April O'Neil — The Self Insert Of The Teenage Girl The Writers Had A Crush On Back In High School.

Oh my god, how do fanfic writers make GOOD titltes for their fanfics? I can write 4k words in a single mania driven single sitting, but trying to think of a good title is like fighting God with a toothpick

Some doodles I made of @teks-emporium 's Adventure Time + 2012 crossover (Which specifically revolves around the Elemental Miniseries-) ! 😌✨

with what you just said omfg. please. 🙏🙏🙏

HEAD CANONS FOR THE 12 BOYS DOING THE SPIDERMAN KISS WITH THEIR GIRL?! HEHEHEHE

Spiderman Kiss (Fluff)

2012!Turtles x reader

A/N: I’ve been binging too much TwoSet, so this took me four days to make. Why? Because violins, baby!😂 And YES, I just saw the title of their latest video, and NO I don’t have guts to watch it😭

Warning: None💚

Leonardo:

The peaceful quietness of your bedroom was disturbed, when you heard light tapping against  your window, making you look up from whatever you were doing. A soft smile spread across your face, already knowing who you would find outside your window.

With a happy skip in your step, you made your way to your window, opening it and letting the cold night air of New York City enter your room. And there you found him, hanging upside down from the fire escape over yours, smiling at you with that sweet boyish smile and pretty blue eyes.

“Leo”, you smiled, feeling giddy at the sight of your turtle boyfriend hanging outside your window. “What are you doing here?”, you asked, climbing out on the fire escape. “You haven’t told me you would come by”.

“I just thought I’ll come by to say hey before patrol”, he smiled, watching as you came closer to him. Even upside down, you made his heart skip a beat. “Can’t a guy just check in on his girlfriend?”

“Of course you can”, you smiled, standing right before him.

The two of you smiled at each other for a moment, before your hand came to rest on his cheek, your thumb stroking his jaw.

“Will you come over after patrol?”, you asked. “My parents won’t be home before tomorrow”.

“When you ask so nicely”, Leo chuckled. “Of course I will. Anything for my girl”.

You bite your lip, feeling butterflies fly through your stomach. Something that tended to happen when Leo decided to play up his charm. And so, you softly pressed your lips to his in a soft sweet kiss. When you pulled from the kiss, you found Leo smiling from ear to ear, looking at you with pure love in his eyes.

“I love you, Leo”, you smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “See you after patrol”.

“I love you too, (Y/N)”, Leo hummed, savoring the feeling of your lips against his forehead. “See you later”.

Raphael:

You were talking down the street, returning home after a long night out. Even without your headphones, you probably wouldn’t have noticed the familiar figure coming down from above, hanging upside down in the streetlamp you were about to pass. So when you suddenly felt a tap on your shoulder, you turned with your fists up, ready to fight like your boyfriend had taught you. But when you then found your boyfriend, hanging upside down before you with a smirk plastered across his face, you let out a sigh of relief.

“God damn Raph, don’t do that”, you sighed. “You almost scared the shit out of me”.

“I was going for your pants, but I guess that was one way to do it”, Raph chuckled, his eyes lingering on your for a moment. “On your way home?”

“One were to think that you were the genius turtle with those detective skills”, you laughed, making Raph pull a playful grimes.

“Ha ha, very funny”, he said, reaching one hand out for you, perking his lips. “Now, come here. Gimme a kiss”.

“What if I don’t want to”, you asked, not putting any effort into hiding your smile, as you took a step backwards, getting just out of his reach. Raph gasped in an overly dramatic manner, making you giggle at his antics.

“It’s not nice to lie, (Y/N)”, Raph said, faking an angry expression. “Now, give me a kiss before I get mad”, he continued, pecking his lips once more.

You couldn’t help but giggle, giving in with a bright smile. Holding Raph’s head in your hands, you pressed your lips to his in a small peck that made him hum playfully when you pulled back.

“You look pleased”, you smiled, still holding his head in your hands.

“I am”, Raph smiled. “But I would be more pleased if you gave me another kiss”.

You let out a happy laugh, throwing your head back. Your, oh so charming teaseful boyfriend, always managed to sneak in comments like that.

“Okay, you whining baby”, you smiled, before pressing your lips to his again, feeling him pull you closer with his free hand. This kiss was longer and deeper than the first, yet still short and sweet, making both you and Raph feel tingles in your stomachs.

Raph pulled from the kiss with a very satisfied look on his face, giving you that smug smile once again. “See, that wasn’t so bad”.

“Dork”, you smiled, nudging him slightly on his shoulder.

“All me dork all you want, babe. But even I know you like it”, Raph smirked, before getting ready to climb back up the lamp pole. “And when I get back from patrol, you’ll get more”.

Donatello:

“Donnie?”, you called out, looking around Donnie’s garage lab. But with him being nowhere to see, you did a turn on the spot, taking in your surroundings once more. Where could he be? You had texted him several times, but he still hasn't answered you. And that was an hour ago! “Babe?”

“Up here!”

You looked up to the rafters of the garage, finding your turtle boyfriend on the beams above, fiddling with wirings and all sorts of strange things, that you still had no idea what their names were.

“What are you doing up there?”, you asked, crossing your arms as you smiled up at your boyfriend.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”, Donnie smiled. “I’m fixing the lights. And the electric wires… and the heat… pretty much everything”.

“Okay, but why?”

“Well…”, Donnie sighed, sitting back up on the beam, looking up as he thought. “First Leo came and asked me to fix the lights, because it wasn’t strong enough to let him read. Then Mikey came and told me he had problems with his outlets. And then Raph started yelling up about the heating in his room. And since the wires and all access points are up here, I just decided to get them all done”.

“I guess that makes sense”, you said, taking a seat in Donnie’s chair, watching as he continued to work. “Do you need any help up there?”

“No, no, I got it”, Donnie said, not taking his eyes from what he was working with.

“Okaaayyy….”, you said, not feeling fully sure about his answer. “But please be careful, babe”.

“I’m always careful, (Y/N)”, Donnie said with a smile and his eyes closed, making you uneasy straight away. “I know what I’m doing, so there’s no need to worRY!-”

And just like you had feared it would happen, Donnie fell off the beam and tumbled towards the ground beneath. But before you could even let out a sound, and before Donnie could reach the ground, he found himself tangled up the wires he had just been fiddling with, leaving him hanging upside down just before you, with a sheepish smile. "Whoops".

You stood from the chair, crossing your arms with a smug smile, as you walked towards your tangled up boyfriend. “Seems like you do”.

“This wasn’t part of the plan”, Donnie said, looking up as his lower half tangled up.

“It wasn’t?”, you asked in a teasing manner. “Well, at least I know where I can find you now”. And then, before Donnie could ask what you meant, you took his face in your hands, before pressing a kiss to his lips, making him hum in pleasant surprise. “Now, let’s get you out of all that”.

Michelangelo:

With a sigh you laid back on the bed, turning your head to watch your boyfriend on the floor, as he tinkered around with his latest action figures. That was what happened when he got his hands on a new collectible. That was just how it was. You knew better than to get in the way of Mikey’s hobbies, but damn, sometimes you would get bored just watching him, when you had hoped that day would have been all about a couple time.

“Mikey”, you said with another sigh, trying to catch the attention of your turtle boyfriend.

“Yes, babe?”, Mikey asked, still not taking his eyes off the figure in his hand as he moved its arms around.

“When will you come and cuddle?”

“Just a moment babe, I just got to look through the rest first”.

You let out another loud exacerbated sigh, spreading your arms out on Mikey’s bed like seastar. Mikey still had several boxes on all new figures to go through, and you were getting impatient. ADHD can’t spread to other people by touch, but by this point you fully believed that you had gotten it from Mikey. Ever since you had gotten together with the orange clad turtle, you had started taking on many of his mannerisms. Such as his tendency to sigh in annoyance when getting impatient. And funnily enough, Mikey never seemed to notice when you did so. Just like right now. No reaction. Not what you wanted. So you had to do something about it. And you knew just how.

You scooted yourself around the bed, until you laid with your head resting down the side of the bed, allowing you to look at Mikey with your head upside down. You pucked your lips, making loud and obscene kissing noises. But… still nothing.

Right! That’s it! And with that you grabbed a hold of Mikey’s head, pulling him towards you as he made a surprised sound. You pressed his lips to yours, kissing him while you were still laying upside down on his bed.

“What was that for?”, Mikey asked with a smile.

“Because I’m getting impatient!”, you whined, trying to hide your smile. “And you’re just sitting there looking like a snack! What do you expect me to do?”

“You know what?”, Mikey said, laying his figure down on the floor before coming to a stand, smiling at you. “You’re right. Cuddle time!”

You did not have time to move before Mikey decided to jump on to the bed, throwing himself on you, letting you scream out in laughter, when he started attacking your face with kisses. You regretted NOTHING.

Aaaa I love this so much and I can totally see the resemblance, it would have been so good if this was explored in the show, especially considering how at times Chris Bradford/Dogpound seemed to be a loose parallel to Leo and Fishface clearly was very similar to Raph and even seemed to have a redemption arc being foreshadowed, especially in Baxter's gambit and him helping the turtle's when TigerClaw starts Shredder's cult.

I would have loved to see that kind of dynamic explored more.

I think it would have been really funny for the main 2012 Shredder villains to have a similar dynamic to the 2012 Turtles- Where they're constantly doing goofy stuff as group or getting in each other's way during missions but in a really dumb way? I don't know how else to explain that- Lmao

(I missed a lot of little details + I was going to color it but I didn't, I'm sorry- I'm super tired and I got my blood drawn today which sucked ass, so I just wasn't feelin it- 😭)

i cant believe ive completely forgotten to post my dontello’s cant vocal tones graphics

ft. my completely accidentally movie vs show split

theyre all not good at both but some are worse at certain aspects over others. except for true neutral 07 who is just The Struggler. true neutral equally shitty at both

and some additional clarifying memes as well

You can't tell me this isn't their dynamic a majority of the show- Donnie / Raph are also 5 seconds away from losing their shit and Mikey / Casey are always the victims of their wrath (While Leo and April either just exist in the back or try to "mediate" the situation-). 💀 LMAO || To be honest, I originally made this video at Mikey and Casey's expense, since it was meant to demonstrate Donnie and Raph's similarites and why I love 2012 Brawn + Brain even though we barely got any real content for them in canon,, 😔 🫶 🧪🔭🔬 / 💪💥🤬

Wow, this video is super old,, I haven't drawn like this in ages- 😭 Lmao

(Old Content)

The Secrets we Inherit ♡ Donatello x Stockman's Niece!Reader 《 Part 2 》

Summary: After your eccentric uncle, Baxter Stockman, vanishes without a trace, you're the only one who can investigate his sudden disappearance.

Your father doesn't believe you and you're alone in your search for your missing uncle. You decide to take matters into your own hands.

Context: This continues right after Season 1, Episode 11: Mousers Attack!

Content Warnings: Not proofread, mentions of blood, some minor injuries, reader is a certified nerd and a bit dorky, I don't remember if I mentioned but this is going to be a slow burn because I like torturing myself, be warned— terrible dad jokes are present in this chapter

Word Count: Idk some 8k words

----

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Your knee bounced up and down, matching the frantic rhythm of your pulse. Everything had blurred together— swinging katanas, laser flashes, your uncle being dragged away by that... monster, a swarm of metallic figures that seemed to swallow the entire building as you could do nothing but watch.

The thoughts in your head overlapped one another, and you wanted to say a million things, do a million things. You wanted to say 'I'm sorry' and 'I have no idea what just happened' but nothing but air came out.

Your body was shaking as if you were just pulled out from freezing water in the Arctic. Was it the blood loss? The concussion? Or just the shock? Maybe it was everything all at once, you couldn't tell. All you knew was that your dad was standing there, staring at you with those eyes— big, disappointed, and expectant eyes. You just about regretted calling him to pick you up.

You sucked in a breath, fighting back the tears that burned at the back of your throat and threatened to spill at the slighest of sounds. Your hands, slick with sweat, were locked so tightly together they hurt.

You didn't dare answer.

Never did you think silence could be deafening, but in this moment you finally understood what this phrase meant— New York had never felt so quiet, the city’s pulse muted in those seconds that seemed to stretch on, everlasting.

The only thing that broke this illusion of silence were the strangled sniffs and hitches of your breath. Quiet, stifled sobs that wanted to turn into an ugly, uncontrolled cry. Then came something different, a sigh, deep and defeated coming from your father.

You heard his footsteps retreat, the creak of his car door opening, and then it shut suddenly. His boots squeaked against the concrete before he kneeled in front of you, gently lifting your chin, forcing you to look at him.

He grunted when he saw your face—swollen, bloodied, the cut over your eyebrow has painted a good part of your face red.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he asked, his voice flat. "You sneaked out and came out to this abandoned place. What the hell happened here?" When you still didn’t answer, he called your name sternly.

You let out a small laugh but forced your eyes shut and sucked in a breath, your lips trembling. "I needed to know what happened to Uncle Baxter."

God was this deeply, utterly humiliating.

Your dad scoffed, his fingers pinching your face but gently turning it around so he could inspect your injuries. He pressed a cold water bottle to your eye. "Come on, kid."

He leaned back, studying you. "I get it. You two were close. But Baxter—" Your father paused, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. "He’s kind of a loser, honestly."

"Uncle Baxter’s not a loser," you protested, but it came out weaker than you intended.

"He's a loser," your dad repeated, pulling your chin up to inspect your black eye more closely. His fingers pressed the cold bottle with more pressure into your face, drawing a low hiss from your clenched teeth.

He paused, looking at his watch. "And by the way, as of two weeks, three days and 7 hours, he’s also a wanted criminal." He rolled his eyes. You could tell your dad was deeply annoyed and angry at your uncle for his recent shortcomings, but you wished he at least gave him the benefit of the doubt.

However, your dad had a good argument, and the growing evidence was quite hard to dispute. He’d botched his chance at that big tech job. Then, he got fired from his last office gig for breaking the copy machine. And if that wasn’t bad enough, his face had been plastered on the morning news as he terrorized his poor ex-colleagues, not once, but twice.

"He's just... going through a tough time," you added, but even you didn't believe the words.

His brow furrowed in concern. "Did he do this to you?"

"No."

"Then what the hell happened?"

You let out a dry laugh, closing your eyes.

"You wouldn't believe me even if I told you."

"Try me."

You hesitated and drew in a sharp breath, licking your lips as you sought for courage.

"Well, I found out that Uncle Baxter had this secret hideout... like a base or something that he used for his experiments. He told me about it once, and I came here to— argh!" You let out a sharp wince as your dad checked your strained ankle.

"And?" He prompted, putting your foot down on the ground gently.

"And then I found out Uncle Baxter’s got beef with, like, four human-sized turtles who do karate. And then he got kidnapped by some giant dog-man." You stated very matter of factly, as if it was the most natural thing to tell someone, almost as if you were answering what kind of coffee you had this morning, black or an expresso? "And I fell down the stairs, that's how I cut my eyebrow and sprained my ankle."

Your dad’s expression didn’t even flinch.

He raised an eyebrow slowly. "Yeah, hallucinations are a telltale sign of a concussion." He stood with a slap on his thighs and picked you up. "We're going to the hospital."

"Dad!"

-------

You sat stiffly in the passenger seat, arms folded tight across your chest and eyes staring at your faint reflection in the car window. You could see the jagged line of stitches above your left brow— fresh, red, and still itching. You kept your jaw clenched so tightly that you could see some veins jutting out of your neck.

"You want to uncross those arms or what?" Your dad said, eyes still on the road back from the hospital. "Any tighter, and they'll fuse like that forever."

You exhale sharply through your nose. "You don’t believe me, dad."

"Not even a little," he answered, not missing a beat.

He glanced over, and when he saw your expression, he sighed softly. "Look, kid. I know Baxter was into some shady stuff, and you’ve got that wild imagination— probably from your mom’s side—but human-sized turtles? Mutant dogs? You've got to know what you sound like."

Yep, there it is. That quiet judgment of his.

Your head snapped toward him. "Dad, this city’s weird. You know it is. Remember when the streets filled with rats? Like, biblical levels of rats. That’s not normal. Rats don’t coordinate en masse." You turned too fast and smacked your sprained ankle against the door, hissing through your teeth as the pain flared up your leg. "And what about that thing running loose in the sewers scaring the workers? Or those UFO videos—there are hundreds."

He let out a snort. "Have you been watching too much Grody to the Max again? That show’s gonna rot your brain with conspiracy theories. Ninjas, mutants, government cover-ups— it’s entertainment, not evidence."

"I know what I saw!"

Your voice cracked, high with frustration. You swallowed it down.

"Uncle Bax’s been missing for weeks. No calls. His apartment’s a mess—cobwebs, food rotting, mail piling up. And you think that’s fine? I mean, look—"

You search your pocket, finding your phone, and you show him the recording from earlier. He slows down at a red light and takes the opportunity to glance at the screen. You can see his eyes slowly furrowing and then squinting.

"And what am I looking at?"

You look at the screen. The recording is mostly a blur of colors and noise. You sigh in frustration. "Oh c'mon, it's the fight! Here, look!" You pause the video on a particular frame, where one of the turtles you saw from before stood, holding its katanas, ready to strike at one of the robots.

"See? That's evidence!"

"Nice costume, kid." Your dad squinted at the screen and then glanced back at the road. "Look, do me a favor, and don't let fake videos on the internet warp your brain. Okay? That stuff is not real."

"Fake videos?! I recorded this myself!" You threw your arms in the air.

"Right, and I'm the king of England."

"Unbelievable." You put the phone back into your pocket and fold your arms tighter, sinking into the seat with a pout.

"If you’re not gonna do anything to find Uncle Baxter, then— I dunno. I have to. If he’s a criminal—"

"Which he is," your dad cut in, firm and weary.

"Then shouldn’t he be in jail?" You completed.

He sighed, rubbing his jaw and scratching his beard. "Maybe. But that’s not your job. That’s the cops'. And let’s be real—you’re not exactly law enforcement material, kid. Not in that ‘Space Heroes’ t-shirt and with those little chicken arms. Just… leave it alone. Please."

"I know you love him. And I—" He sighs. "Well, he’s still my brother. But he made his choices. Don’t get caught up in his bullshit, okay?"

You stared out the window, the glass suddenly fogging from your breath.

"I’ll… I’ll try, dad."

-----

"Sorry, dad."

Over the past few weeks, whenever your father was out for work, you'd turn your room into a crime board— articles, notes, printed maps, and odd bits of evidence scattered across your desk and your bed. As much as you loved your dad, you couldn’t ignore what your gut—and your heart—told you. Your uncle meant the world to you, even if he was a bit eccentric.

You owe your love for science and robotics to him. The one who helped you build your first hot chocolate-spewing volcano, who stayed up late soldering wires and testing circuits with you. He took you to your first robot fight tournament, and together, you built a champion.

Your gaze drifted to the wall, to the collages of memories and trinkets and memories you had with your family. One photo caught your eye—your younger self, beaming atop your uncle’s shoulders, a gold medal hanging proudly from your neck. The robot you two built gleamed in the background like a loyal knight after a bloody battle. You smiled softly at the memory.

Maybe you should have known there was something odd about your uncle, the way he still held decade old grudges as if he was wronged just a couple of minutes ago, but you knew there was some good inside of him too— in some hidden part he only revealed to you, but it was there.

And that's why you couldn't just forget about him. He was still out there, and you needed to find him. Even if it meant lying to your dad.

You'd buried yourself in research these last two weeks— downloading articles, compiling headlines, and cross-referencing every bizarre incident you could find in New York. Ninjas. Criminals appear tied in alleyways, ready to be taken by the cops. Strange sightings. You didn’t know how it all connected yet, but you had to believe it did.

Two shurikens lay side by side on your desk. One bore a flower emblem, delicate and strange. The other, a crude engraving of a foot. You trailed your finger over the marks and tapped them both thoughtfully, then lay back on your bed with a groan, holding the flower-emblazoned star above your head.

"Okay," you whispered.

You turned the weapon over in your fingers as if some great truth might reveal itself if you just stared hard enough. Maybe, if you focused—just a little more—something would click.

Then your hand slipped, and you grasped it a bit too tightly in the sharp edge.

"Ow!" You hissed, shaking your hand and instinctively sticking your bleeding thumb in your mouth.

You shake your hand and instinctively shove your bleeding finger in your mouth. Welp, at least your tetanus shots were up to date.

You sighed and let your head fall back onto your pillow. "Maybe dad was right. This is way over my head. If the cops can’t figure it out, what am I supposed to do?"

But as you sat up to retrieve the fallen shuriken, your eye caught where it had landed—smack on top of a forgotten article.

You crawled over and snatched it up. The piece of paper interested you. A piece about a little restaurant in Chinatown. Harmless, at first glance. Just some local spot run by a blind man named Mr. Murakami. But it seemed to have something else to it.

The article mentioned how the area had been under the Purple Dragons’ control for years… some local thugs. Nothing new, but interestingly, a neighbor had reported strange noises coming from the restaurant one night. A fight. Some type of loud disturbance. But when questioned about the occurrence, Mr. Murakami only offered one cryptic statement:

He’d been saved.

By four mysterious samaritans.

Your heart gave a thump. Four. Four mysterious samaritans. What else did that remind you of?

You scrambled through your notes until you reached a notebook, and you flipped through the pages until you reached your sketches of the four strange turtle people you saw fighting your uncle weeks ago.

You looked down at the ninja star with the flower again, a slow smile forming on your face.

"Some Chinese food sounds pretty good right now."

----

The bell above the door gave a soft ding as you stepped into Murakami’s restaurant. The warmth hit you first—savory steam, old wood, soft chatter. The place smelled like soy broth, sesame oil, and oddly comforting.

"Welcome," said the old man behind the counter. "Please, sit anywhere you like."

You chose one of the seats farther away, dropping your backpack beside you as casually as you could. From here, you had a clear view of most of the dining area. Perfect.

A few minutes later, he shuffled over. "What can I get for you?"

You leaned in a little and gave him the small wooden token from the ordering machine outside.

Mr. Murakami ran his finger over the small piece of wood, lips curling into the faintest smile. "Ah, pizza gyoza."

"I never heard of it before," you said, voice low. "But it sounds good."

He gave a slow, approving nod. "My invention. Strange, but comforting. Not many request it—but I always remember who does." Then, without another word, he turned and slipped behind the swinging doors, the muffled hum of the kitchen swallowing him up.

The moment the swinging doors closed behind him, you started moving. You popped open your backpack and pulled out a tiny spy cam— something you’d built yourself back when you and Baxter used to sneak them into science fairs for fun. You’d hollowed out a fortune cookie holder and disguised the lens in the plastic.

You slid out of your seat, took a quick glance around, then crouched low by the condiment shelf near the counter. You tucked the fake cookie holder behind a soy sauce bottle, adjusting it slightly so the lens had a wide view of the dining room.

Then you slipped back into your seat just as Murakami returned, a small plate in hand.

"Pizza gyoza," he said with quiet amusement. "Fresh from the pan. Careful—they bite back."

You smiled awkwardly. "Thanks."

----

The glow of the computer screen paints your face in pale blue. Noodles gone cold and abandoned somewhere in a far corner of your desk. Eyes rimmed red from hours of squinting. Your room is dark except for the screen and a small desk lamp.

Click. Fast-forward. Click. Rewind. Pause.

You exhale through your nose, leaning in, you rub your eyes as you watch the pixelated footage from Murakami’s restaurant. The camera has the perfect angle for the dining area of the restaurant, but so far, you haven't seen anything but the ordinary noodle shop customers come and go.

You shove your chair back from the desk and grab your controller, flopping onto the bed while the footage plays on screen. The screen keeps playing as you mash buttons in a half-focused blur. You pause the game occasionally to squint at the screen, chewing your lip.

Later, your controller sits forgotten on the floor, amidst the crumbs of potato chips. You’ve swapped it for an old edition of Space Heroes, propped open on your knee while the footage fast-forwards again. You dog-ear the page, frown at something offscreen, rewind three seconds, but it was only a small glitch in the footage. You huff and hit play again.

You lay on your bed, pizza box open, slice hanging limply in one hand as grease drips down your wrist. Your other hand hovers over the keyboard. You're not even chewing—just watching.

The hours tick by. You curl up in your hoodie, hair messy, computer still running. Occasionally, you mutter to yourself, jot something down on a sticky note stuck to the desk: 'Murakami - hang out spot for the turtles or dead end lead?'

You finally slam the pause button mid-bite—something flickered on screen. You squint, eyes scanning the screen. You rewind slowly. Frame by frame.

The restaurant doors burst open with a clatter and a chorus of laughter, echoing off the walls before the turtles even fully enter. Mr. Murakami barely flinches—he just turns from the kitchen with his usual gentle smile.

"Welcome, my friends," he says warmly, folding his hands in front of his apron. "What can I get for you today?"

"Only pizza gyoza, the two best food groups in one beautiful bite-sized dumpling!" The orange-masked turtle — Mikey, you recall from earlier — executes an unnecessary but impressive backflip, landing with a flamboyant dab. You lift one eyebrow and write 'EXTRA' close to a small doodle on your notebook.

The red-masked turtle shoves past him with a grunt, clearly unfazed.

"Just feed him before he starts breakdancing."

"Thank you so much for your kindness, Mr. Murakami San." The turtle with the katanas and the blue mask steps forward, sitting on a stool close to the balcony.

"I should be thanking you," Mr. Murakami chuckles as he heads back into the kitchen. "My restaurant has never been so popular."

"What? But you’re the best, Mr. Murakami-san!" Mikey says with genuine affection, flopping into a chair like he owns the place.

You lean in closer to the computer screen, the blue glow reflecting in your eyes as you scribble notes in the growing margins of your notebook.

Over the next few weeks, this becomes your ritual for the weekend. Like clockwork, the turtles show up— generally on the saturdays, always full of energy and always hungry.

Mr. Murakami greets them like family. He serves up steaming plates of his strange but irresistible pizza gyoza, the sight of it makes your mouth water every espionage session. The turtles tease. They act like teenagers. They act like brothers— because they are, as you come to find out.

The blue-masked one is Leonardo. Calm, composed, looks like the leader of the group— though he’s not above wrestling over the last dumpling from time to time.

The red-masked one is Raphael. Hotheaded, sharp-tongued, but protective. He’s the type to tease his brothers mercilessly… and deck anyone who tries to do the same.

Donatello, the tallest, wore a purple mark and carried himself with a quiet intensity. He’s clearly the brain of the group, deadpan and sarcastic, his humor bone-dry and dipped in irony. You find yourself rewinding his lines more than once, smirking quietly in your dark room at each particularly funny quip.

And then there’s Michelangelo — Mikey. Loud, lovable, chaotic sunshine in a shell. The heart of the team and the most likely to get distracted mid-sentence by food. You find yourself laughing out loud at his antics more than once— and as weird as it is— and you slowly warm up to these strange mutant teens and become more curious over their lives, where they live, how they came to be. They would discuss bits and pieces here and there, but putting them together was like trying to solve a rubik's cube while colorblind.

Sometimes they talk about someone named April — a mutual friend, from the sound of it. They talk about her school, homework, the brother's tease Donatello for apparently having a crush on her— so you assume she must be a human girl. Probably.

And then—bingo. One of them mentions coming back next weekend, some type of celebration with the April girl.

You pause the footage, rewind it just to hear it again. Confirmed.

You swivel to the second monitor and grab the calendar off your wall, your chair groaning dramatically under your weight. Popping the cap off your marker with your teeth, you circle next Saturday with a bold, aggressive red loop.

----

"Hey, turtle people, you may not know me, but I sorta know you." You gesture with your hands, speaking to no one in particular as you pace nervously in the empty alleyway behind Murakami's noodle shop. You wince. "No, I sound like a stalker." Being a stalker is one thing, but sounding like it? Bad.

You stare at a faded graffiti mural on the wall—some pin-up anime girl on a motorcycle, winking like she knows how ridiculous you sound. "Turtles, we need to talk. It's about Baxter Stockman." You say, firmer this time. You sigh, too intense, it'd be a bad start.

"Hey, turtle-men, I heard you're good guys. Can you help me?" This one was even worse. You groan. "Maybe I should have practiced this earlier."

Your monologue is cut short at the sound of boots scraping pavement.

"Well, well… what do we got here?"

Your stomach drops.

Three figures emerge from the shadows behind you—leather jackets gleaming under flickering streetlights, tattoos curling up their necks like living things. One of them taps a pipe against his palm.

You smile nervously. Right, you were just standing in a random alleyway in Chinatown.

"Hey, I don't want any trouble." You stammer out.

"Who's said anything about any trouble?" One of them smiles. "Just give us your wallet and nobody gets hurt.

Your nervous smile fades as fear coils in your chest. You swallow hard, heart pounding, and slowly reach into your pocket with trembling fingers.

You pull out your wallet and hold it out, your voice barely a whisper. "Here. Just—take it."

One of the men snatches it with a scoff, flipping it open and rifling through the contents. A transit pass. Your library card. The pitiful remnants of your weekly allowance scraped together from your dad's coffee jar.

Then it slips out—your lucky Captain Ryan card.

It flutters to the dirty pavement like a fallen leaf, landing face-up in a puddle of city grime.

You stare at it in quiet horror. That card had survived middle school lunches, bus rides, and an accidental trip through the washing machine. Now it just laid there—soaked and stepped on—like your last shred of control.

"There’s almost nothing in here," the taller thug grumbles, clearly annoyed.

"H-Hey," you say, trying to stand your ground even as your voice cracks, "That’s all I have…"

"Fine. Hand over your phone."

That was your last lifeline. Your only way to call for help. Your only connection to your dad. To anything. You had photos and recordings and backups of all of your research in there.

But the look in their eyes says this isn't a negotiation.

Your fingers twitch toward your jacket pocket. Your mind races for a way out.

Just as your fingertips brush the edge of your phonecase, a heavy thud shakes the alleyway behind the thugs.

A shadow lands hard, crouched low—muscles taut, orange bandana fluttering like a warning flag in the dim glow of a flickering neon sign.

"What the—?" one of the Dragons starts to turn.

A nunchaku whip out in a blur of motion, slamming across the thug’s wrist. The metal pipe he’d been clutching clatters to the concrete. Another thug lunges, but Mikey's already moving— fluid and fast.

One thug groans on the ground, holding his stomach. Another stumbles backward, dazed, before Mikey sweeps his leg out and sends him tumbling into a stack of trash cans.

You stare—stunned—mouth slightly open. It’s him. The one from before.

After thoroughly kicking the thugs' butts with a whirlwind of honed ninja skill and just as much chaotic, childlike silliness, the alley is left scattered with groaning bodies, dented trash cans, and bruised egos.

One Dragon curses under his breath as he scrambles to his feet, clutching a bruised rib. "Freak!" he spits before taking off into the night, the others limping after him in retreat.

As they vanish into the shadows, something clatters against the ground—your phone, knocked loose in the scuffle, spinning to a stop in a small puddle by your feet.

You stare down at it, chest still heaving, pulse in your throat.

Did he just save you?

Michelangelo turns to you, panting lightly, he seemed jumpy, as if he was ready to leave, but upon looking at your face and weighing the fact that you haven't screamed or thrown anything at him so far, he seemed to change his mind. "You okay?" he asks, flashing a crooked, lopsided grin.

Your heart is hammering so fast it feels like it might rip through your ribs. "Y-Yeah," you say, and then glance at your ruined Captain Ryan card. "Well, mostly."

He kneels beside you, picking up your card carefully and giving it a shake like he might dry it out. "Sorry about your... space guy."

"Captain Ryan," you correct instinctively. "First edition. He's my favorite."

"No way! I thought only my bro was into that nerdy show." He gives you a soft smile, despite everything, you laugh. He helps you gather your things. His movements are careful, respectful, but slightly jumpy, ready to run off at any moment.

You sit up, slowly. Still catching up to what just happened. "Thank you for helping me. W-what's your name?"

"Name's Michelangelo, but my friend's call me Mikey."

"It's nice to meet you Mikey." You offer him a smile and tell him your name, he smiles brightly at the situation. "Uhm, listen, I need your help,” you say quickly, standing. "I'm trying to find someone. He disappeared. No one believes me. Not the cops, not my dad—no one. But I think something’s wrong. Something bad.”

"Who's missing?" His brow furrows under the orange bandana, confused at the sudden shift in your mood.

"My uncle." Here it goes. "Baxter Stockman."

Mikey blinks. "Wait, your uncle is Derek Stockboy?"

"Baxter Stockman." You replied firmly, a bit more annoyed than you intended. "But yes, he went missing weeks ago, I'm trying to find out what happened to him. Do you know him? Do you know what happened to him?"

Mikey studies you. Really studies you. His smile’s slowly fading, but not completely gone. There’s caution in his eyes now—but also curiosity.

His attitude was very carefree, he seemed static that a human was talking to him, but you could see the hesitancy, the slight anxiety of getting too close to you, maybe he was suspicious of you in specific? You couldn't fully tell.

"Yeah, sorry. But he's sort of the evil scientist guy type, I don't think he really wants us helping him."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He sort of hates me and my bros 'cause we kicked his butt and threw him in a dumpter once." He was laughing as he retoldthe story, but it slowly died ouy when he noticed your face. "Sorry."

Your brain raced. Evil scientist? Dumpster?! None of that tracked with the man who built you soda-spraying robots and named them after Star Trek ships. Well, maybe some of it tracked considering recent events.

You push past the disbelief. "Do you have any idea where he might be now?"

Mikey’s face softens. "I'm sorry girl, but I—" Before he can finish his sentence his phone buzzes in his belt. He turns around and picks up the phone.

"MIKEY, THE PIZZA!" A voice shouts through the speaker.

"MIKEY, YOU’VE BEEN GONE TWO HOURS!" Another voice yells—this one angrier, gruffer. You wince as it practically shakes the phone. "GET HOME RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR I’LL KICK YOUR BUTT SO HARD YOU'LL BE STUCK IN YOUR SHELL FOR A WEEK!"

He winces. "Oops. Uh, sorry, gotta go! Nice chatting with ya!"

"Wait—Mikey—!"

Within a few moments Mikey was already jumping and going up the building's wall with incredible ease, even if you wanted to follow him you'd never make it with your chicken legs.

He gives you a smile and wave before he dissapears.

You let your arms fall to your sides in frustration.

"Ugh, c'mon!"

Master splinter be looking kind of different :0 lol can't believe he used to voice 2012 splinter haha

Drawing a character that you are not attracted to in any shape or form is hard work

So it is very late and I should be asleep but I actually finished the second part of the secrets we inherit and I am so excited for how it is turning out but I gotta wait to post it, I need to at least pretend I proofread my shit before forcing it upon the world