to that photo in her room last night, the one of all three of us. She can see it from the crib.”

Jack nods. Doesn’t speak. Just takes one deep breath, like he’s bracing against the weight of it, and moves.

Then, just before he turns the corner, voice low without looking back:

“Don’t eat my waffles.”

You smirk. “No promises.”

You follow him down the hall. Quietly. The morning presses in around you like a held breath.

The nursery door swings open.

And your daughter, the light of your life, is standing in her crib, duck in one hand, hair in total disarray, cheeks flushed from sleep. She points at him like she’s been waiting her whole life for this exact moment.

“DADA.”

Jack drops to a knee like she shot him straight through the ribs. “Hi, bean,” he says, voice thick, eyes already glassing over. “I missed you.”

She lifts both arms like royalty, and he gathers her up like it’s instinct, like it’s oxygen. Her little body melts against his chest, warm and heavy with trust, her curls sticking to the collar of his wrinkled black scrubs. He holds her like he never wants to let go—but when he turns to you, it’s different. Deeper.

He looks at you like you hung the stars. Like this, this home, this child, this morning, is something he still can’t believe he gets to have. His eyes are wrecked. His voice rough with everything he never says out loud.

“Best thing we ever made.”

And when he looks at you, it’s not just tired. It’s bone-deep love. That look he only gives when he’s too exhausted to keep the walls up, when all that’s left is the truth. That he loves you. Fiercely. Silently. Constantly.

For one long, breathless moment, the house is still.

Jack Abbot. In black scrubs. A baby in his arms. His whole heart in yours. A Father’s Day that actually fucking means something.

And not a single part of him takes it for granted.

You cross to him and lower yourself beside them, curling into his side like it’s the only place that’s ever made sense. His arm slips around you instantly. She presses herself between you both with a possessive little grunt.

“Happy Father’s Day,” you whisper again.

Jack closes his eyes. Breathes you both in. And then, softly, without opening them:

“I love you”

You lean into his chest. “I love you too. You’re the best thing we’ve ever had.”

His voice is wrecked when he says it. “Don’t ever let me fuck this up.”

“You won’t,” you promise.

Later that night, 11:42PM.

It’s almost midnight.

The waffles are long gone. The handprint painting’s been magnet-pinned to the fridge, slightly crooked, beside a gas bill and a grocery list Jack added to earlier—diapers, more blueberries, get her favorite tea. The new Steelers sweatshirt he pulled on after his shower this morning still smells like soap and daughter. You caught him wearing it again after dinner, toddler in his arms, rocking on the back porch swing with her cheek pressed to his chest like she’d been waiting all day for that exact configuration of time, weight, and warmth.

She was asleep by 8:40. Out cold by 8:49.

He hasn’t put his ring back on since work, but it’s there, on the nightstand. Next to the baby monitor. Next to the small black leather album he still hasn’t opened.

You told him about it during dinner, leaned across the table while he was chewing and said, “There’s one more gift.”

He blinked, fork halfway to his mouth. “I already got three. The card, the sweatshirt, the painting…” He tapped the side of his head. “That’s three. I counted. You’re done.”

You smirked. “I’ll have you open it when we’re alone.”

Now you’re in bed. Jack’s walking out of the bathroom, threadbare navy shirt, boxer briefs riding low on his hips. He’s blinking slow like he’s still catching up with his own exhaustion. But when his eyes fall on the album, he pauses.

“You’re really gonna make me cry three times in one day?”

You smile, heart already racing. “Just open it.”

Jack squints, scrubs a tired hand down his face, and mutters something like I’m too fucking soft for this. He sits beside you. Turns the album over in his palm. His hand is rough from work. Tape residue, fading ink, a healing nick on his knuckle that you know came from a trauma room cabinet door he forgot was broken. His thumb lingers on the spine. He flips the first page.

And then—

“Jesus Christ.”

His voice goes flat. Then quiet. “Oh, fuck me.”

You don’t answer. Just watch the slow unravel.

Jack blinks. And then blinks again. His breath leaves him like he’s been punched straight in the solar plexus. His mouth opens, closes.

“Is this—are you—this is you?”

You smirk. “Don’t act like you don’t recognize your own wife.”

He flips another page. The flush spreads from his neck to his ears. There you are, posed in soft golden light, black lace barely covering anything. His dog tags around your neck. Your hands behind your back, wrapped in his tie. One shot with your fingers curled in the waistband of your panties, gaze sharp, hair mussed, lips parted like you’re waiting for him to step out of frame and ruin the rest of the photo.

Jack swears under his breath. “When—when did you do this?”

“Last week. Took a long lunch. Studio near the firm.”

He flips the page again, and stops cold. His breath stutters. His fingers tighten against the edge of the leather.

You’re wearing his sweatshirt. Not the clean, fresh one you gave him this morning, but his sweatshirt, the grey one with the faded army logo that still smells faintly like old detergent, sand and him. The same one he left on the bed the first night you ever stayed over, when he didn’t want to make it a whole thing but didn’t want you cold either.

And now—Christ.

The hem sits just below your hips, riding up higher on one side, exposing the curve of your ass like a secret you wanted him to find. Your back is arched, thighs tucked, feet flexed like you shifted into that position mid-movement—like you’d just climbed up and waited for him to follow.

Your face is half-hidden in your arms, cheek pressed to the mattress, but he can still see the soft part of your mouth. The barest hint of a smirk. The slope of your spine. The suggestion of everything just out of reach.

Jack exhales like he’s been sucker punched.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “That’s my sweatshirt.”

His voice cracks on the word my.

Jack shuts the album fast, like if he looks at one more page, he’ll fucking combust on the spot.

“I married you,” he says, voice hoarse. “I fucking married you.”

“You did.”

“I thought the waffles were gonna break me. The new sweatshirt, the painting—she said Dada—and I kept it together. Barely. And now...” His hand drags down his face again. “Now you’re pulling this shit?”

You crawl closer, hand on his thigh, voice low, “Happy Father’s Day.”

He stares at you. Then laughs once, quiet, pained, wrecked. “You’re actually trying to kill me.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

Jack turns to you. The look on his face is nothing short of reverent.

“Like it?” he repeats. “I want to frame every goddamn page. I want to staple it to the fridge. I want to show that intern from this morning what happens when you marry someone way too good for you.”

You laugh. “You wanna show him nudes?”

“I wanna show him you. I wanna show everybody.”

“Jack—”

“I’m so in love with you,” he breathes, voice low and wrecked, like it’s clawing its way out of his chest. “I walk around all night with blood on my shoes, palms aching from compressions, lungs full of hospital air, and all I do is think about you. Think about this house. Think about coming home. To waffles. To her. To you. To this life I don’t fucking deserve.”

You climb into his lap, slow and deliberate. His hands catch your hips without hesitation.

“I was trying to make this special.”

“You did,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “You made it sacred.”

You lean in, lips brushing his. “You gonna thank me properly?”

Jack doesn’t answer. He just kisses you, slow, deep, aching. Like gratitude and lust and years of knowing your body better than he knows his own. His hands slide up your back beneath the hem of your shirt. You’re not wearing anything underneath.

He swears again. Then flips you back against the pillows, his body blanketing yours in one fluid motion.

“I’m gonna spend the rest of the night worshipping you,” he says into your skin. “Starting now.”

And when he finally slips inside you, hot, deep, full-body groan into your mouth, there’s not a single thought left in his head but you.

The woman who made him a father.

The woman who still wants him.

The only thing that’s ever felt like home.

#scheduled post #the life we grew #tlwg #x reader #jack abbot fanfiction #jack abbot smut #jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot #dr abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x you #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader

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