#tmnt 2016

LEO

Normally, the quiet of the dojo brings comfort. But today, it feels like a heavy weight pressing in on you. Leo kneels in the center of the room, back straight, eyes closed in meditation. You hold the small plastic stick in your hand, the two pink lines on it an undeniable truth.

You take a deep, shaky breath. “Leo?”

His eyes snap open, instantly alert. He doesn’t move from his position, but his entire focus is on you. You can see the concern etching lines around his eyes as he takes in your pale face and trembling hands. “What is it? Are you hurt?”

You shake your head, unable to form the words. You simply walk forward and kneel in front of him, placing the positive pregnancy test on the mat between you. He looks down at it—and for a long, terrifying moment, he is perfectly still.

His face is an unreadable mask of stone. Your heart plummets. You fear you’ve broken something, that this is a complication he can’t strategize his way out of, a burden he doesn’t want. Then, he lifts his gaze from the test to your face.

His expression softens, the hard lines melting away to reveal a profound awe mixed with a flicker of fear. Not fear of you, or of the baby, but fear for you both.

“Are you … are you okay?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

You nod, a tear finally escaping and tracing a path down your cheek.

Carefully, Leo reaches out to gently cup your jaw, using his thumb to brush the tear away. He closes his eyes for a second, as if centering himself against a wave of overwhelming emotion. He opens them again, his eyes filled with fierce, unwavering resolve.

Then he pulls you into his arms, holding you securely against him. He holds you as if you are the most precious, fragile thing in the world. And to him, you are. “I will keep you safe,” he murmurs into your hair. “Both of you. I swear it.”

He finally pulls back, though his hands remain on your shoulders, grounding you, his leader-mind already working. “First,” he says, his voice steady, “we need to tell Splinter. He needs to know.” He looks you in the eye, seeking your agreement. When you nod, a fraction of tension leaves his body. “Then, my brothers. We’re a team. They need to be part of this. They’ll help protect you.”

He leads you from the dojo, his hand never leaving the small of your back. It’s a subtle but constant reminder: I am here. I am with you.

As you walk towards Splinter’s room, he speaks in a low tone, already forming plans. “Donnie will need to monitor your health. I’ll have him set up a medical station. We’ll need to reinforce the lair’s security. We’ll need more supplies. Also, a safe room, just in case …”

He stops before the door to his father’s room and turns to you, cupping your face in his hands. “I know this is a lot,” he says, his gaze searching yours. “But you are not in this alone. You will never be alone again. This baby … this family … it’s my new mission. My most important one.”

He takes your hand, his grip firm and reassuring, and leads you to Splinter’s room. Your future father-in-law sits on a meditation mat with a cup of steaming tea in front of him. He opens his eyes, his gaze knowing and kind, as if he were already expecting you.

“My son,” he greets.

Leo bows his head respectfully. “Master Splinter,” he begins, his voice formal. “We’ve come to you with news of great importance. Our family … is about to grow.”

He looks at you. You step forward, your heart pounding, as Leo places a steadying hand on your shoulder. Splinter’s whiskers twitch. He looks from his son’s face to yours, a slow smile spreading across his features.

“Ah,” he says, the single word conveying acceptance and deep, paternal joy. “This is wonderful news. A new branch on our family tree.” He gestures for you to sit. “You have brought great happiness to this house. And you, Leonardo,” he says, turning to his son, “have found a purpose beyond that of a warrior. You are going to be a father. It is a title that carries more weight than any weapon.”

Later, Leo calls a formal meeting in the dojo. Raph, Donnie, and Mikey file in. You stand beside him, his arm securely around you.

“Our mission parameters have changed,” Leo starts, his voice leaving no room for jokes. “Our top priority, above all else, is the safety of our family.” He places his hand on your stomach. “We’re going to have a child.”

The reaction is a wave of stunned silence, followed by a chorus of overlapping questions and exclamations. Leo holds up a hand, calling for order.

“Donnie, I want you running full-time medical surveillance. You are in charge of their health. Raph, you and I will re-evaluate security. Mikey … you’re on morale.” He looks at each of his brothers. “This is not a game. This is our future. We protect it together.”

In the weeks that follow, the lair subtly transforms. Your life becomes a carefully managed operation. Leo tries not to crowd you, but his presence is constant and watchful.

One evening, you find him in the living room, not watching TV, but surrounded by a stack of books: What to Expect When You’re Expecting, The Partner’s Guide to Pregnancy, Holistic Nutrition for Fetal Development.

He looks up as you enter. “Good timing,” he says, his tone serious, as if beginning a mission briefing. “I’ve cross-referenced three sources. Starting tomorrow, we’re increasing your intake of folic acid and iron. I’ve made a list. Donnie approved it.” He slides it across the table.

You smile, picking it up. “You don’t have to do all this, Leo.”

“Yes, I do,” he replies, his blue eyes unwavering. “This is my responsibility now.” He closes the book he was reading, gets up, and comes over to you. He gently places a hand on your stomach, his thumb stroking back and forth.

“I can’t fight this for you,” he says, his voice low and laced with a vulnerability he rarely shows. “I can’t take the discomfort or the risks. All I can do is prepare. All I can do is be ready for anything.” He leans down and presses his forehead against yours. “So let me. Please. Let me do what I’m good at, so you can do what only you can.”

The first time you get morning sickness, Leo is there in an instant.

You’re kneeling in front of the toilet, and you feel his large, cool hand on your back, rubbing gentle circles. He doesn’t say a word, just holds your hair back and waits with you until the wave passes. When you’re done, he hands you a damp cloth for your face and a glass of water.

“Donnie said ginger can help,” he says. “I’ll go get some.”

Later, you find him in the dojo.

But he’s not training. Instead, he’s sitting on the floor, painstakingly attempting to knit with a pair of thick needles and bright blue yarn. He’s clumsy with the delicate task, and he fumbles the stitches repeatedly, a frown of intense concentration on his face.

You lean against the doorframe, watching him. “What are you doing?” you ask softly.

He looks up, a bit startled. “It’s … for the baby,” he admits, holding up the misshapen lump of yarn. “I read that creating something for them helps with paternal bonding. I thought … a blanket.” He looks down at the tangled mess in his hands with a sigh of frustration. “It’s more difficult than wielding dual katanas.”

You walk over and sit beside him. You take the needles from his hands and show him how to loop the yarn, guiding his larger fingers with your own. He watches, focusing intently on your impromptu lesson.

Leo is not just a leader or a warrior. He is a man preparing to build a family—one awkward and perfectly loving stitch at a time.

RAPH

Raph is working out his aggression, his massive shoulders and arms slick with sweat as he pummels the worn leather of his punching bag. You stand by the doorway, the test clutched in your fist. You’ve been trying to find the right words for an hour, but there are none.

“Raph,” you say, your voice coming out meeker than you intended.

He grunts in response, not stopping his assault on the bag. “What’s up?”

“Can you … stop for a second?”

With a last punch, he stills. He turns to you, panting, and wipes his brow with the back of his wrist. “I’m kinda busy right now. What do you need?” His tone is gruff, impatient, and your courage almost fails you.

So, before you lose your nerve, you open your hand and show him the test.

He squints, his eyes trying to make out the object. Stepping closer, his gaze falls on the two pink lines. He freezes, his whole body going rigid. A storm brews behind his green eyes: confusion, shock, and something that looks like anger.

“You’re kidding me,” he growls. He turns away from you, running a hand over his head. “How? How could we be so stupid?”

His words are a punch to the gut. But you know him; his anger is often a shield for his fear. He paces for a moment, then slams his fist into the wall beside him. Then, he leans his forehead against it, shaking slightly.

“Raph,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “It’s not … you’re not mad at me, are you?”

He turns around slowly, and the anger is gone—and in its place there is a raw terror. His eyes are wide and glossy with unshed tears. In two long strides, he’s in front of you, dropping to his knees. He gently, hesitantly, places his hand on your stomach.

“Mad at you? No,” he chokes out, his voice thick with emotion. He rests his head against your abdomen, a shudder wracking his body. “I’m terrified. How am I supposed to protect a kid in this world? How am I supposed to be a dad?” He looks up at you, his tough-guy facade completely shattered. “I’m gonna screw it up.”

You run your fingers over his head, your own tears falling. “No, you won’t.”

He shakes his head, then a new look crosses his face: determination. The fear is still there, but it’s now forged into a protective fire. He gets to his feet, pulling you into a hug.

“No one,” he says, his voice a fierce vow against your ear. “No one is ever going to hurt you. Or this baby. Ever.”

He finally pulls you away from his plastron, holding you at arm’s length. His eyes, still wide with a mix of fear and wonder, scan you from head to toe as if checking for injuries.

“You okay? You need to sit down?” he asks. Before you can answer, he’s guiding you over to an old armchair he keeps in the corner. “Don’t lift anything heavy,” he instructs, pointing a thick finger at you. “Don’t even lift anything medium. Or light. Just … let me get things for you.”

He paces again. He looks around, his eyes landing seemingly on every object, as if he’s assessing each individual threat level. “We gotta baby-proof the whole damn lair.”

He kneels in front of you again, placing his hand gently on your knee. He looks so big and powerful, yet so vulnerable. “I don’t know the first thing about being a dad,” he admits, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I’m probably gonna be terrible at it. But I swear, I will break anyone or anything that even thinks about hurting you.”

Leaning forward, he rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. He stays on his knees for another moment before pushing himself to his feet, a man possessed by a new, singular focus. He looks around his room and now sees only a deathtrap.

“This ain’t gonna work,” he grumbles, stalking over to his dresser. He starts sweeping things into a box with loud crashing sounds. “Too many sharp edges.”

“Raph, it’s okay,” you say, standing up. “The baby isn’t coming tomorrow.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he growls, not looking at you. “Gotta start now.” He’s not angry anymore; he’s channeling his fear into protective action.

The loud noise draws his brothers’ attention. Leo appears in the doorway, frowning. “Raph, what are you doing?”

Raph looks at him, his face set in a mask of determination. “Stay back. You’re tracking sewer filth all over the place.”

“What are you talking about?” Donnie asks, peering around Leo.

Raph gestures with his head toward you. “They’re pregnant. And none of you clumsy morons are getting near them until I’ve sanitized this whole sewer.”

Leo’s eyes widen in understanding as Donnie’s jaw drops. Mikey, peeking from the back, lets out a gasp of delight. Raph ignores them all, turning his attention back to cleaning up his room.

“And you,” he says, pointing at you again, his voice suddenly softer. “Go sit on the couch. Where it’s soft.”

Raph has taken his ‘baby-proofing’ mission to an extreme.

Soft foam padding is zip-tied to every sharp corner of every table in the lair. A bright yellow safety gate—clearly stolen from a construction site—now blocks the entrance to the dojo. Any object smaller than a pizza box has been deemed a ‘choking hazard’ and secured in a locked footlocker.

“Seriously, dude? You padded the remote?” Mikey complains, holding up the foam-covered device.

“It’s got sharp corners!” Raph barks back, not looking up from what he’s occupied with in the kitchen. It’s a disaster. He’s trying to make you and the baby a nutrient-rich smoothie. But the blender’s powerful setting could pulverize concrete, and questionably colored sludge is splattered across the kitchen wall.

He gives up with a frustrated growl, shoving a bowl of dry cereal at you instead. “Here. It’s safe.”

Later that night, when the lair is quiet, he finds you on the couch. He sits on the floor beside you, not saying a word. After a long moment, he hesitantly leans over and rests his head against your stomach.

“What are you doing, Raph?” you ask.

“Listenin’,” he mumbles into your shirt. “Just … checkin’ on the little guy. Or gal. Makin’ sure everything’s okay in there.” He stays like that for a long time, listening for a heartbeat he knows he can’t hear yet, guarding the most fragile thing he has ever loved.

Your first real craving hits you like a freight train at two in the morning.

You wake up with a desperate, all-consuming need for pickles and strawberry ice cream. You pad into the kitchen to find Raph asleep in the armchair he’s dragged into the living room. The creaking fridge door wakes him instantly, despite your trying to be quiet.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his eyes snapping open. “You hurt?”

“No,” you mumble, embarrassed. “I just … really need pickles.”

He stares at you for a second, then he’s on his feet. “Pickles. Got it.”

He rummages through the fridge and produces a jar. Then he watches as you scoop a huge spoonful of ice cream into a bowl. Before he can say a word, you drop three pickle spears right on top of it. His face scrunches up in disgust.

“You’re … gonna eat that?”

You take a huge bite, and a wave of pure bliss washes over you. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” you say with your mouth full.

Raph watches you, his expression a mixture of revulsion and utter fascination. He shakes his head, but a crooked smile spreads across his face. “You’re weird,” he says, his voice full of affection.

He sits across from you at the table, just watching you eat your monstrous creation. He doesn’t understand it, not even a little bit. But you needed it.

And for Raph right now, that’s all that matters.

DONNIE

You find Donnie exactly where you expect him to be: in his lab. He’s muttering to himself as he’s soldering some new device he’s come up with for the team for missions, his custom-made goggles down while he works.

“Donnie?”

“Hm? One second. This has been giving me some anomalous readings on recent tests, and I need to make sure it’s ready for …” He trails off as he turns and sees the look on your face. He immediately puts the iron down. “What’s wrong? You’re exhibiting signs of acute emotional distress. Heart rate elevated, pupils dilated … are you ill?”

You offer a weak smile. “Something like that.” You walk over and place the pregnancy test on his workbench.

He picks it up, his analytical gaze scanning the object. “A home pregnancy test. It’s indicating a positive result.” He looks from the test to you, a frown of concentration on his face. “Fascinating. The statistical probability of successful inter-species conception between a human and a—”

“Donnie,” you cut him off gently. “It’s real.”

He pushes his goggles up to his forehead. “Data requires verification,” he says, but his voice is a little shaky as he gestures to one of his chairs. “If you’ll permit me? A simple blood test will confirm the presence of human chorionic gonadotropin.”

You sit, allowing him to draw a small vial of blood. He moves with practiced ease, but you notice a slight tremor in his hands. He puts the sample into his centrifuge, his eyes glued to the monitor as lines of data scroll past. Then, a graph appears on the main screen with a bright, clear spike.

Confirmation.

Donnie stares at it, his mouth agape. The brilliant scientist is gone, replaced by a wide-eyed turtle completely overwhelmed by the reality of the data he cannot deny. Still, an uncontainable smile spreads across his face. And it’s the happiest you have ever seen him.

“It’s … it’s true,” he breathes, looking at you with pure wonder. “It’s a biological miracle! The genetic implications are astounding! We’ll have to monitor your health constantly. I can build a nursery with a self-regulating atmosphere! And a mobile that projects the constellations! And I’ll need to develop hypoallergenic diaper cream!”

He’s rambling, grabbing a tablet and already sketching out plans, his initial shock transforming into joyous, frantic preparation. Then he looks at you, his eyes shining. “We’re having a baby. Scientifically, this is the most amazing thing that has ever happened.”

His joyful rambling doesn’t stop; it snowballs.

He pulls you over to his main console, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. “Look, look!” he says, pointing to a screen filled with complex biological diagrams. “Based on your hormonal levels, you’re approximately six weeks along. The embryo is developing its primary neural pathways! It’s … perfect.”

He says the word ‘perfect’ with a kind of reverence you’ve only ever heard him use for a perfectly executed thermodynamic cycle or an impeccably synthesized chemical compound. He brings up another window, already titled ‘Project Progeny: Developmental Plan.’ It’s a color-coded timeline with projected milestones, nutritional requirements, and even a list of potential educational stimuli.

“I can synthesize a prenatal vitamin with a 100% bioavailability rating,” he continues, typing furiously with one hand. “We’ll need to do regular ultrasounds. I can modify my medical scanner to produce holographic 4D images that will allow us to watch the baby grow in real time!”

The sheer joy radiating from him is almost overwhelming.

He stops typing and turns to you, his excitement softening. He gently takes your hand and places it on the monitor, over a glowing diagram of something no bigger than a poppy seed. “Our baby,” he says, his voice thick with emotion as he covers your hand with his own. “Our beautiful, impossible, statistically miraculous baby.”

Drawn by the commotion, his brothers arrive.

“Donnie, what broke now?” Raph asks, walking in with Leo and Mikey behind him.

“On the contrary!” Donnie exclaims with a grin so wide it looks almost manic. “Gentlemen, observe!”

With a flourish, he projects the holographic 4D image into the center of the room. A tiny, glowing, tadpole-like shape floats in the air, a minuscule light pulsing within it.

“What is that, a space blob?” Mikey asks, poking a finger through the hologram.

“That,” Donnie says, his voice brimming with pride as he wraps an arm around your shoulders, “is my child.”

His brothers stand in dumbfounded silence. Raph squints at the image, then at you, his expression unreadable. Mikey’s jaw hangs open.

Leo takes a step forward, his leader-facade melting away into astonishment. “Donnie … is this real?”

“The data is unequivocal!” Donnie beams. He pulls up the ‘Project Progeny’ timeline on another screen. “According to my projections, the gestational period should be approximately forty weeks, though inter-species variables may apply. I’ve already outlined a complete nutritional regimen. For instance, pizza will now require a topping of steamed, iron-rich spinach and a strict reduction in high-sodium pepperoni.”

Mikey lets out a horrified gasp. “No pepperoni? Dude, that’s child abuse!”

Donnie just smiles, his focus entirely on you. He gently places his hand over yours on your stomach, his scientific mind completely captivated by the one miracle he could never have invented. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure everything is perfect.”

Your life is now governed by data.

The first thing Donnie did was craft a sleek silver bracelet for you to wear. It’s not jewelry; it’s a non-invasive biometric monitoring device. It tracks your heart rate, blood pressure, sleep cycles, and nutritional intake, feeding a constant stream of information to his main server.

You find him in his lab, staring intently at a series of brightly colored charts on his monitor. “Excellent!” he declares as you approach. “Your blood oxygen levels are optimal, and your caloric absorption is up by 12.3% since we implemented the new dietary protocols.”

He sounds more like a proud scientist than a partner, but then he turns his chair to face you, and his expression softens. The inventor recedes, and the loving father-to-be takes his place.

“I know this is a lot,” he says, gesturing to the screens of data that represent you. “The monitoring, the supplements, the constant questions. It’s just … my mind needs problems to solve. And this is the most wonderful, complex, beautiful problem I have ever encountered.”

He wheels his chair closer and gently takes your hand, his thumb stroking the bracelet he made. “But I know this isn’t just data.” He places his other hand on your stomach, his touch reverent. “This is a person. Our person.” He looks up at you, his intelligent hazel eyes full of profound love. “And I want to ensure both of you are safe and well.”

You’re in the lab, watching Donnie calibrate a new sensor. He’s explaining the intricacies of it when you suddenly feel it: a tiny, unmistakable flutter deep inside you. You gasp and press your hand to your abdomen.

Donnie stops mid-sentence. “What is it? My readings are all stable.”

“No, it isn’t me,” you say, your eyes wide with wonder. “The baby. I think … I think they just moved.”

His composure shatters. His eyes go wide, and he scrambles out of his chair, nearly tripping over his own feet. He kneels in front of you, his hands hovering over your stomach, afraid to touch. “For real? The first instance of fetal quickening?” His voice is a breathless mix of clinical terminology and awe.

“Put your hand here,” you say, guiding his hand to the spot.

You both wait in silence, barely breathing, his intense gaze fixed on your stomach. For a long minute, there’s nothing. Then, you both feel it: a tiny, distinct tap against his palm.

Donnie lets out a choked sound. He looks up at you, his eyes shining with tears. “Hello,” he whispers to your stomach, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m your father.” He rests his forehead against you, his glasses pressing into your shirt. “And I already think you are the most brilliant discovery in the history of the world.”

MIKEY

In the lair’s living room, Mikey is button-mashing his way through a fighting game. You sit beside him, a small gift-wrapped box in your lap. Your heart thunders against your ribs as you wait for him to finish his match.

He whoops as ‘PLAYER 1 WINS’ flashes across the screen, and he looks at you, grinning. “Did you see that finishing move?!”

“It was amazing, Mikey,” you say, smiling. “I, uh, have something for you.”

His eyes light up like a kid on Christmas morning. “For me? Awesome!” He takes the box from you and rips the wrapping paper off with zero patience, tossing it aside. He lifts the lid and pulls out the contents: a single, tiny baby bootie, small enough to fit on his finger.

He stares at it with a look of complete confusion on his face before slipping it onto his thumb. “Aww, it’s like a little sock for my thumb! Is this a new kind of controller cozy? It’s super cute, but what’s it for?”

You take a deep breath. “Read the card at the bottom of the box.”

He fumbles for the small card and reads it aloud. “‘Get ready for a player three, dude.’” He looks from the card to the bootie on his thumb, then to your face, his brow furrowing. The cogs are turning. Slowly. Then his eyes widen to the size of dinner plates.

“Wait. A … a player three?” he whispers, his voice filled with disbelief.

You nod, biting your lip to keep from crying. To your relief, his face breaks out into the biggest, most joyful smile you have ever witnessed.

A loud, ecstatic “WHOA!” erupts from him. In one fluid movement, he scoops you up off the couch, spinning you around in a hug that lifts you off your feet before he remembers to be gentle and sets you down carefully.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?!” he shouts, his voice echoing through the lair. Tears are streaming down his face, mixing with his laughter. “A baby! Our baby! DUDE! This is the best thing ever! We’re gonna have a kid! I’m gonna teach them how to skateboard and make the perfect pizza, and we’ll have a family game night every night!”

He drops to his knees in front of you and presses his ear to your stomach. “Hello in there! It’s your dad! Get ready for the most fun you’re ever gonna have!” He looks up at you, his face a perfect picture of pure happiness and love. “We’re gonna be a family.”

He doesn’t let go of you, instead keeping you in a gentle, warm hug as he beams down at your stomach. “A baby! A real-life baby!” He laughs, a joyful sound that bounces off the walls. Suddenly, he lets go, his eyes wide with a new sense of urgency. “We gotta tell everyone!”

Before you can even protest or suggest a calmer approach, he’s on his feet. “LEO! RAPH! DONNIE! GET IN HERE! IT’S AN EMERGENCY! A SUPER-AWESOME, NON-DANGEROUS EMERGENCY!”

You hear the telltale sounds of his brothers scrambling, expecting an attack.

Leo slides into the room first, katanas drawn. Raph is right behind him, sais in hand, followed by Donnie, holding a wrench like a weapon. They freeze when they see you, safe on the couch, while Mikey is bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s about to explode.

“What is it, Mikey? Are we under attack?” Leo demands, scanning the room.

Mikey just points at you, his grin wider than you’ve ever seen it. “Even better! We’re having a baby!”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. Leo’s swords lower slightly. Raph’s jaw goes slack while Donnie drops his wrench with a loud clatter.

Mikey runs back to your side, dropping to his knees and wrapping his arms around your legs in a hug. He looks up at you, his bright blue eyes shining with happy tears. “I’m gonna be a dad,” he whispers, as if just now truly understanding the words. “I’m gonna be the funnest dad in the universe.”

Raph breaks the stunned silence in the room. “You knocked them up?!” he blurts out, half-accusatory, half-impressed.

Mikey rises to his feet. “Isn’t it the best news ever?!” He looks at his brothers, expecting them to join his celebration.

Leo sheathes his swords, the tension draining out of him, replaced by a slow smile. “Mikey … congratulations.”

Donnie is already in motion, grabbing a scanner from his belt. “Fascinating. I’ll need to run a full diagnostic.”

Mikey waves him off. “Later! Now is for celebrating!” He turns to you, his excitement a tangible force in the room. “We gotta think of names! What about Casey if it’s a boy? Or April if it’s a girl? Ooh! Or what about—”

He rambles off a bunch of names, then grabs his boombox and turns it on. He dances around the living room, pulling you up to join him, though his movements are now much gentler and more careful. He spins you softly, his hands holding yours as if they were made of glass.

He stops dancing and pulls you into another hug, resting his chin on your head. His brothers watch, their initial shock eventually giving way to shared happiness.

“I’m gonna build the coolest crib,” he whispers into your hair, his voice suddenly serious beneath the fun. “And I’ll be there for you. For everything. I promise.” He pulls back, his eyes sparkling with love and laughter. “Our little one is gonna have the best life. I’ll make sure of it.”

Since the initial news, Mikey’s excitement has not dimmed.

In fact, he’s found several creative outlets. The corner of the living room that was once a chaotic pile of video games and comic books is now officially the ‘Baby Zone.’ He has started on a mural, the base coat a cheerful, sunny yellow. He’s already sketched out a design featuring four turtle tots learning to skateboard on a rainbow.

He insists on sharing everything with his future child. When he eats a slice of pizza, he holds it near your belly first. “You gotta get used to the good stuff early!” When he watches his favorite cartoons, he turns up the volume so “the baby can hear the theme song.”

This afternoon, he’s sitting with his legs crossed, holding a pair of headphones to your stomach. The muffled, energetic beat of his favorite band leaks out.

“Mikey, are you sure that’s good for them?” you ask with a laugh.

“Totally!” he says with absolute certainty. “It’s about rhythm! And energy!” He removes the headphones and grins, tapping your stomach gently with his finger. “You hear that? That’s your dad’s favorite band. You’re gonna love ‘em.”

He looks up at you, and for a moment, the playful joking fades from his eyes, replaced by a surprising seriousness. “I wanna be their first friend,” he says quietly.He leans forward and talks to your belly again, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “But seriously, get ready for fun. Your dad’s got it all planned out.”

Later, Mikey is reading to the baby. He’s sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, holding a colorful comic book up to your belly. He’s doing all the voices, his tone rising and falling dramatically with the action on the page.

“… and then, with a mighty KABOOM, the hero saved the city! The end!” he finishes. He sets the book down and pats your stomach gently. “Wasn’t that awesome? That’s what we do. We’re the good guys.”

He leans his head against you, getting comfortable. “You know,” he says, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “My brothers … Your uncles. They’re all gonna teach you cool stuff. Leo will teach you how to be a leader. Donnie will teach you how to be a genius. Raph will teach you how to be strong.” He pauses, and for a moment, a flicker of insecurity crosses his face.

“Me? I’m gonna teach you how to be happy,” he says softly. “I’ll teach you how to laugh when things are scary, and how to find the fun in everything. I’ll teach you it’s okay to be silly and dance and do whatever your heart wants.”

He looks up at you, his eyes earnest and full of a love so pure it takes your breath away.

You’re a damned distraction, and Raphael doesn’t know what to do about it. He isn’t without his distractions. In fact, he’s classically known to get torn up in his head over things, especially when there’s an injustice thickly rooted in whatever nameless problem ails him. You, on the other hand, agitate him in ways he wishes not to be true. You’re everywhere he goes, just not physically, like a phantom limb - a subjugator who has conquered his very being. 

Many times, over and over, he has tried to categorise you, label you, so he can file you away and forget; anything in an attempt to get you out of his mind, as abnormally pragmatic as it is for him to go such a route. Are you a friend? Best friend? Something more? He bristles at the thought. ‘More’ is dangerous. ‘More’ is a bridge he’s not sure he wants to cross because of how deep this goes, how dark it is.

He catches himself thinking about you at the most inopportune moments. When he’s supposed to be strategising with his brothers, he’s replaying a conversation with you in his head, dissecting your words, searching for hidden meanings. He sees you in the flickering neon lights of the city, a fleeting silhouette blending into the urban tapestry of this concrete jungle. When he’s meant to be watching a game, he’s picturing your hands intertwined with his, your voice fluttering out his name, your body…

You’re not just a distraction, you’re a disruption, and the universe is hellbent on finding ways to toy with his teetering lucidity.

Grumbled curses and wet footsteps can be heard long before you’re seen, but silent curiosities would have been better left when you eventually appear in the lair. Three of the four brothers find themselves around you, each snickering at the pressed spring that is your body. Your crossed arms only tighten further into themselves, lips pulling in between your teeth at their lack of sympathy, but then you remember, they are boys.

Leo is the first to compose himself, matching your exaggerated stance with a raised grin. “You’re not looking very weather-appropriate.”

“I was up until about five minutes ago.” Your hands wipe away at your scrunched-up face. “One moment, sun.” You fling them down, the water hitting the ground with an offensive slap. “The next, a bunch of angry clouds piss on me.”

Laughing semi-heartedly, you loosely gesture at yourself, but dilated pupils behind red cloth have been trained on you the moment you walked in. Head-to-toe, you’re soaked: your clothes stick to you in a way that feels intrusive, accentuating every curve and contour he's learned to admire from a distance, only daring to steal glimpses when you’re not looking. The damp fabric clings to you like a lifeline, his of which is fleeting, and it just highlights your shape, each detail so clear, too clear. It shatters the fragile walls he’s fought to keep intact, a crude violation of the mental boundaries he's desperately trying to maintain. Raphael can’t stand it, and he loathes how the rain has matted your baby hairs to your forehead, a small, insignificant feature compared to the rest, and yet it leaves you looking the most exposed.

In the hazy realm of conversation woven between you and his brothers, he drifts, utterly unaware now. He thinks he catches a flash of Donnie hurrying away, yet the essence of it all slips through his fingers like mist. His form is anchored to this corner, while his thoughts wander far beyond the grasp of the present moment. He wants to lick the rain off your cheek and whisper unspoken secrets he never knew he could keep, what he’s been aching to do to you for so long. He can almost picture how you would taste against his tongue, how soft your skin would be compared to his calloused touch.

As his gaze drops out of focus, you inch closer, lowering to a crawl. Staring up through your lashes, you stop on your knees in front of him, eyes glazed with his deliverance and his destruction all at the same time. He can practically see everything from this angle, each wet crease of material grasping closely onto your body, impersonating one of those marble statues that seem impossible to make by hand. Your damp palms press into his thighs to hoist yourself up, the cold doing little to cool him, doing the opposite, in fact - warm puffs of air feathering against his starved face. His breath shortens, but he does nothing. This should stop; he can’t find it in himself to press that big red button, but this needs to stop. As you close in on him, lips ghost over his own with expectant sighs mixing between each other, and then-

The towel draped over your shoulders is the fire blanket to his perverse absorption; he’s pulled back into reality, where he is, but it doesn’t completely snuff out the embers. His eyes have had a taste of you now, a sample of the meal that he hungers so hopelessly for. You glance around, your gaze lingering on Raph for a fraction of a second before panning away, and he jolts, like a live wire has been threaded through his veins. In that second, he thinks you know, he thinks you’ve caught a glimpse into his vulgar mind, and he expects you to run off, but you don’t. Instead, you pull the towel closer and laugh at something Mikey says, the short spit of eye contact already falling from your awareness whilst it nails into his with a hammer.

Raphael’s fists clench under the table, knuckles paling beneath the wraps. You have no idea. He's thankful for that but it almost pisses him off that you have no clue just how much you invade his everything. He doesn’t quite know when this all started, but he hopes to God it has an end because he’s not sure how much longer he can handle it.

There's a deep shame that comes with these daydreams, an itch that burns within the lowest parts of his belly every time his mind so much as wanders. Unfortunately, the image of you, any image of you, scorches him worse than that guilt, which is why he can't resist those long nights of rutting against his pillow, endless scenarios flicking behind his eyes like a roll of film that goes on forever. There were many reasons that he was thankful for finally getting his own room, more so now than ever. It doesn’t matter what you do, he finds himself in the same place by the end of each day. There’d be the occasional brush of arms, a weightless touch that would burden his skin with gooseflesh, or moments when he’d manage to make you laugh, and the sound itself would drive a tremble through his shell. He thought this was an innocuous crush to begin with, all signs pointed that way, and then it happened.

Shit.

He remembers how this all started now.

It was one of those instances when you didn’t want to go home, too tired after a particularly harrowing shift at work. You had gotten a decent amount of TLC at the lair, but arguably too good, as you found yourself drooping on the couch. The boys would have happily escorted you back home, even volunteering to carry your sluggish form if that’s what it meant, to which you threw out some languidly-humoured remark about them trying to kick you out. Not even. Not ever.

“Take my bed,” Raph had offered without a second thought.

The proposition felt harmless at the time, and his intentions were so. There was no way he was going to let you sleep on the worn mound of springs and pillows that had endured the weight of four mutant behemoths for so many years. He could take it for the night, no big deal. It wouldn’t have been the first time, and truthfully, he was more than willing to sacrifice his comfort for yours. He hadn't even considered the implications of you sleeping in his bed, nor did he think of the consequences: this seed of yearning that would be planted that night to bloom and blossom into the twisted, prickly vine that now chokes his thoughts.

You, bless your oblivious heart, had accepted readily, a tired smile gracing your lips. "As long as you’re sure, Raph. I don't want to put you out."

"Positive," he'd confirmed, a little too quickly perhaps, and then retreated to grab a blanket and pillow.

That night, he barely slept. The couch was uncomfortable, sure, but there was something else: something that nagged at him. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it. His first thought was the lack of activity from the day, barely any thugs had tried their hand at disturbing the peace, or whatever peaceful looks like for the streets of New York. Chances are, he was just restless from how many skulls he didn’t crack. Maybe not. At the time, he was stumped for an explanation, and that only secured his inability to suspend consciousness.

Before long, the early morning had arisen, and you along with it. Raphael’s failure to nod off meant he caught your freshly woken self tiptoeing out of his room. He made no effort to greet you, playing into the idea that he was genuinely asleep as you thought him to be, some parts convinced that he might have been. You slid through the lair with a swan-like equanimity he didn’t want to disturb; each clip of your shoes against the floor calculated and measured to soften the blow of your steps. He probably would have woken up were he soundly snoozing, but the attempt was still appreciated. Raphael never regarded himself as the type to silently observe, to pick up on the little details with such ease, but he had found that he was a little more introspective about these things since you’d been around.

Once you had disappeared completely, he rose from his “slumber” and slipped into his room. He figured he’d be able to get at least a couple of hours' sleep under his belt. He was very wrong about this, however. Upon entering his room, he quickly realised that sleep would be much harder to come by now. The lacklustre day had left him restless, that’s what he kept telling himself at the time, but that wasn’t the real reason. The real reason was the apparitional warmth of your presence on his bed, and if he tried really hard, he’d almost be able to perfectly emulate your body lying in his company. Moreover, it was the lingering scent, faint as it was, that had truly undone him - sweet, undeniably yours, intoxicating. Slowly, he had descended atop the mattress on his side, his cheek brushing against the pillow that you had previously lain on. He could picture you in his place, as you had just been minutes before, curled up in his blankets, comfortable in his space.

He inhaled deeply, committing the fragrance to memory. Succumbing to this was crossing a precarious line. He thinks he knew that, but he couldn’t help himself. A thick rope had taken hold of him without his knowledge, narrowing its taught breach the more he let himself surrender. As he took another heavy breath in, his hand crept down to the beating, almost painful throb that had somehow alluded him until that moment.

This was wrong. Perverted. He was taking advantage, in a way, of your trust, of the virtuous act of offering you comfort when you needed it. You wouldn’t want this. You wouldn’t want him thinking of you this way. And yet, he just could not stop. The essence of you clung to his sheets, whispering promises he had no right to entertain.

A groan escaped his throat, muffled by the pillow he was now pushing into his face, practically suffocating himself in the hints of you that were lingering deep within it. He imagined you hearing him, recoiling in disgust, the trust in your eyes replaced with disappointment, with something akin to fear. The thought was a sharp, painful stab, but still, it wasn't enough to halt his sudden fit of impure mania. He was too far gone, caught in the undertow of his appetite.

He came quickly, shame immediately washing over him in a freezing wave. The pleasure was fleeting, unsatisfying, tainted by the knowledge of his transgression. He lay there, panting, the scent of you now heavy and cloying, no longer intoxicating but strangling. He wanted to scrub himself clean, to erase the moment, to rewind and never offer his bed in the first place.

In his post-nut clarity, it hits him, the disgrace of it all: how badly he wants you, how desperate he is to feel the weight of your body on his, how much he needs every plush piece of skin to become tainted under his hands.

The days that followed were torture; worse than torture if there’s a word for it. He knew he had to avoid you, at least for a while. There was no way he could bear to face you, to see the innocent trust in your eyes. He needed time to process, figure out how to reconcile the image he had of himself with the reality of his actions, but any moment of closure would be met with opposition. Annoyingly, small things: a hair clip in the dojo, a book on the kitchen counter, a faint smudge of lip gloss on a discarded coffee cup. In your absence, these tiny objects served as landmines to his crime, a reminder of what he had done and what he couldn’t have.

Instances in which you were present to share the same air as him, however, were worse, and they still are. If you’re reading, he’s watching the curve of your neck. When he hears you laugh, he hears a calling that simply doesn’t exist. He may catch you licking your lips when they dry, an inattentive habit that makes him envious of your tongue. Each one of these details slots into a catalogue, stored away in the private chambers of his mind to be revised during those lonely nights.

Even his epiphany about stepping back and admiring from afar has been contaminated. Productive revelations have been spoiled and replaced with this thing he doesn’t know how to name. That act of defiling a space you occupied had undeniably tarnished any interaction with you, and in doing so, he had tarnished himself.

He’s a terrible person. People don’t have thoughts like this about their friends. Or, if they do, they’d at least stand a better chance of enacting these thoughts. He should just exonerate himself from you entirely, retreat to the shadows as he has always been taught to. The temptation itself almost makes him laugh. That would imply he has the will strong enough to remove himself from your life, a will he no longer possesses now that you’re in his.

Why can’t it be so easy?

That morning that started this all, something inside him had irrevocably broken. A dam had burst, unleashing a torrential wave of depravity he never knew existed within him. Before that, he’d just thought of you as someone who occasionally wracked his nerves in confusing ways if the circumstances were right. Now? You are everything: his obsession, his undoing, his most profound and concealed secret.

If only this were a simple crush, he could settle for that. It would come with its own problems, he knows, but he could at least sustain it with more prudence; deal with it.

He remembers a time, before you, when his nights were his own, when he could lay his head down after a job well done and bid the day farewell. His skin twitches if he tries to keep any urge at bay, fever lurches behind his eyes any time they close, and if by some miracle he can find his way to sleep without giving in, you all but manage to torment his dreams, too. Vivid, explicit, and utterly mortifying. He’ll wake up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, and worst of all, with morning wood just to add more to this mess for atrocities' sake. He really shouldn’t be thinking about you in this way. You’re a friend, that’s the operative word he strains to keep in mind, but his body, his innate calling, doesn’t care about propriety.

It’s especially bad when he wishes he could practise his older brother’s restraint and condition himself to keep you out of his head. Leonardo’s calm, almost serene detachment is a lifestyle away from his turbulent fixations. Leo, the picture of divine patience, can seemingly shut off any unwanted thought with the flick of a wrist, whilst Raphael is a wildfire, and you the kindling. It’s not as though the routine tactics of his brother would serve him aid in this situation, anyway. Meditation has never done him any good, and it’d only give you the space to tangle yourself up in his imagination again. Instead, he buries himself in his workouts. He tries to sweat it out, tire himself to the point of mindless exhaustion, but the sweat itself stings, and the ache in his muscles is a feeble attempt to dull the sharper ache in his shell.

When he isn’t riddled with pliable what-ifs and maybes, when there is a moment that these lascivious infections decide to leave him be, he has the camera peering down at himself. How long can he actually keep this up? How long will it be before he cracks, before he says or does something he’ll live to regret, regret more than what he’s already done in the dark corners no one dares tread? He’s a ticking time bomb, and you, naively unaware, are holding the detonator.

One way or another, you’re in everything he does, absentminded things like fiddling with his sai; the touch of cool steel against his palms imitates the delicate curve of what he imagines your jawline to feel like. Even the harsh rasp of his father’s voice during sparring matches can't silence the whisper of your name, a prohibited prayer that lingers in his ears. He can't keep you out of his head. He hates it, this constant, burning awareness of you – a forbidden fruit he longs to taste but knows he can't. The self-disgust, the guilt, the painful longing; all of it is a cruel torment, a self-inflicted wound he can't seem to staunch.

He wants to scream, especially on these restless nights, to shatter the silence and break free from the invisible bonds that chain him to this impossible, unbearable infatuation. Yet, all he can do is lie there, a prisoner of his desires, and you visit him once again, not as the friend he knows, the one who laughs easily and quips back with no effort, but as a vision of his indecency. Your smile is a siren's call, eyes a bottomless reservoir of promise. You say things he can only ever dream of hearing from your lips.

This is a fantasy he’s played out innumerable times, but each rerun feels like the first.

You lie back, sprawled across his bed like a fallen angel. Is he your rescuer, or the bastard who shot you down just so he could have you? He can fool himself into thinking this is a mutual salvation, but his jealousy of the stars will have you dragged into the pit with him, where he can savour your divine spirit all to himself. You would never willingly step away from heaven’s light to meet him, of course you wouldn’t, but at least he can pretend, even for a short while, that he has somehow convinced you to fall into this madness with him. He can delude himself that he isn’t quite so alone, and so he follows the illusion of you and takes, moving like a man possessed, lacking dignity, lacking regard.

He stops fighting these premonitions now. He thinks that if he wholeheartedly appeases this greed, abandons all virtue to the fever dream that paints you as his willing partner, that he’ll be set free. He lets the imagined warmth of your skin banish the cold reality of his isolation. He allows the phantom scent of your hair to fill his airless room, drowning voluntarily so that he can fall to the ocean’s depths where he may finally find peace.

This dance with delirium, sometimes culminating for hours, eventually has to conclude, however. Your mirage blurs into nothing the closer he gets to the end, hoping with a crossed jaw that this will be the last time he sullies your good name inside his fist.

It never is.

No matter how many times he relieves himself to your notion, it never alleviates the want, the need, the dependency that’s been conceived on this idea of having you. It only makes it worse. His stomach empties more each time, and his head bloats with new possibilities just to mock him. Every instance in which he falls victim to his imagination, he staggers closer to Hell, and Earth’s core will burn him alive long before he ever admits to the degeneracy of his vestige’s mind. This false impression of reality is much sweeter, bitter in its aftertastes, but easier, a dark bubble without complication, without an outward looking in to tell him how wrong this is.

You’re a damned distraction, and at the cost of his sanity, Raphael can’t find it in himself to do anything about it.

If you're sleeping in his lab, he covers you with his lab coat or hoodie and turns off the main lights so you can rest. — "My precious formula needs rest."

He knows he can be distracted, so he gives you a small device that vibrates if he texts you or detects danger near you. (Yes, he basically invented a mini love beeper.)

When he gets nervous, he babbles random scientific facts. — “Did you know that the human brain can generate up to 20 watts of electricity? I mean, you literally charge my soul—” — “Donnie…” — “Yes, love?” — “You’re such an adorable nerd.”

He has over 200 photos of you stored on his flash drive, organized by “emotional state”: happy, thoughtful, funny, and “my favorite.”

He loves watching movies with you, especially science fiction, even though he yells at the screen every two minutes, “That’s not scientifically possible!”

You just give him popcorn and kiss him to shut him up.

Sometimes he stares at you while you’re working or talking, and when you ask him why, he replies, — “I’m just analyzing how you manage to be so beautiful… it’s a scientific mystery.”

When you kiss him out of the blue, he goes on a blue screen for five seconds. His brain literally shuts down.

He's not the type to get jealous easily, but if someone goes too far with you, it only takes two words in a cold voice for them to back off: — "Back off. I don't repeat orders."

Silly random fact: He once tried to cook for you and created a mutant pizza flavored with wasabi, chocolate, and blue cheese. You never ate that again.

When you sleep together, he loves to cuddle you and bury his face in your neck. He says the smell of your skin helps him tune out the world.

If you're in danger, Donnie loses his cool. He becomes silent, fast, and deadly accurate. This isn't sweet Donnie; this is protective Donnie.

He has one thing in store: he wants to teach you how to use his bo staff. He says it would be romantic to train together. (You only agree because watching him focus is so attractive.)

Final random fact: He's planning to build a smart house for the two of you. He's already designed the plans, and the front door only opens with your voice.