#bayverse donatello | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

stellaspectral · 17 days ago

Text

Smitten Isn’t the Half of It (fluff)

💜 Bayverse Donatello/Female Reader 💜

A/N: Sequel to Shell Shocked and Smitten!

I’d normally post this type of story to AO3. However, since it’s a direct sequel to a request made here on Tumblr, I felt it was only right to share it with you all on this platform first. So please don’t mind the length; I really wanted to dig into Donnie and the reader’s relationship, build it up, and give it a (hopefully) satisfying resolution.

I’m dedicating this fic to @coffeemarie25 💜🐢

Enjoy!! 😊

CWs: Mostly fluff, with a later scene depicting some brief descriptive violence as well as harassment and verbal threats/intimidation. All characters are aged-up.

You wake up to the smell of coffee and the faint, unmistakable aroma of pizza leftovers.

Sunlight filters through the blinds in thin, uneven stripes. For a moment, you just lie there, cocooned in your blanket, trying to remember why your cheeks feel warm and your stomach feels weirdly fluttery. Then you remember the giant mutant turtles in your living room last night.

You sit up, squinting into the fuzzy void of your room. You reach for your glasses on the nightstand, put them on, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Outside, in the hallway, you hear movement. Light footfalls, like someone is trying very hard to move quietly.

You dress, pulling a casual loose sweatshirt over your tank top, and pad out of your room. You peek around the corner—and see Donnie in the kitchen. On the counter in front of him is what appears to be the busted electric kettle, completely disassembled, along with some tools.

“Oh,” you say, your voice still thick with sleep. “You’re doing surgery on the kettle.”

Donnie startles and looks up fast, glasses slipping down his snout, his eyes widening behind the lenses. “You’re awake! Uh, hi.” He waves—awkwardly, adorably—then glances at the kettle. “Yeah, sorry. April said it shorted out last week, and I thought I’d try to fix it while we were waiting for you to wake up. I didn’t mean to just … commandeer your countertop.”

You blink. “You brought tools?”

“Always,” he says. “Never know when you’ll need a micro-soldering iron.” There’s a few beats of silence, and then he says, “Your mascara’s not smudged this time.”

You blink. He looks immediately mortified, like his mouth opened before he could stop it.

“I—I didn’t mean that like that. I just—last night—I mean, not that you looked bad, you just looked … sad. But now you don’t. You look … better? Not that you didn’t look good before, because you did, I just meant—”

You hold up a hand, chuckling. “Donnie. Stop. It’s okay.”

He clamps his mouth shut and rubs at the back of his neck, clearly fighting the urge to disappear into his own shell. “April made coffee before she left for work,” he says, nodding towards the pot.

You head for the kitchen, grateful for the distraction—for both your sakes. “Coffee sounds great.”

You’re acutely aware of his presence, the sheer size of him filling your small kitchen. He’s hunched over the counter as he works. But even then, his shell brushes the bottom of the overhead cabinets. It’s a space clearly not built for six-foot-plus mutant turtles. You grab your favorite mug—the oversized one with a grumpy cat on it—and prepare your coffee.

Leaning your hip against the counter, you blow on the steam rising from the mug. “You always fix random appliances when you crash at someone’s place? Because I’ve got a blender that screams when I use it.”

He laughs softly, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “The screaming is probably a high-frequency oscillation from worn motor bearings,” he explains, not missing a beat. His long, three-fingered hands move with surprising dexterity, re-seating a tiny component inside the kettle’s base. “I could probably fix that, too. Might need to fabricate a new housing for the armature, though.”

You just stare at him, taking a sip of your coffee. “Right. Armature. So, is the patient going to live?” You gesture to the kettle.

A genuine, brilliant smile breaks out across his face. “Oh, definitely. It was just a blown thermal fuse connected to the auto-shutoff. Whoever designed this thing ran the wiring too close to the heating element’s primary coil. A simple design flaw, really. I’m rerouting it with some insulated wiring and replacing the fuse. It’ll be better than new.”

He says it all so fast, his hands gesturing excitedly, pointing out tiny components with the tip of a precision screwdriver. You lean in, utterly captivated. Not by the explanation—you didn’t understand a word after “thermal fuse.” But by the way his eyes light up, the way his voice loses its hesitant edge and gains a smooth, confident cadence.

He is completely in his element.

“You really love this stuff, don’t you?” you ask.

He pauses, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. “Yeah,” he says, his voice softer now. “Making things work. Figuring out the puzzle. It’s ... satisfying.” He picks up a small part with a pair of tweezers, his large hand impossibly delicate.

You watch his hands. They’re huge, powerful, covered in scaly green skin, and yet they move with the grace of a surgeon. A thought, unbidden and surprising, pops into your head: He has nice hands.

Before you can get any weirder, you hear your phone blaring its ringtone from your room. You jolt, nearly sloshing coffee over the rim of your mug. “Crap, sorry—hang on.” You set down the mug and hurry to your phone and check the ID: it’s your boss. You swipe to answer, pressing the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

“Hey, just checking if you’re still good for the meeting?” he says. “We moved it up to noon. Hope that’s not a problem.”

You wince; you’d forgotten all about it. “Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll be ready.”

“Great. Don’t forget the presentation slides.”

You mumble a thanks for the reminder and hang up. The second the call ends, your heart rate kicks up. Not from stress this time, but from the sudden realization that a very large, very genius turtle is still in your kitchen. You take a second to pull your hair up into a messy bun in the mirror before heading back out.

Donnie glances up when you return, head tilting just slightly like he’s checking your expression before asking, “Everything okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just work stuff. I’ve got a meeting soon.”

“Then I’ll get out of your hair. Just wanted to finish the kettle and—y’know, not be in the way.”

You open your mouth, then pause. In the way? The image of him at the counter, sleeves rolled (metaphorically) up, fingers busy and brow furrowed in concentration—it didn’t feel like in the way.

It felt like the opposite.

“You’re not,” you say before you can overthink it. “I mean, you’re not in the way. At all.”

He blinks at you, then lowers his gaze quickly, but not before you catch the shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks. That’s … nice to hear.”

After you finish your coffee, you rinse the mug out in the sink, hands working on autopilot while your mind spins in a thousand different directions—most of which are still stuck on the way Donnie smiled at you.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen that smile. He wore it last night too, right after you offered him a blanket and he pretended not to need one, even though it was obviously too cold in the living room. But this morning, in the clear light of day, it lands differently.

He lands differently.

You go back to your room to change. After throwing on a pair of slacks and a blouse, you swipe on a quick flick of eyeliner and check that your earrings match. You throw your laptop bag over your shoulder and head towards the apartment door with every intention of leaving for work.

But you hesitate, your hand hovering over the knob.

Your heart does that annoying thing again—light and fast, like it knows something you haven’t admitted to yourself yet. Work is waiting. Slides, meetings, the usual chaos. But your head’s still half in the kitchen. With him.

With Donnie.

You glance over your shoulder to look at him still fiddling with the kettle. He’s talking softly to himself as he works. You’ve only known him for a single night, but it feels longer. Your chest tightens in that peculiar, fluttery way again. It’s ridiculous, you think, getting all twisted up over someone you just met.

Someone who, strictly speaking, shouldn’t exist. And yet, there he is. Filling your kitchen like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it is natural. At least, it feels that way.

You breathe out through your nose, a shaky little thing that sounds more like a sigh. Then you straighten up and turn the knob. Half open the door. “Hey,” you call over your shoulder, not looking back yet, “will you still be here when I get back?”

There’s a pause, then the sound of tools being set down. “You want me to stick around?”

You finally glance back, hand still on the doorknob. He’s standing a little taller now, watching you like he’s trying not to hope too much.

You smile, and it’s maybe too soft for how casual you’re pretending to be. “Yeah. If you’re not busy … I wouldn’t mind.”

Donnie tilts his head, and something warm flickers behind his eyes. “Then I’ll be here.”

You nod once, try not to beam like an idiot, and slip out the door before you can say anything more embarrassing. As you walk down the hall, your heart thuds and you feel a little breathless. Your mind should be on work, on presentations and deadlines.

But all you can think about is how he said I’ll be here.

You take the stairs instead of the elevator—partly because the elevator in your building is a coin toss of mechanical doom. But mostly because your brain needs the rhythm of movement to organize the chaos inside it. You wrap your fingers tighter around the strap of your laptop bag, boots echoing softly against the stairwell concrete, and try to will your pulse back to something approaching normal.

It doesn’t work.

You’re still thinking about him. Donatello.

Donnie.

There’s a warmth blooming under your ribs like a slow-burning ember, one that’s been growing since last night but feels incandescent now, after that moment by the door. The way he looked at you when he asked, You want me to stick around? Like the question itself was risky. Like the answer mattered more than it should.

You’re not someone who falls fast. Not usually. So why is your brain already replaying every second of this morning like some lovesick rom-com montage?

You don’t know what this is. Not yet. But as you step out on to the crowded street, one thought circles in your mind like a truth you’re still learning to hold.

You want to come home to him.

It’s been three weeks since the Great Turtle Invasion of your apartment, and somehow, life has settled into a weirdly comfortable new normal. They still crash at your place now and then, but they’ve also invited you to their lair more than once. Sure, it’s in the sewers—but who cares? You’d gladly put up with a few questionable smells if it means spending more time with Donnie.

You’re currently glaring at your laptop, which is displaying nothing but a black screen with a single, mocking, blinking cursor. “You will not defeat me,” you murmur to the inanimate object. “I have a deadline. My editor will turn me into a human pretzel if I don’t get these pages in soon.”

Your frustration must be radiating outwards, because a quiet voice cuts through your monologue of threats. “Technical difficulties?”

You turn to see Donnie standing there, wiping his hands on a rag. He’s ditched his suspenders for a simple tool belt slung low on his hips, and a pair of high-tech goggles are pushed up onto his forehead, nestled just above his purple bandana. Your heart, the traitorous organ, does a little flip-flop.

It’s been doing that a lot lately whenever he’s near.

“It’s dead,” you sigh, slumping in your seat. “Completely unresponsive. It’s like it saw my to-do list and decided to nope right out of existence.”

He comes closer, leaning over your shoulder to inspect the screen. You’re hyper-aware of his proximity, the solid presence of his arm just inches from yours, the way his shadow falls over you.

“It’s not dead,” he says, his voice a reassuring rumble next to your ear. “The boot sector is probably corrupted. A common but frustrating issue.” He straightens up, a thoughtful expression on his face. “May I?”

You nod, gesturing to the laptop with a sweep of your hand. “Be my guest. If you can save it, there’s a slice of chicken and mushroom pizza with Roma tomatoes in it for you.”

A small smile touches his lips. “A worthy prize.” He carefully picks up the laptop and carries it over to his workshop corner. “Come on,” he says, glancing back at you.

You follow him over, perching on a stool he keeps nearby as he sets the laptop down. He pulls a keyboard out from under the table, plugs cables into your computer, and his fingers fly across the keys. You watch, fascinated. You see the subtle ripple of muscle in his arms as he works, the sheer competence he exudes.

Donnie doesn’t need to tell you he’s smart; it’s clear in every precise movement, every quiet, confident keystroke.

“Okay,” he murmurs after a few minutes, not looking away from his screen. “I’m creating a partition to access the primary drive without engaging the corrupted boot file. Should be able to pull your data. What’s the name of the file you need?”

“Uh, ‘Final Draft - No Really This Time v.7’,” you say, feeling a little sheepish.

He chuckles, types for another moment, and then his monitor flickers with your desktop. You see your meticulously organized folders, your embarrassing desktop wallpaper of a cat in a shark costume, and the document you were just working on.

“Oh my god, you’re a wizard,” you breathe, relief washing over you in a powerful wave.

“Just a humble technician,” he says, but you see the pleased dark-green flush creep up his neck. “Would it be … presumptuous of me to run a diagnostic on the file itself? Just to make sure the crash didn’t damage it.”

“Okay,” you agree, your heart thumping from how close you are.

He does his thing, running a scan to check the file’s integrity. “All clear. I should probably scan your other documents, just in case, before we move on to the data back-up.”

You nod, resting your elbows on the table as you watch him. “Sure. You’ve already rescued my career once today. Might as well make it a two-for-one.”

He huffs out a soft laugh, that warm little chuckle you’ve come to recognize that’s equal parts flattered and bashful. His fingers tap out a few more commands on the keyboard. You try not to stare, but it’s hard not to.

“So,” you ask, voice quieter now, “do you do this for all your friends? Tech support, appliance resurrection, emotionally delicate computer interventions?”

He tilts his head without looking up, but you see the smile tug at the corner of his mouth again. “Only the ones I like.”

You blink, a beat skipping in your chest. “Oh.”

That tiny smile turns into something wider, more open, but still shy. “Was that … too much?” he asks, finally glancing sideways at you. His hazel eyes catch the low light, and for a moment, you forget to breathe.

You shake your head slowly, lips curling upward. “No,” you say, just above a whisper. “It was exactly right.”

The silence that follows is calm. Safe. He doesn’t move away, and neither do you. Your knees are almost touching now, and you don’t bother shifting to create space—because you like this space. You like him in this space.

He clears his throat, inputting the last command. “There. All files are safe, diagnostics clean. Your laptop lives to sass you another day.”

“My hero,” you murmur, with a smile you don’t bother hiding.

“You’re welcome,” he says, and he sounds a little proud. A little nervous. A little like he wants to say more.

“Donnie,” you say, and you reach out, placing your hand over his on the table. His skin is cool and smooth, and his hand stills completely under yours. He slowly turns his hand over, his fingers curling gently around yours. His palm is surprisingly soft.

His eyes meet yours. There’s no witty retort, no technical explanation. There’s just a quiet understanding that crackles in the space between you.

“Thank you,” you say, and you know you’re not just talking about the laptop anymore.

“Anytime,” he breathes as his thumb sweeps softly across the back of your hand.

You look at his kind, intelligent face, at the way his shy smile is starting to bloom. And you realize with a sudden, startling clarity that you’re not just crushing on the giant turtle who is good with computers. You’re falling for him.

Hard.

Donnie is a portrait of intense concentration, his brow furrowed and his hands a blur of motion over a tangle of wires and circuit boards at his makeshift workshop. A sharp sizzle, followed by a frustrated grunt that he probably thinks is silent, finally makes you give up the pretense of reading the book in your lap.

“Everything okay over there, Edison?” you ask from your perch on your apartment couch.

He looks up, pushing his glasses up his nose. The intensity in his hazel eyes softens when they land on you. “I’ve hit a snag. I’m trying to recalibrate the shell-cell communicators I recently invented, but the amplification circuit keeps overloading. For the regulator coil, I need a more resilient filament. Niobium-titanium alloy, preferably.” He says this as if he’s asking for a simple cup of sugar.

You blink. “Right. Niobium-whatsit. And you don’t have that back at the lair?”

A dark green flush, which you’ve come to adore, creeps up his neck. “Well, no.”

You stand up and stretch. “So, where does one procure this magical filament?”

He pulls up a map on his wrist-mounted device, projecting a holographic display into the air between you. “There’s an old electronics surplus store downtown. Al’s Electronic Wonderland. According to their online inventory—which is shockingly well-maintained for a place that still uses a dot-matrix printer for receipts—they have three spools in stock.”

“Consider it a noble quest,” you say, grabbing your coat. “I shall venture forth and retrieve thy filament.”

His face clouds over with a worry so profound it seems to physically weigh him down. He takes a step toward you, his enormous frame suddenly blocking the path to the door. “Wait. You’re going alone? Right now?” he asks as you zip up your coat.

“It’s the middle of the afternoon, Donnie,” you say, trying to sound more casual than you feel under his intense, concerned gaze. “I’ll be fine.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he insists, his voice low and serious. “I’ve been monitoring the Foot’s comms chatter. They’ve been more active in that sector for the last forty-eight hours. It’s not safe. Let me go. Or at least wait until nightfall and I can come with you.”

You reach out and place a hand on his arm. “You need to finish this,” you say, nodding towards his project. “And I refuse to let anyone intimidate me into not running an errand in my own city. I’ll be quick. In and out.” You give his arm a reassuring squeeze. “I promise. I’ll be careful.”

He searches your face for a long moment, his jaw tight. You can see the internal battle playing out behind his glasses—the logician warring with the protector. Finally, he lets out a slow breath. “Okay,” he says, the word heavy with unease. “But make sure you take your phone. And call me if anything—I mean anything—seems off.”

You nod, curling your fingers around the edge of his arm a moment longer before stepping back. “Deal,” you breathe, and his hand hovers midair for a second—like he wants to pull you back—but doesn’t.

You grab your phone and keys, tucking them into your bag as Donnie returns reluctantly to his workstation. Opening the door, you pause, catching his gaze for a moment. You give him a reassuring smile before slipping into the hallway.

You find Al’s Electronic Wonderland tucked behind a row of shuttered shops. You step inside, the bell above the door chiming. Al—according to his nametag—is sitting behind the counter. He waves at you without looking up from his crossword puzzle book.

You find the filament quickly, tucked in a bin near the back of the store. You grab them all and head to the front.

“Fancy stuff,” Al grunts. “You building a death ray or somethin’?”

Now that you think about it, you’re not sure if Al might be kidding or not. “Something like that,” you say with a smile that’s meant to be disarming.

You pay cash, not wanting to deal with the ancient card reader, and leave with the spools secured in your bag. Quest successful!

You check the time on your phone; the sun is dipping lower in the sky. You decide to take a shortcut through a familiar alley to shave a few minutes off your walk home, your mind already set on seeing Donnie’s smile when you present him with your bounty.

The alley is empty, cast in the long shadows of dusk. Your footsteps echo off the brick walls. Halfway through, a flicker of movement in your peripheral vision makes you tense. You slow your pace, your heart beating a little faster. Probably just a stray cat, you try to convince yourself.

Then a figure drops from a fire escape in front of you, landing in a silent crouch. Another emerges from the deep shadows of a dumpster behind you. Before you can say anything, two more step out from recessed doorways, effectively boxing you in. They are all dressed in black tactical gear, their faces obscured by menacing masks.

The Foot Clan. You’ve only seen them on the news reports April showed you, grainy footage of black-clad blurs. They’re much more terrifying in person.

Your heart launches itself into your throat, Donnie’s warning screaming in your head. I should have listened. Oh god, I should have listened!

“Look what we have here,” one of them rasps, his voice distorted by the mask. He takes a step forward. “A little lamb, lost from her flock.”

You take a step back. “I’m just … heading home,” you say, voice even but pitched loud enough to carry. “I don’t want any trouble.” Your hand slips into your bag, fingers fumbling for your phone.

The leader chuckles, a dry, humorless sound. “You’ve been seen with them. The freaks.” He tilts his head. “We think you know where to find them. And you’re going to tell us.”

Your blood runs cold. This isn’t a random mugging. They know. They’ve been watching you. Watching the apartment. Your fingers finally close around your phone. Donnie’s contact is on speed dial; you just need a second.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie, pulling your hand from your bag, trying to keep the phone concealed in your palm.

“Liar.” The word is a hiss. The ninja in front of you lunges. You cry out as his hand clamps down on your wrist, his grip like iron. The one behind you grabs your other arm, wrenching it back. Your bag drops to the ground, your phone clattering beside it.

“No!” you yell, struggling against them.

The leader stoops down, ignoring your bag, and picks up your phone. He glances at the screen, which is still lit up. A cruel smirk is audible in his voice. “Look at this. Speed dial for ‘Donnie.’ How sweet.” He holds the phone up. “Let’s call him, shall we? Let him hear you scream.”

Panic, white-hot and absolute, sears through you. Before he can press the button, you do the only thing you can think of. You stomp down, hard, on the foot of the ninja holding your arm. He grunts in pain, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second. It’s enough. You wrench your arm free, pivot, and slam your elbow into the mask of the one behind you.

It’s a clumsy, desperate move, and it buys you maybe two seconds before they’re on you again. One of them pushes you to the ground. As the leader raises your phone to his masked face, a sound cuts through the alley—a high-pitched whistle, followed by a thunderous CRACK.

Something long and wooden smashes into the leader’s hand. Your phone goes flying, skittering across the ground. The ninja cries out, stumbling back.

Donnie is between you and them, his staff held ready. He rises to his full, intimidating height, his face a mask of cold fury you’ve never seen before. This isn’t the gentle tinkerer from your kitchen. This isn’t the shy genius who blushes when you smile at him.

“Let. Her. Go,” he snarls, his voice a low, rumbling growl.

For a second, the Foot soldiers just stare, momentarily stunned by the sudden appearance of a giant turtle warrior. Then, recovering, they draw their weapons.

What happens next is a blur. Donnie moves with a speed that seems impossible for his size, deflecting, blocking, and striking his opponents. There’s the thwack of wood against bone, the grunt of a ninja being thrown against a brick wall, the sharp clang of a sword being sent flying.

And in less than a minute, it’s over. Two ninjas are unconscious on the ground. The other two, including the leader, scramble away, disappearing into the shadows like the cockroaches they are.

The sudden silence is deafening. The only sounds are your own ragged breathing and the heavy, controlled breaths from Donnie. He stands over the fallen ninjas for a second, staff held tight, making sure they’re no longer a threat.

Then, he turns to you.

The fury on his face vanishes in an instant, replaced by a wave of raw, undisguised terror. In two long strides, he’s in front of you in a crouch, his large hands hovering over your arms, your face. As if he’s afraid to touch you, afraid you might break.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice cracking. “Did they hurt you?” His eyes, wide and frantic, scan every inch of you.

You can only shake your head, your voice caught in your throat. Now that the adrenaline is fading, you’re starting to tremble. “I’m—I’m okay,” you manage to whisper. “You came.”

“Of course I came,” he chokes out. His hands finally land on your shoulders, his touch incredibly gentle. “I was tracking your phone’s GPS since you left the store. I saw you turn into the alley and I just … I had a bad feeling.” His voice drops, thick with emotion. “When I saw them … when they had you …” He can’t finish the sentence. He just shakes his head.

You look up at him, at this brilliant, brave, terrified turtle who just fought off four trained assassins for you. And all the feelings you’ve been trying to keep neatly packed away just spill over.

“Donnie,” you breathe, and you reach up, your hand cupping his cheek. His skin is cool and smooth. He leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I was so stupid,” you murmur. “I should have listened to you.”

“No,” he says, his eyes opening, pinning you with their intensity. “No, this is my fault. I never should have let you go alone. I knew it was a risk. I can’t …” He swallows hard. “I can’t let anything happen to you. I just … can’t.”

There it is. In his voice, in his eyes. More than friendship. More than protective instinct. It’s the same feeling that’s been taking root in your own chest for weeks.

“Why?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper, though you already know the answer.

You just need to hear it.

He looks down at your arm—at the hand cradling his face—then back to your eyes. The last of his warrior’s facade crumbles, leaving only the shy, brilliant, wonderful Donnie you’ve come to know. A blush spreads across his cheeks.

“Because,” he says, his voice soft and trembling slightly. “Because you listen when I talk about armature housings, or filament conductivity thresholds, or the proper decibel range for ultrasonic echolocation calibration—and you don’t laugh. You ask questions, you care. You see me, not just the shell, and …” He gestures vaguely at himself. “… all this.”

Your heart stutters, then gallops. You blink fast, trying not to cry—because crying now would just ruin everything, and this moment is already teetering on the edge of perfection.

He gently clasps your hand, still cupped against his cheek, holding it there like it’s something sacred. “I’ve been in a thousand close calls,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper, “but nothing has ever scared me like the thought of losing you.”

That’s it.

That’s the line that snaps something loose in your chest. All the fear, all the tension, all the guarded caution you’ve held onto around him dissolves like mist.

“I was scared too,” you say, your other hand joining the first, framing his face. “Scared of what I was feeling. Of how fast it was happening. Of how real you are to me. But now? I’m just scared of not saying it.”

His brow creases in a mix of hope and awe. “Saying what?”

“That I’m falling for you. All the way. No backup plan. No buffer.”

There’s a pause. A heartbeat. His eyes search yours like he’s trying to make sure this is real. That you’re real. That he heard you right.

And then he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days, his shoulders slumping in relief. “You’re not the only one,” he says. “I’ve been falling since the second you offered me a blanket and told me my goggles were cool.”

You laugh—a shaky sound—and he leans down, just a little, just enough.

“The truth is,” he says, pausing to take a shuddering breath, before continuing, “I don’t think I’m merely just falling for you, I think—no. I know I’m falling in love with you.”

Your heart stops. And then it starts again, a wild, soaring thing in your chest. Tears prick your eyes, but they’re not from fear. They’re from a joy so overwhelming it feels like it might burst out of you.

“For the record,” you whisper, your lips just inches from his, “I’m in love with the way you get flustered when I compliment you. And the way you make me feel safe, even when I’m being an idiot. And because you have the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

His breath catches, and for a moment, neither of you moves.

Then, he leans in the rest of the way, and your lips meet.

The world goes quiet. No more distant sirens, no more thudding adrenaline in your ears. Just the warmth of his mouth on yours—soft, tentative, and so achingly real. His hands frame your face like you’re something rare and precious, and your fingers curl gently at the edges of his shell. It’s a kiss full of all the things he can’t say fast enough.

And everything you didn’t know how to ask for until now.

You kiss him back, slowly, deliberately, and you feel the tension in his body melt. When you finally part, you stay close, foreheads resting together, breathing each other in.

“So,” you murmur with a small smile, “was that a diagnostic, or a full system reboot?”

He lets out a breathy, amazed laugh. “Definitely a reboot. System’s online. Possibly overheating.”

You giggle softly, and the sound makes his entire expression light up again. His thumb brushes along your jaw, reverent and unhurried. “I meant what I said,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

“I know,” you say. And you do.

You believe him.

He helps you to your feet, carefully checking you over again, his touch featherlight but lingering. You brush the dirt off your coat and retrieve the fallen bag. He reclaims your phone from the ground, wipes it clean with a cloth from his belt, and hands it to you with a sheepish look.

“Still works,” he says. “Unlike my circulatory system. Pretty sure it shorted out when you kissed me.”

“Better get used to that,” you tease, nudging him lightly with your shoulder as you both turn toward the street.

He offers you his hand, and you take it, linking your fingers with his. Together, you start walking back towards your apartment. There’s no rush.

Because Donnie’s hand in yours feels like the beginning of everything.

#my writing #tmnt bayverse #tmnt donatello #tmnt donnie #tmnt x reader #tmnt bayverse x reader #bayverse donatello #bayverse donnie #bayverse donatello x reader #bayverse donnie x reader #donatello x reader #donnie x reader #tmnt donatello x reader #tmnt donnie x reader #tmnt 2014 #tmnt 2016 #not posted on ao3 #tmnt requests #scheduled post

175 notes · View notes

rabbiturtletunnel · 13 days ago

Text

I got motivated again

#teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt bayverse #tmnt 2016 #digital art #bayverse leo #bayverse turtles #leonardo tmnt #tmnt #tmnt leonardo #bayverse leonardo #bayverse donnie #bayverse michelangelo #bayverse mikey #bayverse donatello #tmnt bayverse raph #bayverse raphael

192 notes · View notes

faith-forgxtten-land · 1 year ago

Text

Come to Bed | Donatello

this started with the idea of seducing donnie into healthy sleeping patterns and then just. spiralled from there. i didn't really have a specific iteration in mind but reading it back, it definitely fits bayverse most, i think, so that's what i'll categorise it under!

warnings: NSFW, swearing, general filthiness? gender neutral reader, everyone is 18+!!

summary: there is only one way to get donnie to come to bed (two if you count blackmail)

word count: 2411

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It’s nearly 3am and your eyelids feel heavy, eyes glassy and beginning to ache just a little, and Donnie is still not in bed. You look at the empty space beside you, cold and untouched, and kick the covers off your bare legs. The air is cool, goosebumps raising the moment you abandon the comfort of bed, and you almost regret getting up as your feet hit the freezing floor.

Donnie is so lucky you love him and care for his health.

He's exactly where you'd left him hours before, sitting hunched over a desk in his lab, and you wonder briefly if turtles with their shells can suffer the same complications as humans with poor posture. Perhaps you'll force him to join you and Mikey for your bi-weekly yoga sessions. “Donnie?”

The terrapin doesn't so much as flinch, instead burying his face further into a screen that is already way too close to his face. Oh, his prescription is definitely going to need updating soon, you think amusedly. You clear your throat, attempting your best grumpy Raph impersonation. “Oi, four-eyes.”

Now Donnie does flinch, beak nearly crashing into his monitor, glasses slipping as he salvages his precious technology from being assaulted by his face and spinning in his seat to glower at whoever dared disturb him. He relaxes when he realises it's just you, shooting you a scowl that's devoid of any real heat. “You need to stop doing that voice, it's creepy.”

You grin at him, noting the exact moment he registers what you're wearing – or, rather, what you're not wearing. His eyes go wide and his lips part, scowl melting like ice doused in salt. He swallows thickly. “You're meant to be a ninja,” you tease, stepping slowly into his space and letting his hands fall to your waist before they curl around your back as he pulls you close, palms flattening against your spine. “You can't hear when one measly human is behind you?”

“You are so mean to me,” Donnie says instead of answering.

“We both know you like it. Besides,” you look down at your naked skin, his own eyes following your pointed gaze eagerly. “I think I'm being pretty kind, actually. Someone was meant to come to bed three hours ago and ravish me, but apparently, I'm not more interesting than,” you peer over his shoulder as best you can, squinting at the tiny squiggles. Lips pursed, you look at your boyfriend flatly, not bothering to finish your sentence.

“I can explain.”

“World of Warcraft? Really, Donatello?”

He winces at the full name. “I wasn’t playing for long,” he defends himself. “I’ve been looking over some things Leo asked for since this morning, I was just taking a break.”

“Taking a break means coming to bed and not staring at a screen for even longer.” Softer, you add, “I’ve been waiting for you for hours.”

You run your hands up the bumpy skin of his muscled arms, over scars and rough tissue that you’ve pressed kisses to countless times, to rest upon his shoulders. A small part of you is resentful, but the larger, kinder part of you is concerned; his eyes are bloodshot to the extreme, and exhaustion is etched deep into the lines of his face. You dig your nails in and massage a little roughly, feeling those worried knots and doing your best to soothe them with gentle palms.

It hits him then, just exactly what he’d missed out on by getting caught up, and his shoulders sag under the tender weight of your caress, twitchy energy that can keep him up for days deserting him instantly. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs quietly.

You smile at him, fond and warm, one hand trailing upwards to cup his jaw. “It’s okay.” His skin is something you’ll never get tired of touching, you think, as you rub your thumb over the swell of his cheek. You pinch him a little, coy and mean the way you know he loves, before soothing it with a whisper of a kiss when he hisses playfully. “Although, you’ll have to make it up to me.”

“And what is my punishment?” he asks dryly, guilt pushed aside to indulge in your teasing as you lean closer to hide your smirk in the crook of his neck.

“You’ll be in bed by 11 p.m. sharp every night for the next week.” You can tell an objection is on the tip of his tongue, and you fix your teeth along his throat in warning. “I’ve already cleared everything with Splinter and Leo.”

Donnie sighs both in pleasure and in resignation. “Are you trying to seduce me into having healthy sleeping patterns?”

You start to kiss his neck, soft grazes of your lips against his scaled skin. “Maybe. Is it working?”

“Well—”

“If the answer isn’t yes, I’ll be very offended and I’ll be forced to dump you,” you add airily, tongue flicking leisurely over his rapid pulse. “You're incredibly lucky I haven't already for ditching me for World of fucking Warcraft.”

“Oh, blackmail too. Lucky me,” Donnie mutters, but it’s full of mirth and he doesn't push his luck any further.

You grin against his skin, and you grin even wider when he starts as your teeth scrape along the column of his throat. His hands have a bruising grip on your hips, and you bite down harder just to feel his grip tighten.

“You’re such a tease,” he whines, unable to stop himself bucking up into you. His breathing has turned to panting, short and desperate gasps that make heat curl in your stomach, and you trail your nails down the keratin of his plastron slowly.

“You love it,” you murmur coyly, fingers brushing against the elastic of his waistband mischievously. “And you deserve it.”

Donnie curses loudly, head falling back as you pull on that elastic just to let it snap back against him. His pants are soaking, and you feel that familiar rush of smug satisfaction as you slot your knee between his thighs. It does terrible things to your ego seeing him like this; it makes you drunk and dizzy seeing him drenched and needy for you, and you groan under your breath as he grinds against you.

“Please,” he whimpers.

You hum as casually as you can. “Please what?”

“Fuck, please, I need you—” He cuts himself off with a loud cry of your name as you slide two fingers past his waistband and into his dripping cloaca.

“Keep going.”

He’s quick to turn into a blubbering mess, drool running down his chin and words slurring as he babbles and begs you to continue finger-fucking him. “Don’t stop, please—yes, yes, right there, there, fuck—”

Your fingers pump in and out, scissoring inside him at a harsh pace you know he likes. He’s sopping wet but that doesn’t stop the tiny spikes of pain mixing deliriously with pleasure as you stretch him wide without warning. You can feel his slick coating your hand, running down your skin and over your knuckles, and he only gushes more when you add a third digit.

“Faster, faster,” he chants shakily, almost sobbing when you slow instead.

“You’re so tight, baby,” you purr. “I wouldn’t wanna hurt you.”

He’s definitely sobbing now. “I can take it, please, please.”

“Oh?” You curl your fingers and fuck him harder and faster, just the way he wants. His cock is there, thick and heavy and ready to drop, and he shudders as you brush softly against it.

His voice is choked as he calls your name again. "Gonna drop, please–”

Your laugh is light and a little cruel and it makes him wail, the sound overflowing with need and desperation. “Don’t you dare.”

“Oh god,” Donnie gasps as your fingers rub along his length still tucked inside, a fresh wave of slick trickling down to your wrist.

“I would’ve been kind,” you tell him nonchalantly, kissing his temple and huffing another laugh when he can’t stop his hips from grinding into you, body begging you to bury your fingers deeper inside him. “But you’ve been such a bad boy.”

He drops with a guttural groan followed by a pathetic whimper, gasping apologies feebly.

You sigh and pull your hand back, your resolve faltering just a little when Donnie whines and cries louder at the action. “You’re being very bad tonight, baby.”

He’s still wearing his pants and you roll your lips to hide a smile as he tugs them down frantically, his cock finally free in the air. His hands grip the arms of his chair so hard that you swear you hear them creak, desperate to touch himself but not wanting to disobey you any further. It’s a bit late to play innocent and good now, and you shoot him an unimpressed look that makes his jaw clench. “Please,” Donnie breathes.

Your hand is still soaked, and you watch him watch you as you raise your fingers to your lips, sticky tendrils trembling as you rub your fingertips together before parting them slowly. Eyes fixed on his, you glide your tongue over his slick, sucking gently and exhaling quietly at the flavour that blooms over your tastebuds. The arms of the chair are definitely creaking now, and you smile coyly as his cock twitches.

“Please.”

As much as you love teasing him into a pathetic frenzy, you remember his weary eyes and decide to put him out of his misery. There’ll be plenty of time to punish Donnie the way he deserves later – lots of edging and whining and begging and very little relief. For now, you’ll give him what he wants.

You kneel between his legs, coquettish as you glance up at him through your lashes; he’s working his jaw, teeth clenched and eyes darting wildly as he barely holds himself together. Grasping his hard cock in your hand, slick and heavy, you begin to pump slowly.

The chirps and churrs that escape him are whining and full of ecstasy, his eyes fluttering as you squeeze your palms around his thick length, hands twisting with an obscene squelch at every stroke. The lab is quiet apart from the wet pumping and his throaty groans, and you wonder if his moaning will be loud enough to wake the others. It wouldn’t surprise you, and the thought makes your hand move faster as you rub your thumb over the sensitive head of his cock.

Donnie can’t stop the stutter of his hips, head falling back. “Fuck.” He swears louder as your lips suckle his tip, your name a rasping prayer spilling from his mouth. You flick your tongue, tasting the slightly bitter flavour of his precum and just how soaked he is, evidence of what you do to him coating your face, and he cries noisily when you suddenly take another few inches into your mouth and swallow around him. He’s hitting the back of your throat, and he feels like he’s about to faint from how tight and warm you feel.

A wave of embarrassment hits him as you pull back and smirk, his head still pressed against your flirtatious smile while you continue to work him with your hands. “Please,” he begs for what feels like the hundredth time that night.

“You’re so good at begging,” you praise, eyes sparkling when it makes him moan lewdly. Oh, that definitely woke someone up. He’s back to bucking his hips and because you’re so kind, you let him dictate the pace as you continue pumping.

“So close,” he breathes shakily. “I’m so close, please.”

“Please, what?”

His eyes roll back, and the arms of his chair finally give way, crumbling under his crushing grip as impressions of his hands mould into the metal. Donnie doesn’t stop rocking and whimpering. “Please let me come.”

You kiss the head of his cock once more, delighting in the way he tremors at the whisper of touch. “Be a good boy and come for me, Donatello.”

There’s nothing Donnie loves more than being good for you and he shows this by coming undone the second his name leaves your lips, body jolting and convulsing like he's been struck by lightning as you continue to milk his cock while his orgasm wracks through him. Your face is completely covered, ropes of his come painting your skin as he groans pitifully, the sound agonised and mewling.

It’s almost silent for a few moments, the only noises are Donnie’s wheezing pants and whimpers of oversensitivity, and you watch him quietly. He’s so beautiful like this, blissed out, stress a stranger rather than a constant companion, and you wish you could both stay like this.

The moment is over too soon as the terrapin manages to open his eyes blearily, although they nearly shut again in dizzying satisfaction when he catches sight of your come-smeared cheeks. It’s dripping down your chin, threatening to spill down your neck and to your chest, and a part of you wants to leave it, relishing in the way Donnie is entirely transfixed, but you scoop what you can on your fingers and bring the sticky threads to your mouth instead.

Donnie’s lips part and his breath hitches and it’s your turn to shut your eyes in pleasure, eyes rolling and unable to stop a soft groan as you lick and swallow what he’s given you. “Mean,” he accuses again when you finally open your eyes, and you grin at how faint he sounds.

“Just for you,” you agree and he churrs instinctively, flushing as you snicker. He’s so cute, you think fondly, letting him reach out and grasp you closer, seeking comfort. And so easy.

“I think I need that nap now,” Donnie tells you weakly, and you huff another laugh against his sweaty skin, tasting salt and nuzzling further into him.

You press a loving kiss to his shoulder and reluctantly pull back. “Shower then bed, come on.” His legs are shaky, and you purse your lips to stop from chuckling as he stumbles like a newborn lamb, begrudgingly relenting to leaning against you. “Poor Bambi,” you tease, brushing your lips against his plastron in a loving caress when he grumbles playfully.

Hopefully, no one has been awoken by your night-time activities and, if they have, you hope they’re not up and roaming because you’d really rather not have to bump into any of Donnie’s family with his come still coating your face.

2K notes · View notes

love-letters-and-lotus-blossom · 4 months ago

Text

cute thought: Y/N doesn't meet the turtles first, she actually meets Master Splinter.

Something happens.

The lair is attacked and, in the midst of the fight, Splinter is taken. Badly hurt, he still manages to escape his captors and wanders the city, calling out for his sons in his delirium before collapsing.

Which is how you found him.

Walking home one night, you heard something above the music in your earbuds...a weak, frightened voice of an old man, calling out for "his sons." Something crashes in an alleyway and you follow the sound.

Admittedly, seeing a giant rat was shocking.

But this is NYC and giant rats aren't too shocking, are they? Just another day in the city, TBH. And he's so scared and so hurt, mumbling names softly...and you can't turn your back on him. Luckily, you don't live too far and you're able to help him into your apartment.

There's no calling the cops or an ambulance, obviously, but luckily you have enough first aid knowledge to help him. It takes a few days of taking care of him until the rat wakes up completely, confused and worried as he tries to get up.

"Don't," you tell him softly as you come into the room. "Don't move too quickly, you'll hurt yourself."

"Where am I? Who...who are you?"

"I'm Y/N."

And that's how you before Splinter, as learn his name, taking care of him a little longer. He likes tea and soap operas and reminds you of your grandfather with his wisdom and wry sense of humor. It isn't long until he's gathered himself enough to figure out a way to contact his sons, the one's he told you about.

Leonardo, Michelangelo, Donatello, and Raphael.

They're exactly as he described them, Splinter smiling as soon as he heard movement on the rooftop, four absolutely giant turtles clambering in through the balcony window.

"Father!"

They're all around him at once, worried and trying not to cry (but definitely crying a little), Splinter comforting his boys and crying a little bit too.

And that was how you got tangled up in thier lives, befriending the father before befriending the sons.

◇ Little Things ◇

◇ You and Splinter like a lot of the same shows. Sometimes you watch together (particularly if it's a season finale or holiday special or something) but typically, you watch separately at your homes and then talk about it on the phone.

"I can't believe she tried to seduce Raul!"

"I can," Splinter scoffs.

◇ You have tea time together as well, and talk about everything going on in your lives. Even though you think your life is boring compared to his, Splinter disagrees. He's very interested in the typical life of a human, it seems so different from his.

◇ He will insist on you learning at least some basic self defense, especially in this city.

◇ When he realizes that one of his sons has developed feelings for you, Splinter is rooting for ot to happen so you can be his daughter-in-law.

◇ When it does happen, the other turtles like to joke that you're his favorite child sometimes.

#tmnt bayverse #bayverse tmnt #bayverse turtles #bayverse raph #bayverse leonardo #bayverse mikey #bayverse donatello #master splinter #tmnt splinter #bayverse splinter #tmnt thoughts #tmnt x reader cute fluff #tmnt x reader fluff

344 notes · View notes

luv4arinn · 4 months ago

Text

I Just Wanna Feel

Author’s Note: So—sorry for not posting in weeks, but I had a massive writer’s block, and well… I’m back! I was heavily inspired by THAT Robbie Williams song. Yes, I watched his biopic. Yes, I cried. Yes, I recommend it. And… surprise?! There will be a whole chronology with the others, all themed around Robbie’s songs! Yayy <3!! Consider it a gift? from me for taking so long 🥺. Love you all.

Pairing: Bayverse!Donnie x female reader

Tags: Intense fluff, nerd having an emotional crisis, extreme overthinking, unexpected kisses, Donatello’s mental breakdown, romantic panic, “oh no I messed up” but in HD, happy ending.

The sound of the keyboard echoed through the room—a rhythmic, steady tapping that blended with the low hum of the monitors. The bluish glow from the screens cast irregular shadows across his face, reflecting off the lenses of his glasses with every line of code appearing and disappearing on the monitor.

Donatello was there, as always.

The work was easy. Thinking was easy.

It was like a well-structured algorithm: receive information, process it, execute a plan of action. The world had rules, patterns, probabilities—formulas that predicted outcomes with near-absolute precision. No matter how chaotic a situation seemed, there was always a logical solution waiting to be uncovered.

Computers don’t lie.

Data has no biases, no whims. It doesn’t suffer irrational fluctuations. It doesn’t beat faster without reason. It doesn’t have to remind itself to breathe.

But then…

There’s you.

And everything falls apart.

Not immediately. Not like a fatal error shutting down the system in the blink of an eye. It’s more subtle. Like an unexpected variable in an equation that had, until now, been perfect. Something that doesn’t fit into the rigid structure of his world—but something he can’t ignore either.

He thinks about it often. About how his brain operates like a well-calibrated machine, each thought clicking into the next like the teeth of a moving gear. Logic is his native language. Reason, his compass.

And yet, when it comes to you, all that logic becomes blurred.

The gears grind.

The code becomes erratic.

The equation fills with unknowns.

Because when you step into his space, when your voice disrupts the steady rhythm of his keyboard, when you lean over his desk without a second thought for the scattered circuits and switch off his monitor without warning…

His first instinct is to think. Analyze. Quantify.

What does this mean?

Why does his heart react this way?

Why does his skin register the shift in temperature more intensely when you’re near?

But thinking doesn’t give him answers.

Feeling does.

And that is terrifying.

Because feeling isn’t predictable. Feeling has no neatly arranged lines of code, no graphs to chart behavioral patterns, no equations with exact solutions.

Emotions, in themselves, are a chaotic system.

And you…

You are the anomaly he still doesn’t know how to decode.

Nights shouldn’t feel this short when spent alone in front of a screen. And yet, when his mind drifts to the memory of a laugh, the fleeting image of a glance, the echo of an accidental touch… time dissolves in a way not even quantum physics could explain.

When he feels the weight of his name on your tongue. Like an access key to a system he never thought anyone would try to hack.

And he watches you from the corner of his eye as you lean closer, and in that instant, every variable in his mind shifts. Every equation rewrites itself.

A shiver runs down his shell.

Feeling.

He knows because his chest tightens with an undefined pressure, a sensation he can’t attribute to any specific physiological variable. His heart rate isn’t elevated from exertion. He’s not under attack. He’s not in danger.

So why does his body react as if he is?

There’s no equation to explain this.

Because if there were, he would have solved it long ago. He would have identified the problem, broken it down into its components, eliminated any errors. But every time he thinks he’s close to an answer, another unknown appears, shifting all previous solutions out of place.

Music filters through his headphones, slow and melancholic.

“I just wanna feel, real love…”

A shiver runs down his spine.

His body reacts to the sound before his mind does. It’s absurd. It’s ridiculous. There is no logical reason why a progression of chords and a set of words arranged in a certain way should have this effect on him.

And yet, here he is.

Fingers hovering over the keyboard, motionless—caught between the instinct to keep working and the strange, undeniable realization that… he can’t.

Not because he’s tired.

Not because he lacks information.

Not because there’s a problem that requires more processing.

But because, for the first time in a long time, the data isn’t the most important thing.

The screen flickers with information he should be absorbing, but he isn’t. His glasses reflect numbers and graphs that would normally hold his full attention, but his gaze is empty, unfocused.

The room remains unchanged—draped in shadows, illuminated only by the bluish glow of his monitors and the faint blinking of LED lights from his equipment.

The mission had been difficult. The margin of error had been higher than he liked to admit.

It wasn’t often that his calculations failed.

But sometimes, calculations weren’t enough.

Sometimes, reality simply… refused to adhere to logic.

“Feel the home that I live in…”

His jaw tightens.

He doesn’t know how that song ended up on his playlist.

But he has a reasonable theory.

One that involves Mikey, his blatant disregard for personal privacy, and his insistent need to “help him connect with his emotions.”

(Sure. Right.)

And yet…

The lyrics hit him harder than he’d like to admit.

It’s not the melody itself. It’s not the chords or the rhythm. It’s the way the words seem to slip through the cracks in his mind, seeping into the spaces that logic has never quite managed to seal shut.

“I just wanna feel, real love…”

Donnie exhales slowly, his fingers still hovering over the keyboard, motionless.

He thinks about the battle.

The mistakes.

The risks they took.

Numbers flash through his mind like a simulation running in reverse—impact probability, the margin of error in his calculations, the reaction speed needed to avoid damage. Fractions of a second where the difference between victory and absolute disaster depended on decisions made under pressure.

But more than anything—he thinks about you.

He thinks about the way, at the end of the fight, you rushed to check if he was okay.

About how, without even thinking, your hands—warm, alive—ran along his arm, searching for injuries he had already identified and dismissed milliseconds before with his visor.

He could have told you it wasn’t necessary.

That he was unharmed.

That he had concrete data to prove it.

But he didn’t.

Because logic dictates that worry should be extinguished by facts.

But feeling…

Feeling dictates that your touch lingers, even after you’ve gone.

That the sensation of your skin against his stays beyond his capacity for reasoning.

That the light pressure of your fingers on his forearm still burns in his memory, like an unsolved equation looping endlessly in his mind.

“Come and hold my hand…”

Donnie closes his eyes.

He could turn the song off.

He could erase the anomaly from his system.

He could rewrite the equation, adjust the variables, find a way to rationalize what he feels.

But… he doesn’t want to.

Because for the first time in his life, the result of a problem doesn’t matter as much as the unknown.

He doesn’t just want to think.

He wants to feel.

He wants to understand why being with you feels like the only constant that truly matters.

And then—you arrive.

Without warning, without fanfare, without the slightest idea that the world inside Donatello’s mind is teetering on the edge of a collapse even he can’t explain.

The lab door slides open smoothly—barely a whisper against the silence, thick with static electricity and the faint murmur of music in his headphones.

He notices everything.

The shift in air pressure.

The sound of your footsteps, softened against the floor.

The faint scent of shampoo and fabric laced with the chill of the night.

The way the temperature in the room rises by just a fraction of a degree when you step inside.

But he doesn’t turn around immediately.

Because he doesn’t know what to do with the anomaly that you are in his equation.

He doesn’t know where to place you within the rigid parameters of his logical, structured world.

His operating system slows, his brain—so used to processing information with the precision of a surgeon—stalls in an endless loop, searching for a resolution that refuses to exist.

And then—your voice.

“Donnie?”

Soft. Not because you’re hesitant, but because you know him. Because somehow—through a method he can’t quantify—you can read the tension in his shoulders. You can see the way his fingers have stopped typing, even though the screen is still waiting for input.

He closes his eyes for just a moment, as if that alone might be enough to reboot him, to restore the control that feels like it’s slipping through his fingers.

He knows he should say something.

He knows he should act normal.

But his normal means efficiency, speed, precise answers delivered at the exact right moment.

And right now, every command in his mind is failing.

You watch him with quiet curiosity, tilting just slightly toward him—just enough for the air between you to feel heavier, more tangible.

“Everything okay?” you ask, voice soft in that way that completely disarms him. Then your gaze sharpens slightly, scanning him with quiet scrutiny. “Are you hurt?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he looks at you.

His mind runs an automatic analysis of your expression—eyes slightly narrowed, lips barely pressed together, the faintest crease in your right brow, as if you’re already calculating the probability that he’s lying.

Logic dictates that he should reassure you with data. That he should tell you his visor has already run a full diagnostic scan and that his physical condition is optimal. That there is no rational reason for concern.

But then his gaze drops.

And he sees his own hand, still resting on the desk—still tense.

And for the first time in a long time, he chooses to do something without overthinking it.

He looks at you again.

His throat feels dry. Without realizing it, he wets his lips—a quick flick of his tongue over skin cracked from hours without proper hydration.

Then, in a voice so quiet it barely sounds like his own, he asks:

“Can I… hold your hand?”

It’s not the kind of question anyone would expect from him.

And he knows it.

Because it doesn’t fit his usual patterns. It’s not something that makes sense in any logical context.

But right now, logic is utterly useless to him.

Your lashes flutter in subtle surprise, as if the words take a few extra seconds to fully register.

“What?”

His instincts scream at him to backtrack, to rephrase, to find a way to explain what even he doesn’t fully understand.

But he doesn’t.

“I want to…” He inhales, trying to reorganize his thoughts. “I mean, just—”

He shuts his eyes for a second, frustration flickering across his face. He has never felt this clumsy with words before.

When he opens them again, you’re still there. You haven’t moved. You haven’t looked away.

And somehow, that alone gives him the courage he’s lacking.

“I just… want to feel it.”

The truth escapes him so easily, so quietly, that it almost embarrasses him.

Your expression shifts.

It’s not amusement.

It’s not rejection.

It’s something softer. More intimate.

And without questioning it—without hesitation or unnecessary words—you let your hand slide over his.

Not hurriedly.

Not hesitantly.

Just with the quiet certainty of someone who understands exactly what he’s asking for.

And when your fingers intertwine with his, Donnie feels every equation, every algorithm, every carefully structured rule in his mind… simply dissolve.

As if they had never really mattered in the first place.

“Well?” you ask, your voice carrying a faint attempt at lightness.

Donnie knows you’re trying to sound casual, that you’re masking your uncertainty behind a relaxed tone. But he notices.

He notices the delicate dusting of pink on your cheeks, the almost imperceptible tremor in your lower lip, the way your thumb brushes against the back of his hand—like you’re adjusting to the contact just as much as he is.

And something inside him… softens.

His lips curve, at first unconsciously—a smile, small and barely formed. Then, from deep in his chest, a quiet laugh escapes, unbidden and genuine, as weightless as the air after a storm.

It’s not mockery. It’s not disbelief.

It’s something purer. Something real.

—Nothing, —he murmurs, his thumb moving awkwardly against your skin— Just… this is nice.

The confession catches him off guard.

Because he hadn’t planned it.

Because he hadn’t filtered it through his logic before speaking.

Because it simply happened.

And then, you look at each other.

Maybe for too long.

Maybe just long enough for the world around you to blur into a distant murmur, as if nothing else exists except the space you occupy together.

He finds himself mesmerized by you.

Fascinated.

But not in the way he is fascinated by a new equation, by an unexpected pattern in the data, by the perfect symmetry of a well-designed structure.

This is different.

This is raw.

This is visceral.

This is feeling.

His other hand, trembling in a way he doesn’t understand, lifts with a slowness that borders on reverence.

And when his fingers brush against your cheek, the touch is so light it feels like an experiment in itself.

He feels.

He feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the way it molds so effortlessly to his touch, the way your body leans ever so slightly toward him—responding to an equation he hasn’t yet written but, for the first time, doesn’t feel the need to solve.

He feels the erratic pounding of his own heart, too fast, too unsteady, as if it has forgotten its natural rhythm.

He feels the heat gathering in his chest, expanding outward like a shockwave, defying all logical explanation.

And then, he hears you sigh.

Small.

Soft.

Almost imperceptible.

But he feels it.

He feels the warmth of your breath against his skin, the subtle vibration of your exhale in the nonexistent space between you.

Feels,

feels,

feels.

As if every one of his senses—once so meticulously calibrated to process information—has now been repurposed for a single objective:

You.

Your warmth seeping into his skin.

Your quiet, rhythmic breathing.

The barely-there weight of your gaze resting on him.

The familiar scent of you, imprinting itself onto some hidden corner of his mind he never thought necessary.

Just you.

Only you.

Nothing else exists.

Nothing else matters.

And then—without thinking, without calculating, without rationalizing it into exhaustion like he always does—

he kisses you.

It’s brief. Just a brush of lips.

A moment suspended between doubt and need, between impulse and fear.

A single heartbeat contained in a single point of contact.

And then—

He hears you gasp.

His entire body locks up. Every muscle goes rigid with a tension so sharp it’s almost painful.

His brain—so efficient, so precise, so relentless in its ability to analyze every variable in a situation—enters a total shutdown.

He stares at you, eyes wide, pupils blown.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

He misread everything.

What the hell was he thinking?

You don’t see him that way.

Why would you?

Why would you ever?

Shame crashes over him like an unstoppable wave. His stomach twists, his skin burns, his heart clenches into an invisible fist that threatens to crush it from the inside out.

He pulls back, his hands loosening, his voice catching in his throat.

—Oh, God, I didn’t mean to— —he stammers, his voice cracking under the weight of his own panic. His thoughts are a mess of unsolved equations, of probabilities collapsing into a singularity of pure dread— I just… I thought it was a good moment, I—

—Yes.

Your voice cuts through his spiral.

His brain short-circuits.

—It was.

…

What?

His breath halts.

The air thickens, pressing in from all sides, as if the entire universe has stopped—right here, right now, in these words, in this reality he never accounted for.

And then—

You close the distance.

You are the one to bring your lips back to his.

And his mind—his brilliant, overanalyzing mind—

for the first time in his life—goes completely silent.

And he simply—feels.

310 notes · View notes

sweeneydino · 1 month ago

Text

Bay sketches

Little guys… not really but-

763 notes · View notes

ferox-imagines · 3 months ago

Text

In a Donnie mood lately

#still trying to get consistent with his face #tmnt #fanart #digital art #artists on tumblr #bayverse tmnt #donatello #bayverse donatello #tmnt donatello #bayverse donnie #donnie tmnt

310 notes · View notes

ihaznoclue · 3 months ago

Text

"Not Gross"

Bayverse Turtles x Reader (Seperate)

Warnings -> Trauma, Scars, Insecurity, Hurt/Comfort

Note -> Reader has a scar from left should to their right hip from their father int he past and reader doesn't know that the boys see it

Genre -> Angst to Fluff

Not-Proof read - Going back to school tomorrow T-T

Bro I feel bad for Donnie it looks like he was trying to go for a fist bump but Mikey just pats him on the back - shell? and he goes along with it! LMAO (Mikey how could you >:T)

LEONARDO

It was late, the dojo was empty and it was lit only by the warm, low lights from either the sign that were displayed on the walls

You'd come to stretch out after a long day of school/work, you were alone with your thought that was letting silence fill the space

You thought you were alone since the boys went out on night patrol

Your hoodie was off somewhere near by your feet, leaving just your sports top and sweats as you bent into a stretch, you hadn't realized how much your shirt had been lifted, revealing more of your back then usual

That's when he came and saw it even though he didn't mean to

Leo had walked in quietly, as he didn't even go on patrol tonight as his father told him that the boys should be able to lead on their own

Leo froze mid-step into the dojo as his eyes caught on the faint trail along your back, seeing it trail to your right hip

His breath stilled as he didn't mean to see it but now that he had, he couldn't unsee it

That mark... it told a story, the one you never told him

He wasn't sure if he should say something but something in him needed to

"Name.."

Your body jolted hearing the familiar voice call out your name, you spun around halfway as you yanked your shirt back down but it was already too late

Leo's gaze met yours.. calm, steady and wasn't judging - just watching

Even though you tried to play it cool saying "I didn't know you were here, I though you left for patrol"

He nodded "I was meant to but master splinter changed his mind, the others went and I didn't mean to startle you"

You swallows hard and turned away "It's fine, you weren't supposed to see that" He then took a step forward a little bit

"Why?"

You didn't answer but then spoke "It's just a scar" Your arms moved as you hugged yourself "it's not exactly... pretty"

"Does it still hurt" He asks, his voice quiet but firm

You then hesitated, surprised by the question "No.. Not physically"

Leo was silent for a moment then softly spoke "You should've told me you know" That made you look at him "Why?"

"Because I care.." He said simply "And because carrying something like that alone - it's too heavy.. even for someone as strong as you"

Your lips parted, but no words came out, Leo stepped a little bit closer now as he kept his distance respectfully but his eyes held that steady intensity that always made your heart skip

"You think it's something to hide" he said a little bit softer now "But to me? It means you survived something you weren't suppose to and you're still standing strong"

You blinked up at him as your throat tightened

"It's not Gross, that's strength and that's you" This mad your breath to hitch "you don't have to be perfect for me.. you just have to be real and I always choose you, scars and all I don't care"

He then reached up a hand to cup your cheek, the silence between you two stretched but it felt safe.. solid, like he wasn't asking you to open up

Just letting you know that when you were ready, he would be there and listen to o everything

and that?

That was everything for you

RAPHAEL

The lair was somewhat quiet, it was rare and peaceful. You thought you were alone, wrapped up in the stillness after having a quick shower, slipping into your shirt into Raph's room

Your back was to the entrance with the door slight cracked open and for once, you let your guard down

That's when he walked in

Raph had just finished his own training and figured that you'd still be in the kitchen grabbing water or something but the second he stepped into his room, he stopped cold

There it was, the scar along your back

A long, rough line that stretched from your left shoulder to the opposite side of your hip, old and faded but not forgotten. It screamed of something dark, dangerous and painful

And you didn't see him until it was too late, you turned slightly, humming to yourself until you saw him making you freeze on the spot

Your eyes locked on his as panic surged in your chest, thinking that he was going to say something bad about your scar

"Raph!" You gasped, jerking your shirt back down in one quick motion as if that could erase what he just saw just now

"You weren't suppose to - shit - I didn't know if anyone was still here at the lair.."

Your pulse was pounding in your ears, he didn't say anything at first but just stood there, staring, jaw tight and eye unreadable

"It's nothing okay? Just a scar"

"A scar?" he echoed, his voice was low "This ain't just a scar sweetheart"

You couldn't dare to look him in the eyes as you looked down at the floor, your arms were crossed tight over your torso to try and hide "It's old, doesn't matter anymore"

Raph scoffed as he took a steps, his eyes narrowing but not with judgement but with concern "You really think I'm gonna let that slide like it's nothin'? What happened to make you get that"

"I.. I don't wanna talk about it" You said quickly to turn the whole situation down "And I don't need your pity Raph, It's ugly and it happened.. end of story" You snapped

"Ugly" he asks, his voice sounded sharp then stepping now in front of you, close enough to make you back up against the wall

"You think I give a damn about what it looks like?" He asks

You didn't answer as you kept your eyes on the floor

"I've got scars too, ya know" He muttered still looking at you "Plenty.. outside and even some inside, you think that makes me gross?"

Your head snapped up as your eyes are widened "No! Of course not!"

He looked at you with such softness "Then why the hell would you think you think I'd see you like that?" He asked again

You sniffed, Raph's voice dropped, rough but gentle mixed "whatever happened to you.. it left a mark, yeah but you survived it and you're still standin' That don't make you gross - it makes you strong"

He then reached his hand to lift your chin up to look at him once more, there was silence then just as you were about to break it with some joke or half-assed apology, he reached his other hand out and gently took your wrist

Slowly but carefully giving you a chance to pull away if you wanted but you didn

He guided your hand to his own plastron, just over his plastron were some cuts

"We all got pieces of the past that hurt" He said "But you? You don't ever gotta hide yours from me sweets"

That made you lean into him and for once, Raph didn't flinch or play tough, he just held you there

Soild and steady like the world couldn't shake him off of you

And you now believed your scar was worth something

DONATELLO

The lab was warm as it had a glowing blue lights from Donnie's computers and the faint buzz of his electronics

You'd been helping Donnie with some minor tech repairs for his inventions - nothing to crazy right? just passing him some tools, keeping him company while he tinkered away

It was also getting pretty late, you didn't think he'd notice when you peeled off your hoodie which caused your shirt to climb up your back revealing some of your scar

You turned away to fold it and put it on the chair near by, forgetting just how far your shirt just rode up when you moved your hoodie off

You didn't see him stop nor didn't hear the quiet clink of a tool hitting the floor when Donnie looked up and froze

His eyes caught the line of the scar along your back area, a long, pale ling that went down to your hip

That's until he asked you a question "Wha- what's that?" You flinched at the question before slowly turning as you realised it was too late on what he'd already saw of you

"Nothing!" You said, yanking down your shirt quickly "I- I didn't know you were looking"

"Wait- sorry I wasn't like you know staring.. or.. anything, I just looked up and I saw" He confessed

You gave him a small smile that didn't quite reach your eyes "Well now you've seen it, it's gross I know" That caused his expression to shift instantly

Like you'd just spoke in a different language or something

"Gross? No, no wait - that's not.. why would you ever think that?" He asked making you hesitate for a bit

"People don't exactly find that kind of things cute, Don"

Donnie stood up slowly, wiping his hands on a cloth before stepping closer but not too close but close enough to make you feel.. seen

"I know it's not suppose to be cute but it's part of your story isn't it?" He asked making you swallow hard, unsure what to say next

He tucked a finger under his glasses as he adjusted them nervously but then looked back at you

Eyes wide and warm and filled with something that looked like.. admiration..

"I mean.. the fact that you lived enough through something that left a scar like that.. that's not Gross.. that's something strong.. and honestly?" He then paused

Then added a little quieter "I think it makes you even more amazing than I already thought you were" That made you blink up at him

"Even more..?"

He smiled softly "I've always thought you were kind of incredible dove"

Your face flushed with red, just as his did but with a more darker shade of his green skin

Then Donnie got a little bit serious as his voice softened more now "You don't ever have to hide that from me okay? or anything else, I'm not going to judge you or anything like that, I'm not going anywhere"

And somehow in the quiet of his lab, you were surrounded by wires and beeping machine

But you felt safer than you had before

MICHELANGELO

Mikey come back to the room looking for his phone, well more like he thought he left his phone even though he just missed your company and wanted to see you again

He slowed to a stop in the doorway of his room and that's when he spotted you with your back turned to him, lifting up your shirt to wipe some sweat off your face making your back becomes visible to him

And that's when he saw it

A long, jagged scar, fainted in some places of your back, cutting all the way of your back

Trailing down to your right hip and he wondered how long and painful that scar might of been when you got it

It wasn't just a scratch or anything it meant something, pain, a past you never told him about because you were too scared to

His mouth opened to say something but the words were caught, then you turned your head around as your eyes met

Your smiled fell the second you relaized what he might of saw from your back

"Wait! Mikey" You gasped, yanking your shirt down so fast "You.. weren't suppose to see that-"

He stepped forward, slower than usual as a gentleness in his eyes that you weren't used to from anyone before

No teasing, no flirting, just Mikey.. the real Mikey..

"Why didn't tell me?" His voice sounded betrayed but soft, like it hurt to ask

You looked away from him too scared to say anything but spoke up "Because it's ugly. I didn't want you to see me like that and I figured if you knew you'd maybe think I was.. I don't know gross.."

That hit in right in the chest, like a powerful punch

"Whoa whoa whoa! What?" Mikey blinked a couple of times as if he misheard you "Hold up gross? Angelcakes you think that would make me see you as less?" He asked

You shrugged as an answer, not trusting your own voice to speak up for you

Mikey moved closer, careful like you were a piece of fragile art - not because he thought you were weaker but because he respected the hell out of you

He then gently rested a three-fingered hand on your arm "Scars tells stories, angelcakes and to anyone who thinks your scars are ugly.. they never deserved to hear yours in the first place"

You finally looked up at him, reallying looked at him with slight tears forming in your eyes

"You're not Gross, you're badass, you're beautiful and now that I know you've been carrying that alone" He smiled but it was a sad one "You don't have to hold it anymore okay?"

Your heart ached in the best way possible, Mikey just got it

"Okay" You whispered as your two pressed heads together

It was just Mikey standing in front of you as he offered you the kind of comfort only someone who really saw you could give

He looked at more differently now but in the best way and..

That didn't scare you..

-A<3

289 notes · View notes

dontlookatmytmntcollection · 1 year ago

Text

SOCIAL BATTERIES

Do the boys REALLY like people that much?

Character studies.

Going from the most Extroverted to the least.

- 🟠 -

Mikey is THE definition of an extrovert

Suprise, suprise.

I keep thinking about him making fun of Casey constantly, and his fist bump with Vern, or him working the crowd on Halloween. And his eye rolls at Raph and Leo

Can be annoying af and play dumb, but half the time he knows way more than he let's on. And it's SUPER hard to get him angry.

Would be in a fraternity tbh. And like, seven sport teams.

The world is a lesser place with him cooped up away from it.

He's a HUGE teaser and talker. Loves to flirt and prank and play the vibes.

He's a NATRUAL at it

Give him ONE conversation. ONE chance, and he can get literally anyone out of their shell.

Loves having April or Casey or Vern around. Loves teasing them or harassing them tbh.

The bigger his social circle, the better his life.

Is usually a HUGE buffer between humans and his grumpy, tired brothers.

He would be the LIFE of the party. Would be an excellent host of an event, because he'd be everywhere talking to everyone. Remembering everyone by name and face, introducing people to one another, so on and so forth.

He would have multiple friend groups everywhere he goes, with all sorts of different types of people.

Out of his brothers, I see Mikey having the body count tbh

Also probably jumped into a relationship too soon and got hurt early on. He'll be way more ready for the next one.

He has SO MUCH TEXTING TO DO.

His favorite is snap chat.

The BEST out of all his brothers at reading social cues and body language. By FAR.

Can find something to talk about with ANYONE

He's been wishing to socialize his WHOLE LIFE. So he DO!

Probably the only one that can confront and process trauma in a healthy manner.

Not at all afraid of deeper, more meaningful conversations.

Often finds himself the one initiating deep conversations with people who need it the most (his brothers).

He knows there is a time and place for problem solving. And sometimes you just gotta sit with your feels.

Something his brothers STRUGGLE WITH

- 🟣 -

Donatello might not be EXTROVERTED but he is outgoing.

Second to Mikey, everyone in his family has a close relationship with Donnie.

Super caring and fun and inquisitive with everyone he meets.

He'll be down for ANYTHING. Sports, games, cooking, drives, crafts, working out, adventures or pranks or geeky movie nights.

He might not always be good at INICIATING these with strangers but he loves going along with stuff.

Loves showing people his projects and stuff and letting people use them or have them.

Will be there for his friends the instant they ask.

At a party he'd be in another room having a conversation with two or three people.

But I also see him hanging around girls a little more than guys. Finds the girlies to be easier company than guys.

He's been on discord for YEARS. He had human friends before even Mikey did.

But.

He's HYPERVIGALANT of the vibe

Extreme empath.

He does NOT like confrontation.

A HUGE people pleaser.

Feels he's stepping on eggshells around his loved ones and friends. In an effort to keep them happy.

He's a sensitive guy.

If he's told to shut up or be quiet, especially if he's excited or talking outloud- he's modified. He WILL shut up. For a while.

His brothers know this. While they get exasperated sometimes, they rarely interrupt him.

Does NOT like gossip. Don't gossip with him, he hates it

Makes him feel gross and mean.

Hates when people are upset or sad in any way.

When vibes get rough he does not cope well. Often chooses to avoid or straight up leave.

When things get heated he gets overstimulated quickly.

If he can't leave, he shuts down. He won't talk and if he does it's very quiet

Doesn't know how to help or address emotional things either. He prefers to let it go and just move on, leaving stuff unaddressed.

He's an outgoing and pleasant guy, but he definitely doesn't mix with everyone.

- 🔴 -

Meeting Raphael is a terrifying experience.

Because he talks and looks at you like he hates you already.

But he doesn't hate people.

He just sucks at them.

Raph wants a normal life just as badly as Mikey does.

Raphs love language is harassment???

He shows his love by annoying his loved ones. Or through teasing and banter. Or wrestling his bros to the ground or pull them into rough hugs.

However

When he meets new people he isn't there to make FRIENDS.

He's there to let you know that if you bullshit with his family you're gonna get whooped.

So he will posture and glare and tower and maybe even roll his neck or crack knuckles to anyone.

Literally anyone.

Remember how rude he was to April?

So when he can't do any of that- no banter, no pranks, no wrestling and no INTIMIDATING-

He is COMPLETELY at everyone's mercy

Put him in a group of girls, or take him to a party or a bar. ANYTHING out of his comfort zone.

He's very awkward.

Only because he's kinda quiet

And honestly SUPER shy.

Wants to be liked SUPER badly.

He doesn't know how to make friends. At all

Flirt with Raph. I dare you.

You'd terrify him

Is the type of guy at a party to stick to the side of someone he knows and never. Leave. It.

But he finds out he gets along with blue collar guys the most.

And Raph has this super power

He can detect if you're a good or bad character super quickly. Much quicker than everyone else in his family. Like, one conversation in.

Not that he really believes himself. He thinks everyone's out to get him. or his family

If he's not making fun of you, you know he doesn't like you.

Is the type of guy to have quality over quantity relationships.

Hates texting. Honestly hates social media and technology beyond like...insta reels or something. He doesn't like sitting on his phone or video games all the much. Half because he breaks things easily or gets easily frustrated at leaning how to work it.

Rather be doing something active or working on a car or build something or carve stuff.

Might not be as outgoing as Donnie or Mikey, but if people manage to ACTIALLY get him to do something fun, he is ALL IN and having a BLAST.

The kinda guy to crash at his friends house and just chill.

He recharges when he's in proximity of his loved ones. Not always SOCIALIZING but having his people close.

-🔵-

Our REAL introvert

He struggles to socialize even with his BROTHERS

Who are the only people in the world he allows himself to be even semi relaxed around

A conversation with anyone other than his dad and brothers is the opposite of a relaxing/easy activity.

He's honorable, polite, and formal.

But Leo is and EXTREMLY cold character.

Sometimes even a bit cruel and scary to strangers.

Has a weird habit of wrapping his arm kindly around someone he's about to hurt

Struggles to see even April as more than an 'asset' or 'person dad holds dear'

Doesn't see Vern as a friend. Doesn't see Casey as a friend.

Leo is the only turtle April doesn't have a strong connection to. Not out of lack of trying.

Tolerates social situations only if he falls into a leading (controlling) role.

Doesn't like large groups of people.

Very quiet otherwise.

Struggles to initiate activities with his brothers.

He sucks at it.

He is always receptive to when they reach out to him though

And kinda has a fear of getting turned down. Getting turned down by his brothers makes him sick to his stomach.

Not that he admits it.

He also doesn't handle rejection with any grace. Gets just a LITTLE pushy to make you either feel bad or like he's in charge

His brothers still gotta tolerate him being a little bossy and stuck up and a fun-sucker while they hang out with him. They know he can't help it.

But Leo is super relieved every single time they invite him to do something.

What would Leo be like at a party? Leo never WENT to the party. And if he DID, he'd be outside, trying to soak in the quiet. Listening to the party from out here.

or hug him, or just express somehow they still want him around or like him. Or love him. Because those moments are getting rarer and rarer the older they get.

He's completely alone other than his dad. At least he's thought so his whole life

Would be the one petting the cat. Or dog. Not the type to go LOOKING for it, but if it came to him, he would.

Yes, he texts, but never outside of absolute necessity. Or if his brothers remind him of April's birthday.

He likes to read

Even if Donnie, Mikey and Raph are together in the lair having fun, Leo is often by himself somewhere else.

He recharges alone. He does calligraphy and he sketches SOMETIMES. Little stick figures fighting with space guns or something.

But a lot of what he reads are super geeky stuff. Like star wars novels or manga.

But don't tell anyone.

Splinter is his preferred company. He adores time with his dad. He'll spar and train and talk with his dad often.

Doesn't care about having friends but he wants a girlfriend SUPER badly. More than all three of his brothers combined

Being alone with him sucks if you like to talk. He gives you a LOOK that SCREAMS shut the fuck up.

It takes EXTREMLY specific personalities to get Leo a little soft for them. A quiet person with a good sense of humor.

And the likely hood he'll ever get out to find and meet them is next to none existent.

But hey

Even after like, ALL OF THIS

It's not hard to get Leo to smile

#tmnt leonardo #bayverse #leonardo #tmnt bayverse #my writing #tmnt x reader #raphael #donatello #tmnt #tmnt raphael #tmnt donatello #tmnt michelangelo #bayverse tmnt #bayverse leonardo #bayverse donatello #bayverse raphael #bayverse turtles

1K notes · View notes