Would. Would you consider a part two to the dad donnie fic????? Bc I’m crying in the club rn
first of all omgosh i really appreciate u asking this and liking the story it means a lot to me :)) I hope you'll enjoy this part 2!
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rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles fanfiction ~ aged up ~ Donatello x pregnant female reader ~ one child, a son named Damian ~ contains references to pregnancy-related nausea and vomiting <3
in which Damian causes a small, accidentally-on-purpose disaster in Donnie's lab. part 2.
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When you groggily stagger out of Damian’s room in the morning, you glance over at the door to Donnie’s lab. It’s still closed. Soundproofed, lightproofed; you won’t be able to tell if he’s inside without going in. And he won’t like it if you go in.
You poke around the house even though you know he’s in the lab. He’s not in the bathroom, not in the kitchen, not in the bedroom, not in the backyard, not in the office. He’s in the lab.
Still in the lab.
He’s been in there all night, you know. Not sleeping. Just working. Working, working, working, his fingers busy and his eyes twitching.
You bite at your fingernails and go into the kitchen.
Damian’s still asleep, quiet and peaceful in his bed -- he’s always been a good sleeper, even as a little baby.
You walk yourself into the kitchen and turn on the coffeemaker. You don’t drink coffee anymore, yourself, because of the pregnancy, but Donnie still does. Donnie drinks three cups every morning. You tell him he should just get more sleep instead. He says that he’s too busy to sleep. You say that if he stopped drinking so much coffee, he’d probably feel the need to get more sleep. He says why deny the world his genius by sleeping?
You scoop the coffee grounds into the coffeemaker.
Thankfully, the smell of coffee hasn’t started to bother you. If it did, you don’t know what you’d do. Donnie drinks a lot of coffee.
You watch the coffeemaker gurgle and a rush of nausea hits you like a sack full of wet noodles. You whimper loudly and gingerly make your way to the bathroom, where you sweat and dry heave over the toilet for a few minutes until the nausea has passed a bit. Gosh, this baby is making you a lot more sick than Damian ever did.
You groan deeply and cough, but there's nothing inside of you. You curl in pain around the toilet bowl and put your forehead against the disgusting toilet seat itself, just to try to feel something nice for once. It’s cool, and refreshing, but also disgusting. You're disgusted with the toilet seat. You're disgusted with yourself. Gosh, you're disgusted with yourself.
The thought doesn’t help your nausea.
You hear tiny feet pattering into the bathroom, and look up to see your son standing in the doorway. His forehead is crinkled.
“Mommy?” he says.
“Dami,” you say, putting your head back down on the toilet. You breathe hard for a moment.
“Are you okay?” He’s keeping a safe distance.
You hold out a thumbs-up. “Peachy keen, baby.”
He crinkles his forehead and patters away.
You should follow him. To keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t get into any more trouble. But your head is swimming and your mouth is full of sweet sweet sick saliva.
You put your head back down on the toilet seat.
After another few minutes the nausea passes. You stand up slowly. The baby shifts in your stomach. This is new, the shifting, the fluttering; it only started about a couple days ago.
You put a hand on your stomach and the baby kicks again. It’s been getting somewhat stronger and somewhat more active already. More than Damian ever was, at least.
You move to the kitchen, carefully, the nausea still lingering teasingly. Wanna play? it laughs, and you just try to ignore it.
Damian is on the floor, eating star-shaped crackers from his snack cabinet. You sit down next to him, and eat some crackers too.
“Where's Daddy?” Damian asks, quietly, shoving an entire fistful of crackers into his mouth.
“In his lab,” you say, already sick of crackers. You eat the three you still have in your palm and brush the dust off of your hands.
Damian doesn’t respond. You can feel the anxiety radiating off of him.
“Is he mad?” he asks, quietly.
“I don’t know,” you say. He’s definitely mad. But you haven't talked to him since last night. So you still have room to hope.
“He’s mad for sure,” Damian says. He stands up and puts the star crackers back into his snack cabinet. “He hates me now. I hate me too.”
“Dami. He doesn’t hate you.”
“Of course he does. I went into his lab and I crushed his things.”
“But he doesn’t hate you. People do things that make you mad, and things that make you really mad, and really really really mad, but that doesn’t mean that you hate them. It’s a very big thing to hate someone.”
“He hates me. I killed his lab. I killed his machines.”
“Dami -- ”
You’re right. Donnie doesn’t hate his son. He’s just really, really, really mad. He’s in his lab, still repairing his son’s damage from last night. And his wife’s.
His hands are working with the tech, the crushed machinery, the microchips and scrap metal, soldering and repairing and rebuilding. His mind is busy with his wife’s news.
Pregnant.
Another baby. Another baby.
He can barely handle just one baby! Look at what he’s done to him. Look at how he’d screamed at him last night. The hurt and anger in his son’s eyes. And what his wife had said to him -- that Damian had broken his things because he was upset that he wasn’t spending more time with him. Or -- not even ‘not spending enough time with him’. Just ‘not paying enough attention to him.’
Damian is right. Donnie doesn’t pay enough attention to him. He is a bad dad. He is a horrible father. Ugh! Horrible! Horrible! He yells at his son and ignores his son and treats him so badly! Like he doesn’t want him! But he doesn’t!! He doesn’t want a child!! He’d never wanted a child!! And he doesn’t want ANOTHER child!! He’ll be even WORSE with two children, he knows!!
He loves Damian. He does. He really really does. So, so, so much. More than he loves his wife; more than he loves his dad; more than he loves his brothers; more than he loves his lab and all the tech in it, even. But that doesn’t mean that he’s cut out for parenthood, at least not as much as you seem to be. You kiss booboos and brush hair and fly spoonfuls of peas through the air and you just seem to sparkle when you're around children. You just seem to thrive.
Donnie doesn’t.
Not like his wife. Not like his sisters-in-law. Not like his brothers. Not like Leo. No, not like Leo.
Donnie is the odd man out. The weird, cold, odd man out. Look at how stiffly he holds his son. Look at how coldly he speaks to him. Who let this man become a father? Why is he a father?
But Leo? Leo throws his children into the air and blows raspberries on their soft warm bellies and tells bad jokes to them and ruffles their hair in a way that makes them squeal with glee and run back and forth happily. He does it to his own children, and he does it to Donnie's, and Donnie is left staring at the ceiling at night, staring, staring, staring, listening to that emptiness inside of him. Why is he so bad at this? Why is he so bad at this??
A disappointment, he’ll whisper to himself, silently in the dark. You're a disappointment. She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn't deserve you.
And he'll turn his head and look at you, asleep next to him. Your mouth wide open and drooling, your cheeks pressed sloppily against the pillow, and you'll grunt and roll over and whisper "don't take the orange, schmitty, I'm warning you," and then wake up for a moment and grumble angrily and drink an entire glass of water from the bedside table and then fall asleep again, mouth as wide and drooly as ever.
You don’t deserve him.
And he’ll touch the side of your neck and feel your pulse under his fingertips.
You'd grown a child inside your body. A child. A perfect little mixture of him and yourself, and it looked up at Donnie with so much adoration in its tiny eyes and all he could offer it was quantum physics and robot assistants and hurt feelings.
Gosh, he hurt his feelings. He'd say something and Damian would stare silently at him and then he'd find him sitting motionless behind a couch or crying loudly in his mother's arms or just glaring up at him the next time Donnie walked by. Donnie hurt his feelings, the poor baby. And you tried to help, his poor wife. Try to think more about how he’s feeling, you'd suggest, and Donnie would curl his fingers against his shorts and tell you that he was trying. He was trying. He'd never tried so hard in his life.
He is a bad dad. A bad father. You don’t deserve him, and Damian doesn’t deserve him, and your new baby doesn’t deserve him.
So these are the sweet, pleasant thoughts circling through Donnie’s mind as he works on his broken tech with stiff, shaky hands.
He twists a piece of metal too far and it cracks under his gaze. He gasps and slaps his hand down on the table, hard.
Where's his wife?! He misses his wife. No he doesn’t. He’s not good enough for you. He shouldn’t go near you. But he misses you. He misses you. You always manage to calm him down somehow.
He breaks two more pieces of metal before giving up. He digs his fingers into the hard surface of the table and puts his head down for a second. Then he stands up, and leaves the lab, and goes looking for his wife.
You’re walking out of the kitchen, a tumbler of coffee in your hand, and you stop in your tracks when you see him.
“Donnie! Good morning!”
There are dark patches under his eyes and his feet are scuffing and he blinks slowly at you. Oh, he’s been up all night.
You hold out the tumbler.
“This is for you.”
He takes it and sips. It’s been carefully manufactured to be just how he likes it. Just for him. His fingers tighten against the smooth metal.
“Thank you,” he croaks, and clears his voice. It’s been a while since he’s talked.
You smile awkwardly and back up, back into the kitchen.
“You want any breakfast?” you ask. Your voice cracks twice.
“Yeah,” he says, already opening the fridge. He reaches for his flavorless juice, and you lean back against the counter affectionately.
“I love you,” you say. You forgot about the awkwardness of last night for a moment, and then it comes back to you suddenly, and you shut your mouth tightly.
Donnie looks over at you. You're leaning back against the counter, and your stomach is stretching out against the fabric of your shirt, and you're looking at him with wide uncomfortable eyes and so much affection etched into the crease of your eyebrows.
He closes the fridge again and leans against the island, right across from you.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I really do try my best.”
“I know,” you say, softly.
You stand in silence for a moment.
“He thinks you hate him,” you whisper, nodding towards Damian. He’s coloring at the kitchen table.
Donnie stares at his son. He clenches and unclenches his fists.
And then he walks past you to the kitchen table. There are crayons scattered all over the smooth wooden surface. Damian stares at the paper as his dad approaches.
Donnie clears his throat and crouches next to his son.
“Damian?”
“Hm?”
Donnie takes a deep breath and rubs at his arms. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he says. “It… it wasn’t nice.”
“It’s okay,” Damian says. “I’m sorry I went into your lab, and broke your things. It wasn’t nice to do. I was just very mad. And I did something bad because of it.”
“Me too,” Donnie says, awkwardly.
They finally look at each other.
“I’m still mad at you,” Donnie says, “because you did do something you weren’t allowed to, and you did break all my things. But I don’t hate you. And I forgive you.”
“I forgive you,” Damian says, “for yelling.”
Hug it out.
And Donnie awkwardly opens his arms towards his son, and Damian stares for a moment before awkwardly leaning forward to accept the hug.
You squeak in the kitchen and turn in a circle with joy and awkwardness and your baby flutters in your stomach.
“Come feel the baby,” you want to say, but you look at Damian and Donnie still hugging at the kitchen table and you decide that it can wait for a bit.
