AdorerodA

His eyes were wide and his expression feigned innocence so well that you almost would have believed it. Had this not been the fourth time in the last week that this very same scenario had happened, that is.

If his clear charade wasn’t the tipoff you needed to confirm your suspicions, it was the fact that he didn’t make a singular comment about you calling him by his full name. Usually when you did, he would automatically be on the defense, whining about how you only ever called him ‘Jay’ or ‘baby’ so something had to be wrong when ‘Jason’ slipped past your lips.

The man didn’t so much as blink as he finished rounding the corner, coming to a stop in front of you and immediately dropping his hands to your hips almost like second nature, “Yeah, sweetheart?” He asked gently, thumbs rubbing unconsciously against the slivers of skin visible at your waist.

You crossed your arms over your chest, clearly unimpressed. For a vigilante raised by the world's greatest detective, he sure wasn’t slick. That much was clear when you watched his gaze dart not-so-subtly to the perch he had set your mug on, and a smug smirk fought its way to be on his lips.

Even as he continued to mindlessly rub soothing circles onto your hips, you remained firm, eyebrows pinched together and lips drawn downwards, “My mug is on the highest shelf. Again.” You spoke, not bothering to keep the accusatory tone to a minimum.

Jason’s lips parted in theatrical shock, swinging his head up to the place you had just mentioned, “God, sweetheart, how did you manage to get it up there?”

Remaining unmoved, you let out a hum of disapproval, eyes narrowing at the way his green eyes snapped to you once more, seeming to enjoy your reaction way too much. You knew him well enough to notice the way he was drinking in every twitch of your eye and muscle tick in your jaw, causing him to attempt to stifle his laughter.

“I didn’t manage to do anything,” You grumbled, hating the way your body was betraying you by slowly melting into his gentle touch little by little, “You always put it up there because you just love when I have to ask you for help.”

He immediately perked up in a way that resembled that of a dog seeking its owner's approval, “You sayin’ you need my help?”

The scowl on your face deepened and you continued to glower at him despite leaning more and more into his warmth with every passing second, “I’m ordering you to get my mug down.”

Jason sent you a wink, “Even better, sweetheart.”

Without breaking eye contact with you- or so much as lifting his heels from off the ground- Jason causally reached one arm up and plucked your beloved mug from its place and delicately delivered it to your hands.

He dropped a quick kiss to the tip of your nose as soon as your hands wrapped around the ceramic, “You’re so cute when you’re mad at me.” His voice was gentle and full of adoration while he gazed down at you as if you hung the stars in the sky.

Ignoring the way he immediately sent butterflies erupting in your stomach at his words, you raised a singular brow his way, “So there was ulterior motive for placing my possessions out of my reach?” You challenged, though there was no bite to your words, “You just like to see me get riled up?”

“Always,” Came his immediate reply, teasing and soft. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“In that case, we’re gonna play a little game of hide and seek with your Red Hood gear.” You poked his chest playfully with your free hand, which wasn’t far away because you had unconsciously moved closer to him, “And I’m going to put it somewhere you can never find it so you can see how it feels.”

Jason’s smile widened, “Now you’re just trying to get me to not go on patrol so I can stay home with you.”

You opened your mouth then closed it, mulling over your thoughts because suddenly, that didn’t seem like too bad of an idea.

He laughed gently, a real laugh that rumbled in his chest and had the corners of his eyes crinkling in the most endearing of ways, “You want me to stay home with you, sweetheart? All you have to do is ask.”

His lips suddenly moved to meet yours in a sweet, unhurried kiss that had those butterflies spurring to life in your stomach once more. Even after all this time of dating, they had never gone away, and you were starting to doubt that they ever really would.

You knew that he would stay by your side tonight if you asked. He would do anything you asked of him.

Spring Shed

"It's gross how excited you are about this," Donatello mumbled and you can’t help but smile a little at his mildly disgruntled protest.

"What? You said you could use some help. I'm helping," you reply, and smile wider when he frowns at your pleased expression.

You can tell that he’s nervous and perhaps a bit hesitant by the way he squirms slightly beneath you, but that was to be expected from him. Genius that he was, he still got adorably bashful over things like this, and straddling him as you were, you squeeze your thighs in a bid to keep him still.

"Yeah, but...this is not a normal thing partners do.” Still frowning, his huff stirred the steam swirling all around you in the bathroom, and in an effort to comfort him you tipped your head up to place a soft, quick kiss along his jaw.

“Shh, just let me enjoy this,” you mutter as your fingers splay out over his skin, searching for the spots that will bring him some relief.

 You determine that your time in the bathroom hasn’t been sufficient and he wasn’t soft enough for you to really work with yet, and because of that you press on his shoulders in a bid to get him to sink lower into the warm bath. With another huff he obliges, sliding down into the extra large soaking pool until only his eyes are above the surface of the water.

It was so typical of him to feel embarrassed about this, you muse. Even after you’d assured him a hundred times over that you did, in fact, love all his turtle quirks. And besides, you’d not been able to see this particular one before, given the timing of your getting together last summer. You’d been around the past spring, sure, but he’d hidden this bit about himself away from you. But now that you were together? Oh, you were so here for this.

Submerged up to his eyes he looked up at you with his brows knitted together. His face had a completely different look when he wasn’t wearing his glasses. He squinted more, for one thing. Farsighted as he was, you knew that squint well, and knew that at this close distance you were really more of a blur to him than anything. His glasses had been safely folded and placed with the rest of your clothes on the old metal patio set he and his brothers kept tucked into the corner of the bathroom. And it really was a ‘bath room’ as its sole feature was the singular giant soaking pool.

Even if he couldn’t see you clearly, that didn’t stop Donnie from taking both of his large, tridactyl hands and sliding them over your thighs until they gripped the swell of your ass.

“Hey now, you know the rules. None of that business in the soaking tub,” you chastise, taking a light swat at the top of his head.

“But you’re really pretty. And you’re naked,” he reasoned. The lower half of his face was still underwater, yet you could somehow just make out the words despite the few bubbles. Donnie emphasised his thoughts by continuing to slide one of those hands up your torso until it cupped your left breast and his low churr began to vibrate the water. The sensation made you inhale sharply through your nose, but you’d grown wise to him. You knew he was trying to distract you and was doing a damn fine job of it and you needed to maintain focus, so you poked him in the forehead between his eyes.

“We can do that later. Right now it’s shedding time and that shoulder cap is so close to coming loose,” you insist.

Glowering in response he blew a few bubbles through his nose before sinking fully below the water, almost like he was hiding from you. You snort softly, trying not to laugh at his pouting.

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” you coax.

“You’re not the one whose skin is peeling off wholesale,” came his distorted voice from at least a foot below the water’s surface and you’re surprised you could make any of it out at all. You threw your hands out in mild exasperation and sent droplets of water flying.

“No, my body just flakes off dead skin cells and hair 365 days of the year and that floats around in the air and you breathe it in and it makes boogers and you have to dust it off furniture. Does that sound better?”

“No…” he grumbles reluctantly and then surfaces again just enough so his head is above water and you watch as his pale third eyelids fold back into the inner corner. He still looks sullen and so adorably cute— that is until he puckers his lips and squirts a stream of water at you and you splutter as it catches you straight on the chin. Then he submerges again, the cheeky bastard, and you know he can hold his breath for way longer than you’re willing to wait for him.

“Come on,” you bargain, wiping water off of your face. “The sooner it’s done the sooner we can go back to your room and I’ll let you have your way with me. And you’ll be free of that tight, itchy skin.”

For a moment you stare down into the water and wonder if he’s going to resurface again, but a few seconds later he does, looking resigned.

“Fine,” he drawls out and you take his face in your hands and lean in to kiss him right on that soft spot you love between the nostrils of his flat nose.

“I promise I’ll be gentle,” you tease and earn an honest to goodness snort of laughter from him.

Holding his face now, you could see that it too was still peeling a little, but only along his jaw and the outer edges of his wide cheeks. He’d already told you how he’d scrubbed at it hard before you arrived because he didn’t want you to see it at its worst. Which was silly because you planned to be with this man until death did you part and there were a lot of springs that would happen between now and then, universe willing. Maybe next year he’d feel comfortable enough letting you see all of his struggles, you hoped.

The greyish colored layer of skin was getting water logged now and you carefully pinched a bit at his jaw and found that it pulled away with ease. It sticks a little to the pads of your fingers, and for whatever reason you lift it closer to your eyes to look at it. However, when you refocus beyond your fingertips you see that Donnie is squinting at you and his mouth is set in a rather grim line.

“You’re just as handsome as ever,” you reassure, leaning forward to place the bit of skin in the designated bio-waste container Donnie had brought. He huffs again and tries to believe you.

With him finally ready to begin you reach around his shell for the clean loofa that’s resting on the towel. You note that the temperature in the bathroom is almost as warm as the water and you can feel sweat beading along your hairline as you slide back in and resettle yourself in Donnie’s lap.

“You just tell me if whatever I’m doing hurts or anything,” you encourage as you wet the loofa and slowly press it against his cheek. His eyes slide closed at the contact, and with his churr starting up again he surrenders to you, slowly tilting his head to the side to give you better access. His hands also return to your ass, but you don’t protest this time.

Donnie had put on some brand of lo-fi beats to play in the background, and relaxing to the music and the warmth you slowly began to work. Because he’d told you before, you knew it was painful and actually detrimental to try to remove any skin that wasn’t ready to be shed yet, so you concentrated only on the cooperative bits you found. With gentle swipes you encouraged the now soggy, translucent bits of skin to break free and carefully place each piece in the container for incineration later. Donnie was fastidious in that way, at least.

You continued to work, but after a short time you found that your fingers and fingernails were actually more efficient at coaxing the shedding skin away. Donnie shifted around a little when you switched methods, but eventually settled again with an almost strained sigh. You quickly found that small circular motions worked better than gentle prodding, and when you managed to work off a particularly large chunk from his left shoulder you felt somewhat triumphant. It was then that you realized you were probably enjoying this entirely too much.

You glance up to check in with Donnie, but his eyes are closed with his head lolled back on the towel he was using as a pillow. He’d rolled it up and wedged it between his neck and shell and it looked comfortable enough. With his head arched back like that you could see the thick column of his throat clearly, but more importantly you could see all the new bright undulating stripes of dark green and creamy yellow across his skin. They were what was beneath all this shedding skin, and while they were something he grumbled about, you adored them. He’d explained once that they were ‘an evolutionary sign of his virility’ and ‘highly embarrassing’. You thought they were beautiful, however, and secretly mourned their loss when they faded with the coming of summer.

“Look at those handsome stripes. I missed them,” you cooed as you leaned forward to kiss his throat, and as you did you felt his muscles work when he swallowed thickly. His churr grew louder then, too, and his progressively restless hands continued to slowly caress your naked skin under the water. “Don’t get yourself worked up. I’m not done yet,” you admonish lightly before pulling back to resume your task of working the layer of greyish skin on his right shoulder cap loose with your thumbnail.

“Honeymoon phase over already, hmm?” He cracked a smile as he let his thumbs press into your inner thigh, just shy of the juncture of your legs. When you do a little wiggle to dislodge him and his distracting intentions his grin gets wider and he slowly opens his eyes and turns his head to try and watch you, but you are entirely too close for his farsighted eyes. So instead he leans forward and kisses your shoulder and breathes in the scent of you.

“Shh. Just a few more minutes, I’ve almost got this,” you murmur placatingly. You’ve been at this for perhaps thirty minutes now and you can tell he’s about ready for this to be done, but you’re so close to working his shoulder shed off in one huge piece. You just need a bit more time. Carefully your thumbnail works in those small circular motions and you feel a little more of the skin separate with satisfaction.

Huh, maybe there was something wrong with you, after all. You really shouldn't be enjoying this that much.

Don groaned with affectionate exasperation as he let his head fall back onto the folded towel again at the same time you hit a ‘not ready’ spot and he lightly hisses at the sting. You apologize, but undeterred move on to a different area.

“I love you,” he smiled tenderly as you continued to work the loose, soggy flap of skin off.

“I love you, too,” you reply automatically, eyes remaining fixated on the task.

He gives your ass one more squeeze as he resigns himself to sit there until you are through. His tone is teasing as he says, “You know you’re still gross for enjoying this, right?”

And you laugh at yourself, because it’s true.

It was sweltering. Sweat dripped down your back, collected on your chest, made your inner elbows and the backs of your knees sticky. You had been holed up in your apartment trying to escape the heat, but the paper fan you’d made did nothing to stand up to the way the sun penetrated the ozone and threatened to melt the earth’s crust. Night was worse. Somehow instead of cooling down everything became hotter. It was getting colder incrementally and you clung to the hope that the suffocating summer heat would ease off into a more agreeable temperature. You fanned yourself with the flimsy paper fan you’d folded, lying flat on your bed. The shower you’d taken had helped some, rinsing the sweat from your body and relieving you of the relentless stickiness; the idea of going to the local store and climbing into the deep freezer remained an appealing idea in spite of the cold shower. You hadn’t used your phone in fear of it overheating and you had no energy in you to get up and go find something to do that didn’t involve lying on your bed. You groaned. The plans you had made with April and a couple of your other friends had been postponed to when the weather was a little more agreeable and you were in a bitter mood because of it. Sighing and rolling onto your stomach so your back could have some reprieve from the heat building up between your skin and the sheets, you blindly patted around on your bed for your phone. It blinked at you. You stared at your lock screen for a long while. Your phone stuttered, then the screen went black. With a great heave, you decided you were going to drop in unannounced on the turtles.

Underground the heat was almost worse. You had expected it to be cooler, but remembered that the sun was glaring down at the roads too and had likely sank the heat deep into the ground. You were in the skimpiest clothes you could find. Still, your body protested at the feel of the fabric against your skin and the way it retained your body heat; you had seriously debated showing up with nothing on but reminded yourself that was very definitely a bad idea. You tugged at the neck of your cami top, attempting to get the air to flow between your body and the fabric. Your shorts were clinging uncomfortably to your ass. You tugged awkwardly to get them to sit better as you entered the lair. Thankfully it looked like there was an aircon system and you almost sank to your knees in relief at the sight. God bless Donnie and his ingenuity. As you continued further in you caught sight of Raph and Mikey lounging on the couch. Mikey was upside down, half on the couch and half off it. Several fans surrounded him and he looked relaxed. You were half sure he was asleep. Raph was struggling a little more, lying flat on his stomach and shuffling every five minutes. You decided not to disturb them. You took a look at the dojo and saw Leo meditating- or rather- attempting to meditate. His eyes snapped open the second he felt your presence and he shifted, standing and walking over to greet you.

“When did you get here?”

“Literally five minutes ago. I’m sorry for not texting, but it’s just…” You tugged again at the front of your top and breathed out heavily, signifying your exhaustion. Leo nodded in agreement.

“Don’t worry, you can stay. This heat is starting to get outta hand.” Leo seemed to register your clothing choice only then and awkwardly moved his gaze back up so as to be respectful. You weren’t the type to usually wear such showy clothing and it had taken him by surprise for a second, he had a vague feeling your apartment didn't have an ac unit if you had resorted to going out of your comfort zone. He frowned, wondering if he could ask Donnie to lend you a fan. Knowing his little brother he’d probably offer to the second he saw you. You smiled and gestured to where Donnie’s lab was.

“I’ll go bug Donnie. Um… If you need a fan in here I think Mikey has a couple spares.” You chuckled and Leo sighed heavily, no doubt cursing Mikey for hogging them all.

You padded towards the lab. There was a hopeful muted whirring sound that told you Donnie’s lab was going to be colder than the rest of the lair and you hurried your footsteps. Sweat was already collecting down the back of your neck again. You entered slowly. Donnie was hunched over at his worktop, seemingly trying to break off a rusty screw from a spare part. You knocked on the wall to let him know you were there.

“Hey, Donnie.”

Donnie swivelled around immediately. “Hey y/n. What brings you here?” You took a few more steps in and were hit by a rush of cool air. You spotted the fan-like device behind you and breathed out in relief. “That. That’s what brings me here. Oh my god that feels so good.” Donnie tried not to smile. His eyes very slowly dropped to your clothing choice and it took a minute to register what exactly you had on. The amount of skin showing was the complete opposite to what he’d expected to see and he struggled to reconcile with it for a moment before swallowing and hurriedly looking down. He fidgeted with the spare part in his hands. “You’re uh- well, you’re free to stay in here. I’m just working on something.”

You gratefully bounced over to the spare seat and rolled it closer to where Donnie was sitting so you’d be in line with the cold air too. You shuffled your hips back on the stool, collapsing forward with your head on your arms on his worktop. It was fortunately cold, you refrained from rubbing your cheek against it. A pleased sound escaped you. “This is heaven. I should’ve come down here sooner…”

Donnie was trying not to look, he really, really was, but your top rode up when you’d flopped forward on his desk and revealed a strip of skin between your top and shorts. It sparkled with a thin sheen of sweat. Your thighs shifted on the seat to space out a little and Donnie very determinedly returned to his work. The spot where you’d pressed your face warmed slightly after a while and you huffed, lifting your face from your arms so you could swivel around on your stool and face the fan, leaning your back against the edge of the desk. The cool air got rid of the sticky feeling temporarily. You pulled down the already treacherously low neckline of your top in an attempt to get the air to hit your chest. The sweat slicked valley between your tits glistened in the sterile white lighting of the lab. Your nipples showed through your top due to the contrasting temperatures and Donnie had completely lost focus. Who was he kidding? Now that he’d noticed, he couldn’t exactly un-notice. It was like trying not to notice got him to notice harder. Way harder. You tilted your head back to take a look at what he was doing and he froze halfway through his half assed tinkering.

“You hot?”

Donnie almost choked. Then he computed the questioning tone to your voice and shook himself out of it with a grimace.

“I’m fine. We’re actually supposed to do better with hotter temperatures. Turtles’ basking temperatures in the wild, especially Trachemys scripta are meant to be in the 90s, Fahrenheit wise.”

He was trying to tell you the information as casually as he normally would, but internally he was struggling. New York was going through a heatwave and it was a given that you’d dress to combat it but he was malfunctioning every time you held your hair up off your sweaty neck or tugged the front of your top. Any more of that and he was about to lose it. You nodded. Suddenly you scooted closer to the purple turtle, reaching to link your arm with his. You were still facing the opposite direction, but you leaned back to talk to him better.

“You feel cold! That’s so unfair. I’ve been sweating my ass off, Don.”

Donnie was stock still. Your tits were pressing up against his arm. Your slightly sticky skin was flush with his. The side of your thigh knocked against his own. Your voice had a pouty, whiny tone to it that sent shivers through his body. He prayed to every deity he knew of and then some that he wouldn’t lose it. What had you said? Something about… what was unfair? You looking like that was unfair. Get a grip Donnie, he mentally chided himself. He swallowed down the excess saliva in his mouth. Shit. Respond. She asked a question, now it’s your turn. All you, Donnie. Respond.

“Mikey put Orange crush in the freezer. We could go grab one,” Donnie murmured. His voice had come out lower than normal. You nodded, detangling your arm from Donnie’s and pushing yourself up.

“Sweet!”

Donnie was never recovering. You were sitting on his bed, eating slushy-textured orange crush and talking about your latest uni assignment and the movie adaptation of a comic you both liked. Donnie couldn’t tear his eyes away. You. On his bed. In next to nothing. His blanket was between your thighs. Those sheets were going to smell like you after you left and oh shit. Oh crap. Donnie was actually getting hard. He hurriedly stood up, saying something about needing the bathroom and leaving you there with the trailer to the movie you had both been talking about playing in the background.

Donnie slammed the door shut and turned on the shower. The cold water did nothing. The thought of your nipples showing through your top had him dropping then and there. Why had you been so touchy today? Logically it would’ve made more sense for you to stay as far away as possible to minimise the heat. He groaned. The memory of your shiny chest and your pleased sighs when the cold air of the fan had hit you had him twitching. His face burned and he cursed a thousand times. This was so inconvenient.

▹▹▹

Donnie returned with a very complicated expression on his face to find you with a glass of water. You immediately offered it to him with a concerned expression on your face. “You okay? Drink some water if you’re not feeling well.”

Donnie sat back down next to you and took the water. He stared down at it, almost guilty for a second. “Thank you. You didn’t need to-“

“Don’t be silly. Drink.” I also grabbed us some chips. Mikey was about to take the last bag.” You pushed the open bag towards him and his eyes flickered up to meet yours. Yeah, he was a goner. Thank goodness he’d just stood under the cold water until his problem had dissipated or he definitely would never have been able to look you in the face again. You sidled up to him to grab a couple chips yourself. Donnie sighed. One of these days he swore he was going to man up and tell you how he felt. Maybe when it was less hot.

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.

It started as a fluke.

You, an amateur radio operator and tech support agent burning the midnight oil, had been scanning dead airwaves to test a newly built receiver. You were looking for a little white noise. Instead, you picked up an encrypted, distorted frequency that shouldn’t have existed on any civilian or military band. You had poked at the encryption, curious.

You didn’t expect it to poke back.

He had been patching a security grid after what he vaguely described as a ‘hostile raid by ninja-themed domestic terrorists.’ Intrigued by your stubborn, scrappy little firewall, he bypassed it in exactly twelve seconds and hacked directly into your audio feed just to chat. His first words to you were: “Your encryption is garbage, but your logic gates are fascinating. Who taught you how to code a tertiary bypass like that?”

From that night on, the digital divide became your shared universe.

You have an entirely digital relationship with a brilliant man you know only as Donnie.

He keeps you company during late-night projects. He knows your voice, your laugh, and your erratic sleep schedule. Knows you chew on your pen when a server crashes, and that you hum when you’re compiling code.

You, in turn, know the rapid click-clack of his keystrokes, the timbre of his voice, and the way his breath hitches when he solves a particularly grueling equation.

But you have never seen his face.

Whenever you suggest a video call, or a coffee topside, the invisible wall slams down. He claims his reality is ‘too complicated’ for a civilian. He speaks of his appearance with self-deprecating bitterness, hinting at massive scale and mutations. He is terrified that if you see the monster he believes himself to be, the connection you share will shatter.

He would rather stay far away than risk losing the one person who makes him feel tethered to the world.

To him, the ping of your IP address, the sound of your voice over the comms—it’s starlight to him. A distant, beautiful beacon in the dark that he chases night after night, wondering if the isolation of his life is worth it anymore, until you log on and electrify his world all over again.

Tonight, the glow of that starlight is cast in the harsh purple of his custom interface on your screen. Rain lashes against your apartment window, obscuring the city lights. But inside, the only thing that matters is the voice in your ear.

“You’re overthinking the sequence again.” There is a faint sound of typing on his end. “Re-route the tertiary node. It bypasses the local provider’s bottleneck entirely.”

You sigh, leaning back in your desk chair, stretching your arms over your head as you stare at the glowing lines of code cascading down your monitor. “You make it sound easy. Not all of us have a supercomputer wired into our skull, Donnie.”

A low chuckle vibrates in your ear. It is a sound you have grown completely addicted to. It’s a warm, resonant sound that settles deep in your chest, dispelling the quiet loneliness of your empty apartment.

“I don’t have it wired in,” Donnie replies, amusement coloring his tone. “It’s a wearable headset. Custom rigged. Upgraded it last Tuesday. Though Mikey did spill an entire can of soda on the main processor yesterday, so I’m currently running on a prayer, three external batteries, and spite.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Remind me to send Mikey a bill for my heart palpitations. If you drop off the grid again without warning like last week, I’m going to assume your tech finally exploded.”

“Hey, the explosion was contained. Mostly.” The affection in his voice is palpable, a warm blanket wrapped around the digital frequency. “Besides, I’d never just fade away on you. I promise.”

“Never fade away,” you echo softly, smiling at the screen. “I’m holding you to that.”

For a moment, there is only the comfortable silence of shared digital space and the distant sound of his breathing over the mic. It’s peaceful.

Then, Donnie’s voice cuts out.

It isn’t a gentle disconnect, more like a harsh snap to static. The interface on your monitor suddenly freezes, stuttering before flashing a blinding amber. A metallic alarm blares from your desktop speakers, the sound tearing through the quiet tranquility of your bedroom.

“Donnie?” You sit bolt upright, your fingers flying across the keyboard to run a diagnostic before tapping the side of your earbud. “Hey, the grid just threw a critical error. Donnie, do you read me?”

“[Static] … out … get out of the … [Static] …”

His voice cuts through the interference. But it is entirely stripped of its usual calm, analytical composure. It’s frantic. Terrified.

“Donnie, what’s happening? My firewall is—”

“They traced the signal bounce,” his voice roars through the static, a desperate sound that makes your blood run cold. “The rogue mercs from the Foot faction. They recognized the military-grade hardware I installed on your server. They tracked the IP. They’re on your floor—”

A deafening boom shakes the drywall of your apartment, cutting off his warning. The impact vibrates through the floorboards, rattling your teeth.

The front door splinters inward with explosive force, the deadbolt tearing entirely out of the frame. Heavy, tactical boots stomp onto your linoleum. Flashlights slice through the darkness of your hallway as silhouettes move with professional speed. The shouts of men echoing in your quiet home sound like a nightmare ripped into reality.

You stumble backward out of your chair in blind panic, the wire of your earbud snagging and ripping from your ear. It drops to the floor, emitting a high-pitched, desperate whine. You hit the wall of your bedroom, your eyes wide, breath completely trapped in your throat.

A mercenary rounds the corner into your bedroom. He wears black tactical armor, and a ballistic mask obscures his face. He raises an assault rifle, the laser-sight painting a bright, steady red dot directly onto your chest.

“Secure the asset,” a harsh voice barks from down the hall.

The red dot centers perfectly on your sternum. A black hole of terror opens in your stomach. All the hopes, the late-night conversations, the quiet laughter—it’s all about to be snuffed out in a fraction of a second. You brace your back against the wall, your hands pressing flat against the paint. You close your eyes.

The glass window behind the mercenary explodes. A million glittering shards of glass erupt into the bedroom, catching the ambient amber light of your monitor like a shower of falling starlight—and a towering silhouette appears, entirely blotting out the moonlight.

A sweeping arc hisses through the air. A metal staff connects with the mercenary’s chest with a heavy crunch, sending the man flying backward as if he weighed nothing at all. The mercenary crashes through your bedroom drywall, disappearing into a cloud of plaster dust in the hallway.

Everything happens so fast.

Flashbangs go off in the corridor, blinding white light strobing through the dust. Smoke fills the room, thick and acrid, and the air hums with the high-voltage zap of electro-shock charges.

Two more men rush the bedroom door, rifles raised, but the giant shape moves with physics-defying agility. He spins the staff before employing a localized EMP blast. A wave of crackling energy ripples outward, frying the mercenaries’ night-vision goggles and the tactical lights on their rifles instantly. The room plunges into shadows.

The towering figure doesn’t hesitate.

He steps forward and grabs the nearest mercenary by the vest with one hand, lifting the grown man entirely off the floor before hurling him into the opposite wall. He sweeps the staff down, catching the second man behind the knees, dropping him instantly before a swift, blunt strike to the helmet renders him completely unconscious.

Within ten seconds, the apartment goes completely silent, save for the settling debris.

You are on your knees by the side of your bed, your hands shielding your head, your heart hammering against your ribs. The adrenaline in your veins feels like liquid fire. You’re gasping for air, the reality of your near-death colliding with the destruction of your bedroom.

Slowly, shakily, you lower your arms. The smoke begins to clear, pulled outward by the chilly night draft flowing in from the completely shattered window. Standing in the center of your ruined bedroom, surrounded by unconscious mercenaries and pulverized drywall, is your rescuer.

Standing at an immense height, he’s easily almost seven feet tall. In addition to glasses, he’s wearing what seem to be tech goggles over his eyes. He’s also equipped with various tech, with devices mounted on the back of his shell. He scans the room with his goggles, calculating for any remaining threats as he pants.

Then, the lenses lock onto you, huddled on the floor—and he freezes.

The violent, unstoppable force of nature that had just dismantled a highly trained strike team in mere seconds instantly vanishes. And a sudden, heart-wrenching stillness takes its place. He goes completely rigid. The staff in his hand lowers, the tip resting against the floorboards.

Slowly, he presses a button on his wrist gauntlet before tapping his goggles. The goggles disengage and slide upward, resting securely on his forehead. Underneath the tech, his eyes are an incredibly expressive hazel behind a pair of glasses. They look astonishingly human against his reptilian features.

He looks down at his massive, three-fingered hands, which are trembling slightly. He looks at the shattered glass raining across your carpet, at the unconscious men he broke to get to you, and finally, his gaze returns to you.

A profound wave of insecurity washes over his face. He shrinks in on himself, his broad shoulders curling forward to minimize his massive frame. He actually takes a half-step backward, retreating toward the broken window, as if he fully expects you to scream.

“I-I’m sorry,” he whispers.

You recognize the voice immediately.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he stammers, his hands twitching at his sides, wanting to reach for you but terrified of his own strength. “I’m a … I know what I look like. But they were going to hurt you, and the math didn’t give me time to call my brothers, and I couldn’t—I’m sorry. I’ll go. I’ll help fix things here and I’ll disappear—”

“Donnie.” You speak his name aloud in the physical world for the very first time.

The sound of his name on your lips stops his frantic, analytical spiraling dead in its tracks. His jaw snaps shut. His eyes widen behind his glasses, tracking your movements with breathless anticipation.

You don’t scream. You don’t scramble away.

Slowly, you push yourself up from the floor. Your legs are a little shaky from the fading adrenaline, your breath still coming short, but you don’t retreat. You step over the shattered glass, past the broken drywall. You walk right toward Donnie, who practically fell from the sky to save your life.

Donnie stands entirely rigid as you step into his personal space. Up close, the scale of him is breathtaking. He holds his breath as he looks down at you, terrified. You reach out, your hand trembling slightly, but your gaze never leaves his eyes. You gently place your palm flat against the green skin of his forearm, right above his gauntlet.

The moment your skin touches his, the digital barrier that separated you for four months disappears.

Donnie looks down at your small hand resting against his much bigger arm. His eyes wide with an emotion so intense, so overwhelmingly pure, that it makes his throat click. He swallows hard.

As if you were made of spun glass, he turns his wrist slowly and carefully.

His hand turns upward, and he gently curls his hand around yours. His palm, calloused and rough, bears the friction from his staff and the edges of his tools. He doesn’t pull you in—he is still far too terrified of his own strength, too afraid he might break you—but he holds onto your hand like you’re the most precious thing he has ever been allowed to touch.

He just wanted to hold you. For months, across the endless miles of cables and frequencies, this was the only thing he truly wanted.

“You’re offline,” you whisper, a small, breathless smile breaking through the shock on your face. You look up, craning your neck to meet his eyes and squeeze his fingers. You aren’t afraid. Matter of fact, you’ve never felt safer in your entire life.

A brilliant smile breaks across Donnie’s face. The tension drains out of him in a rush, his shoulders finally dropping. He squeezes your hand back. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice dropping back into that soft, late-night timbre you know by heart. “I’m right here.”

You step closer, closing the final inch between you and press your forehead gently against his chest harness. You can hear the steady, powerful thumping of his heart beneath his plastron. With a shaky exhale, Donnie lets go of his staff. It clatters to the floor, forgotten.

He brings his arms around you, wrapping you in an all-encompassing embrace. He tucks you against his chest, shielding you from the wind, the shattered glass, and the chaos of the night. A long, shuddering sigh of pure relief escapes him as he gently buries his face in your hair.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, his arms tightening just a fraction, holding you like he will never, ever let you go. “I’m not going away. I promise.”

You close your eyes, wrapped entirely in his warmth, and the beat of his heart.

In hindsight, he should've seen it coming.

"Oh, we'd absolutely love to." Yelena had drawled. Her voice was positively sunny, her grin wolfish and pleased. "Bucky never even thought to invite us over."

And he genuinely never would have. But you, his wife, wanted it, and so he made it happen, with his hands tied behind his back and his mouth stitched into a docile, agreeable smile. For you only, of course.

The others, not so much.

But at least it was over. And, he thought begrudgingly to himself, not entirely horrible. You were, for reasons unclear to him, utterly charmed. Yelena made you laugh, and Alexei tided you over with a barrage of nonsensical anecdotes. Bob brought some sort of dessert that turned your eyes to hearts. Ava was…Ava, which suited you just fine, and John wasn't too much of an asshole, so, okay, whatever. You were happy with how it went.

And he was very happy with the silence that currently reigned over the house, a blanket of complete and utter quiet save for the sound of Alpine's purring across his lap. That is, until your voice drifted out, muffled through the bathroom door.

"Bucky?"

His blood froze to ice. You sounded agitated, the syllables sharp and thorny through the wood. He immediately stood, crossed your bedroom in two long strides, and dragged his knuckles across the door in a cursory knock before pushing it open.

You were in those clingy, cotton pajamas of yours, frowning, lips pursed, one hand holding on to something at the nape of your neck.

"What?" He managed.

"My hair's caught in my necklace. Can you…?"

He nodded, once, a jerky cut of his chin through the air, and stepped in behind you. Bucky wet his dry lips. Gently, he nudged your hand away and took a look at the necklace. Its chain was trapped beneath a small knot made by your hair. He started unraveling it.

His fingers set to work, careful and steady, but his thoughts were occupied. Eventually, though, he worked the necklace free and unclasped it.

A sigh of relief left you. Bucky leaned over you to place the necklace on the counter; you turned to face him, your arms curling around his neck, mouth open in a smile that suddenly collapsed halfway through.

"What's with the frown, handsome?" You tilted your head, your own brows furrowing.

The petname put him a little at ease. He shifted, but couldn't get far with your arms around his neck. That eased him, too.

Bucky's voice was almost a whisper. "You're not upset with me, are you?"

"What—?" Your face scrunched in confusion.  "James, no. Why would I be?"

His spine went soft with relief. Exhaling, he took your face in both his hands. "Please," he breathed, "never call me that again."

"What?" You murmured again. The furrow then loosened between your brows, a laugh brightening your expression as you realized. "Bucky?" You guessed, grinning at the pained look on his face.

"Please, doll."

"You're so dramatic," you said fondly.

He made a low, wounded sound in his throat.

You laughed, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "It's cute," you insisted. "Makes you sound all cuddly. All of your friends call you that."

"They're not my friends," he said automatically.

"I thought I'd try it, too," you continued as if he hadn't spoken, still grinning. He really couldn't see what was so funny. It was physically painful to him, an axe hacking its way through his chest.

You were the only one who called him by his given name; you always had been, since day one. He liked the sound of it in your mouth, private and sweet and just for him, just from you, your James.

Sometimes, when you were teasing, you called him Barnes. When he was getting a scolding, it was the whole, James Buchanan Barnes, just like his mother used to, and he'd find himself going so soft he'd have no rebuttal for whatever it was, only, yes Ma'am, sorry, sorry, sorry, dotted in kisses across your face.

"Don't call me that again," he begged quietly, a desperate, desperate plea.

You pressed your forehead to his, a softer smile tugging at your mouth. "Why not?"

"'Cause it's not my name," he murmured. "Not to you."

He felt your fingers sifting through his hair. Your lips ghosting over his.

"James."

He hummed, kissing you. "Baby. That's right."

The smell of a new book and fresh coffee always made you happy.

You were curled up in your favorite armchair, legs tucked under you, a hardcover open in your lap. Across the room, Bucky was sprawled on the couch, pretending to watch a baseball game but actually watching you. The way your eyes moved rapidly over the pages, the little smile that tugged at your lips when a line hit just right, the way you'd occasionally look up, mouth already opening to share something—he lived for that.

"Okay, so," you said, not even checking if he was listening, because he always was, "the protagonist just discovered that the mysterious letters she's been getting aren't from her dead husband. They're from the lighthouse keeper… who she's never met. And he's been in love with her for years, just watching her from across the cliffs."

Bucky's eyebrow lifted. "That's… romantic? Or terrifying?"

"Romantic," you said firmly, pointing a finger at him. "It's about longing, Bucky."

He chuckled. "If I sent you anonymous letters from across the cliffs, you'd call the cops."

"You'd never writ anonymous letters. Your handwriting is too distinctive. Very 1940's penmanship."

He grinned, stretching his arms over his head. "I'll take that as a compliment."

This was your routine. You read, you rambled, he listened and asked questions that proved he was paying attention, remembering characters' names and plot twists better than you did sometimes. And whenever he came home from a mission or a trip to the city, more often than not, he'd have a paper bag in his hand with a new book inside—something he spotted in a shop window, or that the cashier recommended, or that just "looked like one of your covers with the swirly letters".

So when a new book arrived in your life—not from Bucky, but from your friend Darcy, who slid it across the coffee shop table with a wicked grin—you weren't prepared.

"Trust me," Darcy said, tapping the cover. "It's dark romance, super popular. Very steamy. You'll thank me later."

You laughed it off, tucking the book into your bag. You read everything; how bad could it be?

Turns out, bad wasn't the word.

You understood why Darcy recommended you that book. The male lead was a sergeant in the middle of the war. He ran his command like he owned it, bent rules until they broke in his favor and never once apologized for either. The heroine called him sergeant, even when they were in bed.

You got five chapters in before your face caught fire. The book wasn't just spicy… it was a five-alarm blaze. The brooding, morally gray love interest had a very intense way of doing things. The filthy way he talked to the main character felt criminal to read in your own living room. Every other page seemed to hold a scene that made your heart hammer and your thighs press together. It was thrilling. It was also deeply, deeply embarrassing.

Your usual sticky note system wasn't equipped for this. Blue for sad? No. Pink for fluff? Absolutely not. Yellow for funny? Definitely not. You found yourself staring at your little rainbow of tabs, feeling a blush creep up your neck, before finally rummaging through your desk drawer for a forgotten pad of red sticky notes. Red, you decided, would be the new code. For scenes that made you feel hot all over. For lines you'd never ever read aloud.

You read smut, but this was a whole new level. It was different from the vanilla, corny sex you were so used to—even in real life.

That evening, when Bucky came in from his run, all sweat-damp hair and soft gray henley clinging to his shoulders, you slammed the book shut so fast you nearly cracked the spine.

"Hey, beautiful." He leaned down to kiss the top of your head. "What are you reading now? Another mystery novel?"

"Nothing!" you squeaked, stuffing the book between the couch cushions. "Just—a thing. For book club. It's so boring."

Bucky froze mid-straighten, his sharp blue eyes narrowing just a little. You never said a book was boring. You could find something to love about a magazine article, and you've never hidden one from him before. He catch the flash of vivid red before the book disappeared. He knew all your tabs, and he'd never seen red before. "That a new color?"

"No," you said, far too quickly. "It's.. just a different genre. Not really discussion material."

"You told me about that nonfiction book on medieval cat paintings for forty-five minutes."

"Well, that was fascinating."

"So is this one, I bet," he said, his voice going full teasing-mode. His eyes lingered on the edge of the cushion where a single red tab peeked out like a guilty secret. "Looks like it's got a lot of highlights. New category?"

You grabbed the cushion and hugged it to your chest, blocking his view. "No category, no highlights. Just a boring book."

"Uh-huh." He didn't push, just hummed and went to grab a glass of water, but that red tab was burned into his mind.

Over the next few days, he noticed a pattern. You'd be reading completely absorbed, a glass of wine on the nightstand and that book bristling with red tabs—until you heard his footsteps. Then it would slide under the blanket, or flip face-down, or get casually covered with your phone. Once, he walked in and you literally shoved it into the pillowcase.

"Smooth," he commented dryly, hiding a smile.

"I was… fluffing the pillows."

"Right, with a novel."

The breaking point came on a quiet Thursday evening.

You were taking a shower and Bucky came in to grab his charger and stopped dead.

There it was. The book. Sitting innocently on your nightstand, no longer hidden, just waiting. And it was stuffed with red sticky notes. They fanned out from the pages at every angle, a scarlet forest of tiny paper flags. He'd never seen a book of yours marked this heavily—not even your all-time favorites. Curiosity coiled in his stomach.

He knew he shouldn't. He really, truly knew.

But there was a brand new category he didn't understand, and you've been blushing for five days straight, and god forbid, he was only human.

With a guilty glance toward the bathroom door, where the sound of running water and your off-key humming filtered through, Bucky picked up the book. It fell open easily to one of the red tabbed pages, the spine already creased from being held there. The sticky note had a tiny, hastily-drawn flame sketched on it.

His eyes found the highlighted paragraph. The scene unfolded in stark, vivid detail. The sergeant had the heroine bent over the sturdy oak desk in his quarters, one large hand fisted in her hair to keep her chest pressed flush against the wood. She was gasping, completely at his mercy as he took control with slow, punishing thrusts.

"That's it," he growled against her ear, voice low and authoritative. "Take what your sergeant gives you. You don't get to come until I say so." She whimpered, fingers scrambling for purchase, but he only tightened his grip. "Say it. Tell me who owns this pretty little body right now." "You do, sergeant," she moaned, voice trembling with desperate pleasure.

Bucky's mouth went dry. His pulse kicked up hard. The two of you had always kept things gentle and loving—slow kisses, tender touches, vanilla nights that left you both smiling and wrapped around each other. He'd held back the rougher edges of himself, not wanting to overwhelm you. But this… this was what you've been blushing over for days? The realization sent a sharp jolt of heat through him, tangled with that quiet thread of guilt for snooping.

He closed the book carefully and set it back exactly as he found it, just as the shower turned off.

You stepped out a few minutes later in nothing but your favorite robe, hair damp and skin flushed from the hot water. The second you saw him sitting there—trying (and failing) to look casual—you knew something was off.

"Why do you look like the cat that ate the canary?" You asked, eyes narrowing even as a flush crept up your neck.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish little smile breaking through. "Well… I wouldn't say the book is boring, sweetheart. I'm surprised you're into this… and you didn't tell me." He nodded toward the nightstand. "Sergeant, huh? Lots of red tabs on that one."

Your face ignited. "Bucky—"

He crossed the room slowly, stopping just in front of you. "Hey… If you want me to drop it, I will. But if you're into it… if you want me to give you what that book's been making you crave, I'm right here. You're okay with that gorgeous?"

Your heart hammered. The way he was looking at you sent liquid heat pooling low in your belly. "I… yeah. I'm okay with it."

"Good girl," he murmured, the praise sending a shiver down your spine. His fingers slipped through the belt of your robe, tugging it open with slow intent. The fabric slipped down your arms and pooled at your feet, leaving you bare in front of him. His gaze dragged over you, dark and hungry, before he cupped your chin and tilted your face up. "On your knees, sweetheart."

You sank down obediently, the carpet soft under you. Bucky stood tall, looking every bit the sergeant from those pages, gray Henley trenched across his broad chest. He thread his fingers into your damp hair, gripping firmly enough to send sparks across your scalp. "Open that pretty mouth for me, baby."

You parted your lips eagerly. Bucky freed himself from his sweats, already hard and heavy, and guided the tip along your tongue. "That's it… good girl. Keep your eyes here. Let me see you while you take me."

His grip in your hair tightened when you looked up at him and he began to move—shallow thrusts at first, then deeper, fucking your mouth with controlled power. The weight of him on your tongue, the way he hit the back of your throat, had you moaning around him. Every few strokes he held you there for a second, groaning low, before pulling back to let you breathe.

"Fuck, just like that. You look so good with my cock in your mouth." He gave a slightly rougher thrust, hair pulling taut, then eased off immediately, stroking your cheek. "Still okay?"

You nodded quickly, murmuring "Yes, Bucky" around him, the words muffled and eager, earning a soft pull of your hair.

"Tsk, tonight you should call me sergeant."

"Yes, sergeant," you corrected yourself, pressing your thighs together.

He kept one hand fisted in your hair, guiding you exactly how he wanted—never too rough, but dominant enough to make your core throb. When your jaw started to ache he finally pulled free, breathing hard, and lifted you onto the bed.

"On your back, legs open for me," he ordered.

You scrambled to obey. Bucky settled between your thighs,pushing them wide with his broad shoulders. The first slow lick up your soaked folds drew a broken moan from you. He didn't tease for long—he devoured you. Tongue plunging inside you, then circling your clit with firm, relentless strokes while two thick fingers curled deep. The wet sounds of his mouth were obscene.

He brought you right to the edge within minutes, sucking hard on your clit as your thighs started to shake.

"Not yet," he growled against you, pulling back just enough to deny your orgasm. He kissed your inner thigh, nipping softly, then dove back in. Twice more he edged you like that—building you higher each time, fingers pumping faster, tongue working you mercilessly—until you were whimpering, hips grinding desperately against his face.

"Please."

"Please, what?"

"Please, sergeant. I need to come."

Bucky hummed in approval and finally let you tip over. He sucked your clit between his lips and curled his fingers just right, holding you down as the orgasm tore through you. You came hard, crying out, thighs clamping around his head while he worked you through every pulse.

Before you could even catch your breath, he flipped you over onto your stomach and pulled your hips up, bending you over the edge of the bed. Your chest pressed into the mattress, ass raised high for him.

His palm cracked against your right cheek in a firm, stinging spank. "You've had me wondering what's got you so worked up for days." Another smack on the left side, then a soothing rub of his metal hand. "Turns out my sweet angel has a dark side."

He thrust into you in one deep stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden fullness tore a sharp moan from your throat. Bucky set a hard rhythm—hips snapping forward, the sound of skin slapping skin loud in the room. One hand fisted in your hair again, tugging your head back to arch you perfectly while the other delivered occasional sharp spanks that made you clench tighter around him.

"So wet for me," he groaned, pounding into you deeper. "Taking everything I give you like the good girl you are."

He kept the pace relentless but checked in, leaning over you to growl against your ear. "Still good, baby?" You could only manage a desperate "Yes, sergeant, please—harder," which earned you a particularly deep thrust and another firm spank.

The way he filled and claimed you completely pushed you toward the edge again fast. Bucky felt it, snaked a hand underneath you to rub your clit, whispering his command right against your neck. "Come for me again. Now."

You shattered around him with a broken cry, pulsing hard. Bucky followed right after, slamming deep and grinding through his own release, groaning your name under his breath as he spilled inside you.

He stayed buried deep for a long moment, both of you panting. Then, the dominance melted away. He eased out carefully, turned you over, and pulled you into his arms, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks and your lips.

"You okay, sweetheart?" He whispered, his voice was gentler now. His fingers were stroking soothing circles over the light marks he left on your hips and ass. "Wasn't too much?"

You shook your head, curling into his chest with a satisfied glowing smile. Bucky chuckled softly and held you tighter. "Next time you pick the scene, gorgeous. I want to hear every filthy detail you were too shy to tell me."