#tmnt Raphael x reader

[faith-forgxtten-land]

Sloppy | Raphael

okay so this wasn’t a request but i’ve been MIA for a while and i haven’t really had the opportunity to write much over the past few months so this is really just writing practice (forgive me if it's subpar, i'm rusty)

also, if you've requested something, i promise that i'm working on it so please be patient!

made with bayverse in mind!!

warnings: NSFW, first thing i’ve properly written in months so be kind people, swearing, afab reader — mentions of pussy etc., oral sex (f!receiving), raph is a little feral and mean i feel… everyone is 18+!!, not proofread so lemme know if you notice any glaring errors

summary: raph eats your pussy; he’s greedy and sloppy (it’s perfect)

word count: 651 (short and not sweet)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

raph eats pussy like a man possessed. he’s sloppy and loud about it, spit and slick all over his face as he spreads your legs as wide as possible and then even wider. your hips ache from the stretch, and you can already tell you’ll be sore tomorrow, but all you can do is whine and moan, hands covering your heated face in a futile effort to silence yourself.

you can’t even grind down against him like this because the bastard has one arm casually slung over your stomach, his huge palm pressing down just so, enough to make you whimper. you can feel him grinning meanly against your thigh with each failed arch of your spine, nipping your flesh in cruel, teasing bites that are sure to leave purple marks, before he continues to lap at your cunt like he hasn’t eaten in a week.

“raph,” you wheeze desperately, whimpers getting stuck in your throat as he practically growls against you. the sound is dark and agonised, and you can’t help but gasp as he pushes a thick digit inside you. “raph, raph, raph—”

he tongues your clit and crooks his finger, and you can no longer breathe, hands now clenched into bedsheets and thighs shaking with every sloppy touch. “that’s it,” he rumbles, the vibrations only making you tremble more. “that’s it, give it to me.”

your moans fill the room in perfect harmony with the filthy squelch of your pussy as raph fucks you with his calloused finger. it’s already too much, but you think you might pass out when he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks like he’s trying to reap your soul. “oh my god—”

you’re whining so loud, choked, and so, so needy, but you can’t find it within you to feel shame even as a distant part of your brain acknowledges that you won’t be able to look his brothers in the eye for a good week after this.

white eclipses your vision when you come, falling headfirst over that precipice that you’ve been teetering on for god knows how long. you fall silent when you do, mouth parted and back finally arching as raph lets your body take exactly what it needs; he lets you grind your hips down, mouth still fixed over your clit as your thighs clamp down around his skull.

he’s mumbling something dirty and full of sacrilege when you finish, his words a wicked churr that tips you into oversensitivity, and you whine weakly when he keeps moving his finger inside you, letting it drag against your slick walls with a slightly sadistic delight.

he chuckles when you slap his forearm weakly, but he acquiesces and slowly pulls back, groaning to himself when he sees just how soaked his hand is. “such a good girl,” he murmurs, looking right at you when he tastes you on his finger. he groans again at the flavour as if he hasn’t been buried in your pussy for the best part of the last hour.

“you’re terrible,” you tell him, voice wrecked, when he finally releases his finger from his mouth.

his smirk is shameless and greedy. “oh, i know.” his warm palms rest against your wet thighs, parting them again with ease. your hipbones twinge, and you gasp as he drags you closer to him, nestling between your legs like he belongs there (he does). “and we’re nowhere near done.”

his eyes are dark and leering, gluttonous and greedy, never full of you but always full of sin, and you swallow thickly as his lips twist into a ravenous snarl, nostrils flaring as you somehow grow even wetter, slick trickling down your already soaked thigh at the unadulterated lechery above you.

by the time you're done, several hours and several orgasms later, you know you won’t be able to look his brothers in the eye for at least a month.

[delulu-julia]

Interrupted make-out

(When ur kiss with them turns into a full-blown make-out until someone walks in) (Romantic, gn reader)

It was accidental kiss. But then, one second you’re just catching your breath — next, you’re pressed up against a wall or couch or the floor, and their hands are everywhere but respectful. And of course… someone always walks in.

Leonardo

The kiss deepens. It’s slow, burning, as if he was waiting too long for the perfect moment. The embers of a fire that’s been waiting forever to ignite. You’re gripping the edge of his plastron, pulling him closer. He’s got one hand on your waist, the other trembling on your cheek

And then — boom.

“…Leonardo.”

He freezes. Back stiff. Lips still ghosting over yours. You slowly look past his shoulder—

Splinter is standing in the doorway. Dead silent.

Leo practically teleports away from you.

“SENSEI—! I—I was just—”

“Yes. I saw.”

“It wasn’t— I mean, it was, but not—!”

Splinter sips his tea.

“Train harder. You’ll need more focus next time.”

And walks away.

You snort. Leo dies inside, not being able to look at you this time

Raphael

It’s intense. Hot. He’s got you against a wall, your hands tangled around his neck, his grip rough on your waist. He’s kissing you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance. You can’t breathe — and you don’t want to.

And then, suddenly

“RAPH—?! What the actual—”

Raph turns his head, lips still slightly on your neck.

“What?! I’m busy!”

“I can see that! In the middle of the dojo?! Really?!”

“You walked in. That’s your fault.”

You hide your face. Donnie flees. Raph just smirks and goes “Now where were we?”

Donatello

It was supposed to be one kiss. Maybe two. Now you’re both sitting on his bed, your legs over his, his bo forgotten on the floor. You’re straddling him, and the way he’s kissing you —careful, desperate, like you might disappear —is enough to melt every inch of you.

Then—

“Dude—WHOA—SORRY—!”

Donnie gasps so hard he headbutts you by accident.

“OW—Donnie!”

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO—WAIT—GET OUT—!”

“I’M ALREADY GONE BRO GOOD LUCK!!”

You both collapse in laughter. Donnie’s face is red for days.

Michelangelo

You’re laughing, lying on the couch, and suddenly Mikey’s on top of you, kissing the air out of your lungs. It starts fun —then it gets heavy. Hands. Tongue. Teeth.

You moan his name once, and he loses it. He kisses you like he’s starving. And then—

“WHAT THE—”

“OH COME ON, NOT ON THE COUCH—!”

Mikey doesn’t even stop. He just yells:

“CLOSE THE DOOR OR JOIN IN, GUYS!”

“MIKEY—!”

He throws the nearest pillow at them

Been felling sad and wanted something super fluffy, so decided to write dis. And yeah, for everyone who requested, I’m so sorry, I didn’t have energy to do ur request, but I hope I’ll get better lately🙏 it might be a little short guys. So yeah go kiss ur turtle!!

[hornedstorys]

Imagine Oneshot - 2003 Raphael x Reader

- He is injured and you take care of his wounds. It comes to a kiss. / Raph is of age Warnings: Mentions of injuries

You anxiously fetched the bandages. Ever since you became friends with the Turtles, you had actually created an extra box of bandages and medicines for emergencies. Especially for Raphael, the most hot-headed of them all.

He was the one you worried about the most. Even though you knew he could take good care of himself, this time he really went too far and he looked really bad.

It was raining cats and dogs outside when you saw the shadow outside your window. You immediately knew who it was and opened the latch in seconds and let the mutant in. The first thing you heard was a pain-filled gasp and your fear immediately grew.

Raphael almost fell, literally, into your arms and you could feel the warm liquid seeping from his wounds on your hands.

“Red!” you shouted in panic and helped the semi-conscious ninja to sit down in your bathtub. You had to clean him up so that you could tend to his wounds. The water turned so red in no time that you thought he would bleed to death in your arms, but the occasional growl kept your hopes alive.

“What were you thinking, Raphael!” you gasp, biting your lips to hold back your emotions. It took you quite some time to tend to his wounds and he fainted in the meantime.

Somehow you managed to lay him in your bed and cover him up. He was taken care of so far. You also tried to give him as much water as you could to keep him hydrated. You sat next to the bed all night and waited for him to make a sound, but he didn't. He slept soundly and your eyes slowly became heavier and heavier.

You didn't notice when Raphael woke up in the middle of the night and his head turned in your direction. His eyes narrowed with strain, he looked at the sleeping figure of you. Once again, the feeling ran through him of how lucky he was to have you. You were always able to control his temper, you were always there for him and took care of him.

He soon had to admit to himself that he could no longer and would no longer deny the feelings that were welling up inside him for you. He gasped as he tried to move. His whole body was on fire, but he didn't want to stay still.

He saw the tear mark on your cheek and immediately felt guilty. You had been crying because of him. He had gone too far again.

You perked up at the movement and your eyes widened as you saw Raphael trying to get up.

"Raphael, you have to stay down. Your stitches could come undone again," you admonished him and tried to push him back onto the bed, but he held on to you tightly. Your gaze became confused.

He actually pulled himself upright, at least so that he was sitting upright. Your hand still on his shoulder. Suddenly, he gently grasped your hand. You could see his head rattling as if he was thinking, but about what?

But before you could think about it any further, he let go of your hand and instead gently grabbed your chin, cheek and all, with his three fingers and pulled you towards him. His lips crashed against yours and you gasped in surprise into his mouth. You hadn't expected that. The kiss was intense and gentle. You both couldn't suppress a moan. Breathing heavily, he broke away from you and looked intensely into your eyes.

“Thank you,” he croaked and you just nodded, completely dazed.

[stellaspectral]

I have two requests, both with the Bayverse turtles. This is the second one:

Raphael x Female Reader.

Fluff. Lots of Fluff. With some introspection too maybe? Extrovert Grumpy (Raph) x Introvert Sunshine (Reader).

I was thinking of something that would focus on their blooming relationship but seen through the eyes of Leo, Donnie, and Mikey. Or just one of them of your choice if this request gets too long. It's the first time they've seen Raph act so soft, sweet, and calm and awkward around someone and they'll definitely have a lot of thoughts going on in their heads about it. And maybe a lot of teasing too ;). Thank you so much in advance if you decide to write it!

A/N: Hello, anon! To be honest, I wasn’t sure whose POV of Raph and the reader’s relationship to write in. But it seems I ended up gravitating towards Leo the most. Though the other two still have commentary, of course.

Enjoy! 💖

Drawn to You (fluff)

❤️ Bayverse Raphael/Female Reader ❤️

CWs: Fluff, soft/awkward Raph, implied crush/pining, brotherly teasing. All characters are aged-up.

You’re curled up on the couch in the lair, nestled deep into the cushions, sketchbook open on your lap. The paper is smooth under your pencil as you draw one of the graffiti markings on the wall opposite you. You add a final flourish to the spray-painted tag you’ve replicated, tilting your head to admire your work.

Suddenly, the lair’s entrance tunnel echoes with boisterous sounds. Footsteps herald the return of the turtles from whatever topside excursion they were on. You instinctively snuggle a little tighter into the couch, a cheerful smile tugging at your lips.

The first one who enters is Leo, already mid-sentence, gesturing emphatically. “… and I told you the grappling hook wouldn’t hold on that gargoyle, Donnie, but did you listen? Nooo.”

Donnie follows, looking mildly exasperated. “My calculations indicated a 93.9% structural integrity probability. Clearly, the masonry was older than I initially thought.”

Mikey comes in last, practically vibrating. “Dude, did you see that flip Leo almost didn’t stick? Epic fail waiting to happen, bro!”

Last comes Raph. He enters more quietly than usual, rubbing the back of his thick neck, his usual post-patrol scowl firmly in place. His eyes scan the lair, likely checking if Splinter is meditating nearby. Then they land on you.

And something shifts.

It’s subtle, almost imperceptible if you didn’t know him. But from the entryway, where his brothers have paused their bickering to shed their gear, the change is glaringly obvious.

Leo stops mid-gesticulation, his eyes widening slightly. He nudges Donnie, who adjusts his glasses purely out of habit, and raises a questioning brow ridge. Mikey just freezes, his usual bouncy energy stilling as he watches.

Raph’s shoulders, typically tense and ready for action, visibly relax. The deep V of his scowl softens, not quite disappearing, but smoothing out into something almost … hesitant. He takes a step towards the living area, then another, his heavy footfalls strangely muted on the floor. He seems to be actively trying not to stomp.

He stops a few feet away from the couch, his enormous frame suddenly looking a little awkward in the open space. He clears his throat, a low rumble that’s much softer than his usual volume. “Hey,” he says, his voice rough but lacking its typical edge. “You, uh, good?”

You look up, beaming at him. The brightness of your smile seems to physically hit him; he blinks, shifting his weight. “Hey, Raph! Yeah, I’m great. Just drawing.” You hold up your sketchbook. “How was the patrol?”

“Uh, fine. Usual.” He glances towards the graffiti you were drawing, then back at your face. There’s a flicker of something warm in his eyes, a stark contrast to the ‘ready-to-rumble’ look he usually sports. “Looks good.” He takes another step closer, peering over your shoulder, but careful not to crowd you. There’s an uncharacteristic gentleness in his proximity.

Meanwhile, by the entrance, a quiet conversation is happening.

“Dude, look at him,” Mikey whispers, pointing with a slight nod of his head. “He’s doing ‘the thing’ again.”

“Define ‘the thing’,” Donnie begins. “His heightened state of peripheral awareness when she’s present? His decreased vocalizations? The slight, almost imperceptible softening of his default scowl?”

“All of it, brainiac!” Mikey whisper-shouts. “He looks like a big, shy puppy trying to ask for pets without barking too loud.”

Leo, leaning against the wall nearby, arms crossed, watches with a more measured expression. He’s noticed it too, of course. How could he not? Raphael, his brother who communicates primarily through grunts, glares, and the occasional explosive outburst, becomes … subdued around you. Gentle. It’s baffling.

And, Leo has to admit, a little heartwarming.

Donnie pushes his glasses up again. “Fascinating. Physiologically, his respiration rate appears elevated, but his aggressive posturing shows a significant reduction. Perhaps a neurochemical response triggered by proximity to a preferred individual?”

“Or maybe,” Mikey stage-whispers, leaning closer to his brothers, “he liiiikes her!”

Back by the couch, Raph shifts again, his gaze locked on the sketchbook page. He points at a specific detail in your drawing. “You got the … the little flicky bit there just right. The way the paint kinda dripped.” He clears his throat again. “How’d you get so good at this?”

“Years of practice,” you say, offering him another warm smile. “Want to see the others I did?”

His head snaps up, eyes wide for a fraction of a second, that warmth flickering more brightly. “Uh … yeah. Sure. If you wanna show me.” He moves closer but doesn’t sit. His gaze drifts from the sketchbook back to your face, lingering for just a moment longer than strictly necessary.

Across the room, hidden partially by the archway leading to the dojo, the espionage continued.

“See? SEE?” Mikey whispers. “He’s leaning! Like, actually leaning in to look at her drawings! Raph never leans! He looms. Or glares.”

Donnie analyzes the scene. “Observation: Raphael’s typical personal space boundary appears significantly reduced in relation to her. Approximately 45 centimeters closer than his baseline average with non-familial individuals. Also, note the lack of fidgeting typically associated with his impatience. Instead, he exhibits micro-shifts indicative of … social anxiety? Or perhaps, contentment?”

“It’s called being smitten, Donnie,” Leo supplies, pushing off the wall. Casually, he saunters closer to you and Raph, ostensibly to put away his katanas. But truthfully, he’s only positioning himself for a better view.

“Never thought I’d see the day Raph looked like he was afraid of scaring someone just by breathing too hard,” Donnie murmurs.

“He asked how she got good at drawing,” Mikey adds, eyes wide with dramatic effect. “He usually just grunts and says ‘cool’ if he likes something. He used words. Multiple words! In a question!”

Back at the couch, you’re flipping through the pages of your sketchbook. Raph remains standing, his large hands clasped loosely behind his back, a pose that looks strangely formal and uncertain on his powerful frame. He’s genuinely looking at each sketch, his brow furrowed in concentration, not anger.

“This one’s the mural down by the old noodle shop,” you explain, pointing to a vibrant, detailed reproduction. “And this is that little stencil someone keeps putting on the mailboxes near the park …”

“Yeah … know that one,” Raph mumbles, his gaze flicking up to meet yours for a second before darting back to the page. That warmth is definitely there, a banked fire behind his usual tough-guy facade. “You … uh … you really capture the … the feel of ‘em.”

“He’s complimenting her artistic interpretation,” Donnie murmurs, sounding genuinely astonished. “The probability of Raph using such nuanced appreciation is statistically infinitesimal under normal circumstances. This deviation is remarkable.”

“Translation: Raph’s got it BAD!” Mikey giggles, barely containing himself.

It’s Leo’s cue. He finishes securing his swords and wanders over to the couch area, stretching nonchalantly. “Hey, Raph,” he calls out, his voice deliberately casual but loud enough to carry. “Everything alright? You look a little flushed. Feeling okay?”

Raph visibly tenses. His head snaps towards Leo, the soft expression vanishing, replaced by a familiar annoyed glare. “I’m fine, Leo. Just … lookin’ at sketches.” The last part comes out defensive.

“Oh yeah?” Leo stops near the armrest, peering over Raph’s shoulder, mimicking his earlier pose but with deliberate exaggeration. “Whatcha got there? Wow, Raph’s right, these are amazing! You really captured the … spray-e-ness.” He gives Raph a pointed look.

You smile up at Leo. “Thank you.”

Raph shifts uncomfortably, caught between your presence and his brother’s obvious teasing. He shoots Leo a warning look that clearly reads, ‘Don’t push it’.

Mikey, never one to miss an opportunity, comes over. “Ooh, lemme see! Wowzers! Raph, you never told us she was this talented! Usually, you just grunt about stuff.” He grins cheekily. “Guess some things make you wanna use your words, huh?”

A faint reddish tinge creeps up Raph’s neck. “Shut it, Mikey.”

Finally, Donnie approaches. “Indeed. Raph’s verbal communication frequency increases by approximately 35% in her presence, correlating with a decrease in aggressive posturing by nearly 50%. Fascinating psycho-social dynamics are at play.”

“Donnie!” Raph snaps, turning fully towards his brothers now, creating a partial shield between them and you. It’s a protective gesture as much as a defensive one. “Can’t you go … I dunno … invent somethin’ or annoy Splinter?”

“Aw, but Raph,” Mikey whines playfully, leaning around him to beam at you, “we just wanna hang out! Like you’re hanging out! Looking at pretty drawings.” His gaze flicks meaningfully between you and Raph.

You look between the brothers, catching the teasing undercurrent and noticing Raph’s struggle to maintain his composure. A small, amused smile tugs at your mouth. You reach out tentatively and pat Raph’s arm, feeling the muscle beneath twitch slightly at the contact.

“It’s okay, Raph,” you assure softly. “I don’t mind showing them.” You look back at your sketchbook. “Maybe you guys could even give me ideas for what to draw next?”

The effect on Raph is instantaneous. His glare softens again as he looks down at you, the tension visibly draining from his shoulders. The slight flush on his neck deepens, and the anger has dissipated, replaced by that familiar, flustered awkwardness. He clears his throat again. “Uh … yeah. S-sure. If … if you want.”

Leo, Donnie, and Mikey exchange looks. Whiplash. One gentle touch, a few soft words from you, and Volcano Raphael is dormant once more.

Leo can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. Oh yeah; this was definitely unfamiliar territory. And watching Raph navigate it, with all the grace of a tank trying to tiptoe through a minefield, was going to be endlessly entertaining. Regardless, he steers Donnie and Mikey away to give you and Raph some space.

“Did you see that?” Mikey whispers dramatically, eyes sparkling. “Poof! Grumpy gone!”

Raph lets out a breath as his brothers retreat towards the kitchen, their voices fading but their knowing glances still palpable. He visibly deflates, the tension leaving his body in a rush, but he remains standing.

“So,” you prompt gently, tapping your pencil against the sketchbook. “Ideas?”

He glances around the lair, eyes snagging on a training dummy, then the weapons rack, before finally landing back on your sketchbook. “Maybe … maybe you could draw … you know that bit of wall near the docks? The one where the bricks are all busted up and kinda looks like a face if you squint?”

You tilt your head, picturing it. “Oh, yeah! With the really deep cracks running through it? I know the one.”

“Yeah. That.” He gestures vaguely with one hand. “It’s kinda cool. Looks tough. Like it’s been through stuff.” He seems pleased with his own description, though his gaze flicks nervously towards the kitchen, checking if his brothers overheard.

From the kitchen doorway, Mikey leans out, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Ooh, busted bricks! How romantic, Raph! Maybe she can draw a little heart graffiti next to it?”

Raph whirls around, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “Mikey! I swear—”

“Easy, you two,” Leo’s voice drifts from deeper within the kitchen.

Raph clenches his fists, his neck flushing that familiar red again. But then he catches your eye. You’re watching him, not with fear, but with a patient, amused expression. He forces himself to take another deep breath, turning back towards you. The growl subsides, though his jaw remains tight.

“Ignore them,” you say, offering a reassuring smile. “I like that idea. The texture of those old bricks would be interesting to capture.” You flip to a fresh page in your sketchbook, wanting to get Raph involved. “Show me again where the cracks look like a face?”

His anger drains away almost comically fast. He steps closer, bending at the waist to peer at your blank page. He hesitates, then lifts a finger, hovering it just above the paper, careful not to touch. “Okay, so … the big crack goes down here, like this …” He traces the shape in the air above the page. “And there’s these smaller bits that kinda … yeah, like eyes. And the busted bit at the bottom looks like a grumpy mouth.”

He’s leaning closer now, his usual intimidating presence softened by his focused explanation. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the faint scent of the city night still clinging to his gear. He’s completely absorbed in describing the broken wall, his voice losing some of its earlier hesitation.

“Grumpy mouth, huh?” you muse, sketching lightly based on his description. “Sounds appropriate.”

He glances up, meeting your eyes directly for a solid second. The warmth there flares, intense and unguarded, before he quickly looks back down at the sketchbook. “Yeah. Guess so.”

You continue sketching, adding details as he describes them. He stays close, watching the image appear on the page. A few more details he points out include a loose wire hanging nearby, and a specific pattern of moss. He’s surprisingly observant.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, the others continue their own observation at a lower volume.

“He’s practically an art historian now,” Mikey says, his voice full of suppressed laughter. “Describing moss patterns! Who knew Raph noticed moss?”

“Or maybe,” Leo murmurs, leaning beside Donnie, arms still crossed, “he just actually wants to talk to her.” He keeps his voice low, not wanting to break the weirdly calm bubble that seems to have formed around the couch.

You finish the rough sketch of the brick wall face, holding it up. “Like this?”

Raph leans in again. He’s closer now, close enough that you could probably count the scars on his face if you wanted to. “Yeah,” he says, his voice dropping even lower, almost a rumble. “Looks good.” He doesn’t pull back immediately this time, his gaze lingering on the drawing, then flicking up to meet yours again.

But then he seems to realize how close he is and moves back half a step, a faint pinkness rising on his cheeks this time.

“They almost touched noses!” Mikey whisper-squeals from the kitchen, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Proximity threshold breached and self-corrected,” Donnie observes.

Leo just shakes his head, a wry smile touching his lips. Donnie could analyze the shell off a turtle, but even he couldn’t miss the obvious: Raph is head over heels.

You flip to another blank page. “Any other cool spots you think would make good sketches?”

Raph hesitates, glancing around the lair again as if searching for inspiration that isn’t potentially embarrassing. His gaze falls upon the worn-out punching bag in his room. “Maybe the bag?” he suggests, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Got a lot of … history.”

It’s a simple object, beat-up and functional, but the way he suggests it feels oddly personal, like he’s offering a small piece of himself.

Leo watches you and Raph. You’re smiling, considering the punching bag with genuine interest. Raph looks at you as you watch the bag, his expression a strange mix of hopeful and apprehensive. The usual storm cloud that follows Raph seems to have dissipated, replaced by this uncertain, almost sunny humidity. It’s weird.

Good weird, mostly, Leo thinks.

Donnie and Mikey look at Leo expectantly, waiting for the punchline. The teasing remark. But Leo looks past them, back towards the couch. Raph sees him, his shoulders tensing again as he braces for the usual barrage. He glances from Leo, back to you, then to Leo with a silent plea in his eyes.

And, for once, Leo listens. He sees the vulnerability there, the raw awkwardness that his brother tries so hard to hide behind muscle and scowls. He’s navigating something new, something that doesn’t involve fists or threats, and he’s doing it clumsily. But he’s doing it.

Leo catches his eyes from across the room. He gives Raph the smallest, almost imperceptible nod that says, I see you. It’s alright. Then Leo turns to his other brothers, lowering his voice. “Alright. Squad, you’re dismissed.”

Mikey opens his mouth to protest, probably armed with a dozen heart-related puns.

“Now,” Leo orders, cutting him off with a look that says I mean it. “Let the big guy breathe. Go sort your gear or something.”

Donnie raises a brow but nods slowly, seemingly accepting the logic of allowing the current social experiment to proceed without further variables. Mikey pouts but follows Donnie, muttering something about ‘mood killers’ and ‘romantic potential.’ Leo leans back against the counter, crossing his arms.

You’re sketching the punching bag, asking Raph about a specific tear near the top. He’s answering, his voice still low, leaning in again, pointing with that same hesitant finger. He looks … quiet. Focused. Almost peaceful.

It’s a side of Raph Leo rarely sees. The fighter, the hothead—that’s the Raph they all know. But this Raph, the one who describes moss patterns and gets flustered by a smile, is new. For Leo, it’s actually kind of nice to see his younger brother soften, even just for a little while.

Perhaps Raph wasn’t just doing ‘the thing,’ as Mikey put it. Maybe he was just being Raphael.

And maybe that isn’t such a bad thing.

[hotheadedhero]

Baby Jitters

AN: After making the 'Baby Bump' headcanons, idk, I just HAD to further develop Raph's worries in a conversation. Maybe I'll do the other turtles too but my honey in red needs this closure 😭

Raphael x Reader

All characters are aged up

The weight of the baby, predictably, has become a topic of contention. Not the actual weight, not really, though that is certainly present. It’s more about the symbolism. Each extra pound is a tangible reminder of the life growing inside you, a constant ticking clock hurtling towards a monumental, life-altering event that can’t be truly prepared for. For you, it’s exciting; a little daunting, but ultimately a joyful anticipation. For Raph, it seems to be morphing into something else.

It’s the constant, subtle reminder in every movement, every ache, every breath; each day, you, both of you, are getting closer to having your lives changed. A change bigger than any he’s ever had to take upon, which, all things considered, is saying something. The troublesome thoughts that come with this expectation only get louder, yet Raphael refuses to acknowledge them. Try as he may, the fact that he has been so riddled with more nerves than thrilled anticipation can’t be hidden. Not from you. You know him too well.

So, then, he compensates by upping the ante with his usual manners of looking after you. Occasional lifts out of bed turn into being carried to and from virtually everywhere and anywhere, provided he’s around to do it. All instances are paired with flirtatious remarks to your objections, only there’s a subtle shift: the playful boasts are edged with something deeper, almost desperate.

“See?” he grunts, his biceps barely straining as he steals you from the kitchen stool. “Said I could still handle ya.” That grin is there as always, but the creases around his eyes suggest a weariness you hadn’t noticed before.

“I’m getting too heavy for this,” you oppose apprehensively.

“Nah, you’re light as a feather.”

You placidly swat his chest, fighting the smile on your face more than actually fighting him. “I’m practically a watermelon, Raph. You don’t have to prove anything.”

“Watermelons are sweet,” he retorts, “and lucky to be held by me.”

The way he smirks at you makes your cheeks tint the same colour as the inside of one, distracting you from how dense his voice is with this forced lightness. Huffing, you just bury your face in his shoulder, missing the fact that he ignores your statement between the hormones and his flustering you. For the time being, that is. The signs recur intermittently, regardless of how frequently he attempts to cosy the wool over your eyes with amorous one-liners and tender-stemmed indulgences.

He isn’t just overcompensating, he’s trying to settle something, whilst, ironically, being unsettled.

Nights, too, experience the backlash of these inheld contemplations. You awake to find him staring pensively at the ceiling, bathed in the faint glow of fairylights you had insisted on when you first started staying here all those years ago. They do little to soften the sharpened bunch of his brows. He has an arm behind his head, the other around you, but he’s miles away as he strokes your shoulder.

"Raph?" you murmur drowsily, trying to pick at his face against your heavy eyelids.

Startled, his gaze snaps down towards you. "Sorry, doll. Didn't mean to wake ya."

"You okay?"

"Yeah.” He hesitates, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “Just thinkin'."

"About?"

His hand moves from your shoulder to your hair. “Don’t worry about it. Go back to sleep for me, okay?”

As his fingers push into the achiest parts of your scalp, your eyes droop, but you know what he’s doing. It’s what he’s been trying to do for a few weeks now, and frankly, you’re growing tired of it. In an act of defiance, you slowly jerk away from his hypnotising ministrations to look him in the eyes, your own blinking out of sync in an attempt to address him adamantly.

“Babe.”

“Please?” He parrots your feathered urgency, spinning it back on you, much to your worry. “You need your rest.”

Stubbornness, it seems, is as intrinsic to his being as his very shell. He cups the back of your head and coaxes you into a more appropriate position, leaving it there for you to try and sleep on, but this wouldn’t be the last of it.

In one of your evening couch sessions, you embrace what has become a ritual: you perched at his front, the press of your back perfectly moulded against his chest, and his strong arms wrapped around just above the swell of your stomach. The rhythmic rub of his hand on your bump is a balm to your aching spine and swollen feet. You always melt, lulled by the warmth, the steady beat of his heart against your shoulder blades, and the low rumble of his voice as he occasionally mutters something unintelligible. It’s heaven personified. At least, it would be if it weren’t for the tension beneath the surface of his affection; moments of silence, even peace, that are unsafe from the belligerent anxieties he refuses to express. Whether it’s the quiet deliberation in his eyes, a hesitant pause in his touch, he was thinking, and when Raphael thought too much, he worried. You’ve all but become privy to just how often he’s gotten like this.

As his thumb runs over the same loosened thread of your shirt - likely loose because of the repetitive action - he ruminates. There are so many questions, too many unknowns, that he isn’t sure he has the strength to challenge. Weirdly, having that conversation with Mikey about it has helped. Leave it to him to come out with the unexpected and profound truths. No family is perfect, least of all theirs, but he wants this to be perfect. It’s the least you deserve, what your kid deserves. He knows he's going to have to talk to you about all of this. He just wishes he knew how to bring it up without sounding like an idiot.

"Something's on your mind,” he suddenly hears you mumble. “I can tell."

You can always tell, he swears, even without trying. He should be thankful for that, genuinely he is, but there’s a lump at the base of his skull, and its main aim is to halt these thoughts from slipping past his tongue. You crane your head back to look at him, awaiting those very thoughts, holding onto the thin piece of thread in the hopes that it’ll snap and allow him the space he needs to speak. For the courage he’s been building up to drop into a moment like this, temptation’s whisper urges him to back out. He knows he can’t, though. You won’t let him, and his head folds back into the headrest as he rallies it all into something tangible.

"What if," he starts, low and treading, "the kid just, I dunno, hates me?"

You chuckle softly, but not with any intention to poke fun at him. "Raph, they're not even born yet. How could they hate you?"

"They could have a sixth sense or somethin’. What if they can already tell I'm not cut out for this?"

His brows furrow, a flash of insecurity jolting the upturned stare behind his mask that so hopelessly tries to hide it. Fatherhood may not come as naturally to him as he would like it to. ‘Natural’ isn’t a word that fits into his entire family and the system they’ve ridden on. He’s more used to patching up wounds, both physical and emotional, not wiping noses and reading bedtime stories.

You bite your lip to suppress a grin, finding his concerns both endearing and amusing. "You think our unborn child is judging you? I doubt they’re sitting in there with a scorecard."

"You know what I mean,” he grumbles, eyes slanting down at you satirically before flicking up again. The tucked groove of his cheeks eases, but not into a calm. It’s more like despondent resignation, and that just breaks your heart, though not nearly as much as the weakness in his throat when he speaks again. “I could mess this up. I know nothin’ about kids. Spinta’ll tell ya’, I was a handful. What if… they’re like me?”

"Then I’d feel lucky,” you answer without missing a beat. “I would be so incredibly lucky knowing that I have two very strong, very passionate, and very loving people in my family.”

You reach down for one of his hands, lacing your fingers through his, but he only hums in response, still unconvinced. The hold that is typically so soft towards you is tough and constrictive, as if any gap left between your skin will let these worries fabricate into the real world. He’s heard those observations before. More than he can count. You have and still always make a point to remind him of his desirable qualities, but they’re not all good. Raphael can’t take them into account without first recognising the bad ones. He can see it so vividly, the grim likelihood of losing his temper with his own kid, and being feared as some monster rather than the father he’s supposed to be. He knows logically that he'll be okay, that he'll figure it out, that he has you to lean on should things get difficult, but logic doesn’t always win against a lifetime of ingrained self-doubt.

You turn, pressing your palms into his plastron for leverage, and he holds his arms out for you with his full attention now, only proving the point you're about to make. "Raph, you're going to be an amazing dad. Maybe not perfect, but great. You care too much not to be." Smiling sweetly, you grab one of his knuckles and bring it up to your lips. "Just look at how you take care of me."

He softens at that, his expression becoming more thoughtful. "You really think so?"

"I know so,” you confirm, pushing your scrunched nose against his. “Don’t forget, we’re in this together. You, me, and this little watermelon.”

The corny joke gets a laugh out of him, finally, and he wraps his arms around you as best as he can with the ‘watermelon’ kicking about. That’s the cherry on top: they’re not even born yet, and already the small miracle growing inside you is demonstrating exactly what you’ve been trying to preach. You know it, they know it, you just hope that Raph comes to realise it, too. He might not be completely convinced, the worry will still linger, but you knew you'd planted a seed of reassurance.

He exhales, and the strain of his body disintegrates beneath you, even just a little. “Thanks, doll.”

“For what?” you ask, grinning.

“Bein’ you,” he mumbles fondly. “Makin’ me a dad.”

A choked snort ripples in the back of your nose. "You really are just goo under all that tough shell, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah." He waves you off playfully, but betrays himself by leaning forward until your foreheads meet, eyes falling shut with an unguarded stillness for the first time in a while. “Only for you two."

[tinyfandomknight]

You Were Always | Raphael Hamato

Pairing: Raphael Hamato x Reader Summary: Your date ended horribly. You walked home alone in the rain, sobbing, with a red mark on your arm and a story to keep from your green best friends (because they brutalize bad people, plus you were just embarrassed of your judgment.) Big Red, however, was tired of being your best friend -- and was waiting to tell you that. Themes & Warnings: protective!Raph, emotional love confessions in the rain, mentions of violence and possible carrying out of violence, swearing, slight fluff, comfort, Raph being angry bc he's always angry.

Having mutant turtle best friends was not how you thought your twenties would go. Not that you weren't thankful.

You just thought you'd be hanging out with your girls, going to bars, meeting dudes and finding your calling while studying in college. You thought it would be full of mini skirts, glitter, vodka and dreams. You were wrong. Completely wrong. Instead, you were walking home drunk from a bar alone, fell down an open manhole cover, and were caught by strong, green arms.

You screamed for a second. Passed out. When you woke up, you were on an old tattered couch with a giant rat staring at you, then looking at the four hulking turtle-human men in disdain.

That was how you met your boys.

It didn't take you long to love them. You loved Leo's courage, his leadership, his perfect advice every time you asked for it. He was more mature than most people you knew, though he hadn't experienced a full life that was similar to yours. You loved Donnie's intelligence, his excitement about his hobbies, how gentle he was, and how eager he was to teach you about things you'd never heard about. You loved Mikey's carefree spirit, the way he could always lift you up when you were feeling down, and his spectacular sense of humor. And most of all, you loved Raph.

You always attracted a bad boy. Always, always. Though it wasn't romantic, it was natural for you to spend the most time with the most rough-around-the-edges motherfucker there was. It was just how your life went. When you met Raph, he was tough to crack at first. He was a little grumpy about a new human joining their lives, adding to the chaos that April O'Neil originally brought -- but he warmed up to you until he was ultimately the closest to you out of the four.

At first, he didn’t speak to you much. Just kind of grunted when you came by. Didn’t laugh at your jokes. Barely made eye contact.

But you noticed the small things. Like how he always checked the tunnels before you left. How he stood between you and the sketchier parts of the lair. How he walked you out even when you said you didn’t need an escort.

You started staying longer when he was around. He started lingering in the doorway when you visited.

Eventually, that turned into regular late-night talks, usually on the couch, or while he bench pressed literal cars in the corner of the dojo. You’d sit with your legs crisscrossed, talking about dumb things: your classes, your horrible job, your wild roommates. He’d grunt or smirk, occasionally tossing in a sarcastic comment that made you snort into your soda. Sometimes he’d say something unexpectedly thoughtful, and it’d stick with you for days.

What no one told you about Raph was that he listened. He remembered everything -- the names of your old pets, the fact that your mom was sick, your weird favorite candy that no one else liked. He noticed when you wore makeup to hide stress, or when your laugh didn’t sound quite right.

When you got sick, he brought you soup and didn’t make eye contact the entire time. When you got dumped, he punched the punching bag until his knuckles bled and didn’t say why. When you succeeded, a passing grade, a new job, a clean day, he acted like it was your world championship.

And you?

You kept him soft.

You gave him space to breathe. Let him be quiet when he needed to be. Made him laugh when he didn’t want to. You saw past the temper and the walls and the scowl and found the stubbornly loyal, deeply sensitive, fiercely protective man underneath.

You made him feel safe.

It was always you and Raph -- shoulder to shoulder, sarcasm for armor, both pretending it wasn’t more.

Even if everyone else already knew it was.

The day you came into the lair talking about some date, Raph surprisingly held his tornado of anger, disgust, and jealousy inward. You never even noticed it. He wasn't sure how he'd managed to hide everything he was feeling -- maybe through the "keep calm" tactics that you'd taught him one day -- but he did it successfully. It wasn't like you'd never gone on a date before. You'd even gone on multiple dates with one chump, calling him your boyfriend before you eventually got tired of him questioning where you went every Friday night (movie night with the boys.)

“He's actually really nice,” you said, sucking the last few drops of a smoothie Mikey had made through a straw noisily. “He does concrete construction or whatever. He helped with the new sidewalk outside my university.”

The boys listened. Donnie sat on a stool, staring down at some little gadget he was working on, making noises of acknowledgement to show he was listening. Mikey did dishes, occasionally stopping to look at you. Leo sat politely, eyes on you.

And Raph? Raph stood next to you, arms crossed solidly, wishing he could run away and beat the shit out of something.

“Well, angelcakes, he sounds like a nice one.” Mikey commented, grinning. “But remember Mikey's rules for date safety! Never--”

You rolled your eyes.

“Never leave your drink uncovered, never--” You attempted to finish.

“--go anywhere alone, and if he orders milk on a first date, run,” Mikey finished, snapping a soapy finger toward you like a coach on game day.

You snorted. “He ordered beer last time, so I think we’re in the clear.”

“Still kinda weird,” Donnie mumbled, not looking up from his work.

“Beer’s weird?” you asked, lifting a brow.

“No,” Donnie said, adjusting a dial, “him.”

That earned a laugh from Mikey and even the smallest twitch of a smile from Leo.

But Raph? Raph didn’t smile. He didn’t speak.

He just stood there beside you, hulking and silent, jaw tight, arms crossed so hard his biceps flexed like steel cables under his skin.

You never noticed the tension, not really. You never noticed how his eyes flicked to your exposed collarbone, still dotted with the leftover shimmer of whatever perfume you wore. You never noticed how he inhaled, just once, like he could smell him on you. How he fought the urge to throw that smoothie cup across the room.

You never noticed because Raph didn’t let it show.

It wasn’t the first time you’d mentioned some dude. You’d brought up a few before. Guys who left you unsatisfied, frustrated, confused. He’d always been there after. Quietly listening. Driving you home. Standing behind you in line at the bodega, just in case the ex showed up and needed reminding. He made a public appearance a lot now, since Donnie had invented the projection watches -- they gave the boys human bodies, human personas for when they had to go up top and not raise hell. For when they needed to be up there for regular, human business.

This time was different.

This guy was new. He was “nice.” He had a job that involved strength. You smiled when you talked about him.

You stopped by again before you went on tonight's date. Your outfit would've made Raph blush if he wasn't so fucking pissed. You had a short, black dress on, just long enough to keep it classy but with enough leg showing to make you look sexy. Your hair was curled and tucked into a bun, ringlets falling in front of your face. Your makeup wasn't dramatic, it accentuated your naturally beautiful face. You wore heels, but they still didn't touch Raphael's height at all. After all, the man was like six foot seven.

You twirled in front of the boys, smiling brightly.

“How do I look? Is there something I'm missing?”

You were standing in front of him, spinning like some perfect little fever dream, the soft lighting of the lair catching the shimmer on your legs and the curve of your smile, asking him -- the guy currently gripping the edge of the counter so hard it might crack -- if you were missing something.

Yeah. You were missing something. Him.

He didn't say it. He couldn’t say it. Not with Leo watching you like a protective big brother. Not with Donnie adjusting his glasses and muttering something about “statistical likelihood of safety.” Not with Mikey wolf-whistling in the background like he was front row at a runway show.

“Daaaamn, baddie,” Mikey grinned, dramatically fanning himself with a pizza box. “You look like heartbreak in heels. Don’t kill the guy. Unless he deserves it.”

“I won’t,” you giggled, smoothing the sides of your dress. “He’s just taking me to dinner. Somewhere nice.”

“Nice how?” Leo asked cautiously.

You shrugged. “Little Italian place near the East River. It’s casual. Wine, candles… pasta, hopefully.”

Donnie didn’t look up. “Call me if anything seems off.”

“You’ll know before I do,” you said, tapping your phone. “I’m sharing my location with you already.”

“Smart girl,” Leo said with a nod.

Then your eyes flicked to Raph, still standing frozen by the fridge, knuckles white where they wrapped around the counter. You smiled at him -- warm and sweet, like you always did -- and tilted your head.

“Well? You didn’t say anything. I look okay?”

His throat was dry. His jaw clenched. He couldn’t look at your legs again, not when you were dressed like that for someone who wasn’t him.

You looked like temptation itself. You looked like his worst mistake waiting to happen. You looked like everything he couldn’t have.

So he gave a grunt. “Yeah. S’fine.”

“Just fine?” you teased.

He forced himself to look at your face. Just your face.

“You look great,” he muttered.

You beamed, completely unaware of the furnace behind his eyes. “Thank you, Raphie.”

Then you stepped close, too close, and reached up to fix the collar of his tank top with that same tenderness you always had. Your perfume hit him like a punch to the gut.

“You’re always honest with me,” you said softly. “That’s what I like about you.”

His jaw ticked. “Don’t like lyin’.”

You smiled. “I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.”

Then you turned, heels tapping across the cement floor, and disappeared into the tunnels with a quick wave goodbye.

And Raphael?

Raphael stood there silently, watching the spot where you’d been, breathing slow through his nose like if he didn’t, something in him might snap.

Because it should’ve been him.

Taking you to dinner. Making you laugh over wine and pasta. Driving you home with your heels dangling from your hand, your lips gloss-smeared and smiling just for him.

Instead, he was stuck underground. Fuming. Wishing he'd just said it.

Wishing he’d told you the truth the moment you walked in, all sparkling eyes and lip gloss:

You didn’t look perfect.

You looked like his.

He groaned, wiping his huge hand across his forehead in frustration. Leo watched him carefully, pursing his lips. Donnie said nothing, as usual, and Mikey sensed the tension, tucking himself back into his corner where he was eating his pizza and playing his video games.

“She's your best friend. You should have just been honest,” Leo hummed carefully, as if not to set off the beast. “The truth'll come out one way or another.”

Raphael didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, still leaning against the counter, still seething under the surface like a volcano that had been too quiet for too long.

His hand dropped from his forehead, falling heavy against the edge of the counter with a dull thud. His jaw flexed. Once. Twice.

“Yeah,” he muttered finally, voice low and full of gravel. “Well. Too late now, ain’t it?”

Leo tilted his head, arms crossed, giving him that look. The big brother one. The patient, steady stare that somehow made Raph feel like he was still twelve and throwing punches in the dojo.

“It’s not too late unless you decide it is,” Leo said, voice calm, but firm.

Donnie didn't glance up from the device in his hand, but his voice carried from behind his glasses.

“She trusts you more than anyone. Statistically, emotional vulnerability paired with long-standing companionship has a higher chance of success than new--”

“Donnie, if you don't--” Raph snarled.

Donnie blinked. “Right. Not helping.”

Raph turned away from all of them. Walked a few paces across the lair like he might burn the energy off if he just moved enough. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, and his shell shifted with the tightness of his shoulders.

“She looked happy,” he said finally, bitter. “Talkin’ about him. Smilin’. Gettin’ all dressed up. Like he’s doin’ somethin’ for her that I can’t.”

Leo raised a brow. “Or maybe she was just excited someone finally asked. Doesn’t mean she picked him over you, Raph.”

“She did.”

“No,” Mikey chimed in from his corner without looking up. “She just doesn’t know you’re an option.”

That stopped Raph cold.

He stared across the lair, frozen in place, the words echoing in his skull.

She just doesn’t know you’re an option.

Because he’d never said it. Never given her the chance to choose him. Just stood beside her like a shadow while she cried over losers, complained about red flags, rolled her eyes at controlling texts and kissed cheeks that weren’t his.

He groaned again, dragging a hand down his face.

“What am I s’posed to do, huh? Run outta the shadows and confess like some kinda Hallmark hero? ‘Hey, surprise, I’ve been in love with you for years. Wanna ditch the dude who has fuckin' concrete all over his clothes and smells like Axe body spray?’”

Leo snorted. “Better than sulking in the sewers and letting someone else make her miserable.”

Mikey finally paused his game and looked over, eyes more serious than usual. “She’s not the kind of girl you can replace, bro. You know that.”

And Raphael did know that.

He knew it every time she laughed so hard she wheezed. Every time she fell asleep on the couch beside him, legs draped over his lap. Every time she saw him, really saw him, through the walls and the anger and the scars. She was his best friend. His anchor. The only soft place in a world that never gave him one. And he was gonna lose her to some prick in a hard hat who didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as her.

Hours passed. No calls, no texts. But Raph had decided. No matter what happened, he had to tell the truth. He had to come out and say it before he fuckin' exploded.

You finally sent a text, telling them you were going home, the date had gone "fine."

He was going to tell you. Tonight. When you got home from your date. Then, you could tell him whether you wanted the concrete brained little shit -- or whether you wanted someone who'd actually love you. Who loved you. Now. Always. Since he'd let you break into his walls, touch the parts of him that had never had a hand on them.

He threw a hoodie on, grabbing his phone, and moved to leave. Twisting his watch, he became a vision of himself, not quite Raph, but Raph enough.

Still tall. Still hulking with muscle. A buzz cut with a red bandana covering it, tattoos all over his skin, the same intimidating green eyes. He was hot actually, which you'd admitted when you first saw the projection. All of them were. Raph, though.. It truly did him justice.

Although secretly, you'd always thought Raph was hot. Projection or not. It was what originally drew you into him.

Raph heard Leo's voice from the corner of the lair, the dojo.

“Good luck.”

The rain was the first thing he noticed. He welcomed it, letting it pour down onto him in calming waves. He walked to your house, opting not to take the shell-raiser. After all, if things went badly, he'd probably find some dirty criminal to pummel.

He reached your apartment, sitting on your front steps under the overhanging roof. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it, puffing on it slowly as he waited for you to approach.

What would he even say? What would he do if you told him to fuck off? He didn't let the nerves dissuade him. It needed to be said, bad results or not.

It was about five more minutes before he saw your silhouette in the rain. You were small, far smaller than him, of course. He knew it was you by the way you walked. You were walking, walking, walking, he was waiting to see your face through the waves of water. When he finally did, his eyebrows furrowed.

Mascara stained your cheeks. Crying. You were crying.

You walked awkwardly, the closer you got. Your hand clutched your arm.

Then, your e/c eyes lifted. You saw him.

Quickly, you wiped your face with one arm, acting like nothing had ever happened. Then, the hand quickly came back down to cover your arm -- Raph wasn't close enough to see what you were covering. You reached Raph, looking at him in confusion.

“Raph? What are you doing here in the rain--”

He didn’t answer at first.

His eyes were locked on you, all of you. The ruined makeup. The limp in your walk. The tight grip you had on your arm, like you were trying to hold yourself together.

You were hurting. That much was obvious. And trying to hide it from him.

From him.

He stepped forward without thinking, eyes narrowing. His jaw clenched, and his voice dropped low, rough.

“What happened.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the edge in his tone.

“Nothing,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “I’m fine. Really.”

“You’re not fine,” he said, stepping in closer. His eyes dropped to your arm, the one you were still guarding like a shield. “What’s under your hand?”

“Raph, it’s nothing, I swear--”

He was in front of you now, towering over you, not in a way that scared you, never in a way that scared you, but in a way that said he knew. That he wouldn’t let it slide.

“Move your hand.”

You hesitated. Looked up at him.

He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t huffing and puffing, or pacing, or growling with his fists balled up like he usually did when something pissed him off.

No. He was quiet.

And that was worse.

“No. Raph, please, I am perfectly--”

“Move your fuckin' hand, shorty, now.”

“Raph.”

His voice cracked through the rain like thunder.

“You want me to move it?”

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t violence. It was a promise, for your own good. A promise that you'd heard before. He'd make shit happen.

You flinched, not because you were scared, but because you knew what was coming. You knew once he saw it, really saw it, there’d be no stuffing the rage back into the bottle. You hesitated just a second longer.

And then you moved your hand.

Raph’s eyes dropped immediately.

Silence.

The bruise was ugly. Purple and red, already deepening, shaped like thick fingers curled into the soft skin of your arm. It told a story you hadn’t even finished living yet.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared.

Then his chest rose -- slow, steady, dangerous.

His jaw flexed, his nostrils flared, and his eyes, those sharp green eyes, burned.

“Motherfucker,” he muttered, voice low and venomous.

You reached for him. “Raphael--”

You couldn't quite get him in your grip, just the fabric of his sweatshirt in a small hand. It was wet, soaked with rain, but you managed to keep your grip. He turned towards you, lip almost curled into a snarl. Anger heated the air up -- could've boiled the rain.

“You said the date was fine. Fuckin' fine. Look at your--” he cut himself off, taking a breath and looking up at the sky. “You lied to me. Why would you lie to save that waste of space?” He hissed, turning completely towards you.

You flinched, not from fear, never from him, but from the sheer weight of his rage.

The rain kept falling, soaking through your clothes, matting your hair to your face, but none of it mattered. Not with Raphael standing in front of you like a storm barely restrained, fists clenched, shoulders squared, breathing like he’d just fought ten men and still wasn’t done.

“I wasn’t protecting him,” you said quickly, gripping tighter to his hoodie. “I was protecting you.”

That stopped him.

His jaw twitched. His eyes snapped to yours, sharp as glass and just as fragile beneath the surface.

“I knew what you’d do, Raph,” you whispered, voice trembling. “And I didn’t want to lose you to a cell or a manhunt or -- or something worse. I didn’t want to see you destroy yourself for me.”

He looked at you for a moment.. Then laughed. Bitterly.

“Don't worry about it. Ain't no motherfucker on this earth that's gonna touch you and walk away fine. Whether you feel bad or not,” he said. He towered over you, trying to force his green eyes away from the nasty injury on your arm. “I'd burn this city down for you if ya asked me to. I'm gonna kill this fuckin' guy.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Not because you didn’t believe him, no, you absolutely believed him, but because you could feel it. You could feel the truth in his voice, in every clenched muscle, in the way his words shook with restraint.

“Raph--”

“I mean it,” he snapped, stepping closer, close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off his chest. His projection shimmered faintly in the rain, struggling to keep up with the fury boiling just beneath his skin. “I don’t care if I gotta rip the fuckin’ streets up brick by brick, he’s gonna learn.”

You reached for him again, laying your hand gently against the front of his soaked hoodie. His heart was hammering underneath, furious, panicked, wild.

“I’m okay now,” you whispered. “I’m with you.”

He shook his head.

“Not good enough,” he growled. “You should never have to feel scared. Not when you got me. Not when you been right here in front of me this whole time and I’ve been too chickenshit to say what I really feel.”

You swallowed hard. “And what’s that?”

His jaw flexed again, rain trailing down his face like it was trying to cool him off. He took a breath, deep and shaky, and looked down at you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“Shoulda been me.”

“W-What?”

He looked down at you still, his hand traveling down to pull your wet strap back up over your shoulder.

“Shoulda been me. Takin' you out, now that we can go up top,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Shoulda been me walkin' you home. Kissin' you at your front door step. Shoulda been me you were gettin' all pretty for.”

You stared, eyes wide and glassy.

“You were walkin’ around in that dress, hair done up all nice…smilin’ about some guy who didn’t even deserve a hello from you,” he muttered, eyes locked on yours, voice just shy of breaking. “And I stood there like a fuckin’ idiot, pretendin’ it didn’t kill me.”

His hand slid up, gently brushing your cheek with his thumb, rainwater tracing the movement.

“I ain’t ever felt more useless than watchin’ you leave tonight, knowin’ I wasn’t the one takin’ you out. Knowin’ I let someone else touch you ‘cause I was too much of a coward to say somethin’. And now,” he hissed, “I gotta kill the stupid fucker. Cuz he laid his hands on the girl I love.”

You didn’t even flinch at the words, the girl I love, but your breath caught like a rope had cinched around your chest and pulled tight.

The rain still fell in steady sheets, soaking you both to the bone, but neither of you noticed. Not really. Not with the confession hanging in the air between you, burning hotter than the storm around you.

“Raph…” your voice was soft. Barely a whisper. “Please.”

His gaze flickered, wild for a second, like he’d just realized he’d said it out loud. Like the truth had broken out of him without permission. But once it was out, he didn’t backpedal. He didn’t retreat.

He stepped in even closer, your bodies almost touching, his massive frame shielding you from the worst of the wind.

“I love you,” he said, voice low and rough, thick with emotion. “I love you. You think I’ve been watchin’ you all this time just to be your backup plan? Some guy you crash on when the rest of the world sucks?”

“No,” you breathed, shaking your head quickly. “No, I never thought that.”

“I been in love with you since the second you looked at me like I wasn’t just a monster. Since you laughed at my dumb jokes, shared your food, yelled at me when I got too hot-headed. You see me, and it scared the shit outta me.”

A warm tear ran down your face. His thumb caught that too.

“You're too good for this world. Too good for me. Too good for him. And even though you ain't mine, I'll happily shit-stomp any man that crosses you.”

You let out a soft, broken sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, as your hand reached up to cup his face, rough jaw and all.

“But I am yours,” you whispered. “I’ve been yours, Raph. This whole time. Was just too stupid to see it.”

His breath hitched, just for a second, and his hands flexed on your waist, like he couldn’t believe he was actually hearing the words. Like maybe the rain had messed with his head, or the universe was playing some cruel joke.

But your eyes were honest. Open. No walls, no filters, no fear. Just you, standing there in the storm, bruised and soaked and choosing him.

“You’re-- you wanna be?” he asked, voice cracking, like a kid afraid to hope.

You nodded, fingers curling at the back of his neck, drawing him closer. “Yes. I was just too scared to ruin us by saying it. I didn't want to lose you, Raphael. You're all I have. The only thing worth it.”

A beat of silence passed, thick, electric, before he pressed his forehead to yours with a low, aching groan.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he breathed, voice hoarse, reverent. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

And then he kissed you.

Hard. Fierce. Real.

He kissed you like he’d been holding back for years, because he had. His hands tangled in your hair, one arm wrapping around your lower back, lifting you off the pavement like your feet didn’t deserve to be on the same ground as the man who hurt you. His lips were warm despite the cold, pressed firm and sure to yours like he had no plans of letting you forget how long he’d loved you from the sidelines.

When he pulled back, you were both breathless. His voice was low and shaky when he said:

“If you’re mine… then you don’t ever gotta deal with this shit again. No more cheap dates, no more fake shit, no more bruises you try to hide.”

You swallowed, tears welling fresh again.

“Okay.”

“I mean it,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you loved. Proper. The way you always shoulda been.”

You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady, thundering beat of his heart under soaked fabric.

“I know,” you whispered.

And he just held you tighter.

Because you were his.

And now, finally, he was yours too.

BONUS:

However, your date, though you thought Raph forgot about him.. did not escape retribution.

A couple nights after the incident, your date, Todd, stood alone. He was sweeping the new concrete, cleaning up after a week of work, headphones dangling from his ears. He hummed a tune, staring down at the pavement, admiring his work.

Didn't even notice the two hulking shadows approaching from behind him -- 'til his headphones were ripped right out.

“What the--”

He turned, startled, just in time to see something big and orange spin toward him. Todd took a full-on roundhouse kick to the chest from Michelangelo and went flying into a pile of sandbags like a cartoon.

“Yikes, bro,” Mikey said, cracking his knuckles. “You can put your hands on women but you can't take a hit yourself? Bummer.”

Raph stepped forward, massive arms crossed, that black hoodie of his soaked from rain and rage. “So you’re Todd, huh?”

Todd wheezed, struggling to sit up. “W-What the hell?! Who the hell are you?!”

Mikey grinned wide. “Let’s just say we’re the after-party to that date you fumbled so bad.”

Todd blinked, confused, then scowled. “This is about that chick? She said it was fine. What, you two her brothers or somethin’?”

Raph’s jaw ticked. “Somethin’.”

Then he grabbed Todd by the collar and lifted him off the ground like a rag doll. “She said it was fine,” he repeated mockingly, eyes narrowing. “Right after she came home cryin’ with a bruise in the exact shape of your grubby little hand. Sound fuckin’ familiar?”

Todd squirmed. “I-I didn’t mean--she was getting mouthy, I just--”

That was all he got out before Raph slammed him into a cement pillar, holding him there like a schoolyard bully from hell.

“I should break every bone in your slimy little body,” Raph growled. “But I promised her I wouldn’t kill you.”

Todd whimpered. “Then what--what are you gonna do?!”

Mikey stepped up beside Raph with a sweet, sunny grin… and a bright pink backpack.

“Oh, we’re gonna teach you, bro.”

Cut to:

Todd, thirty minutes later, is tied up Spider-Man style with neon pink jump rope, suspended upside down from the scaffolding. Mikey had drawn flowers and hearts all over his face in washable marker. His pants were missing (they were now duct-taped to the top of a flagpole nearby), and his shirt had been swapped with a hot-pink crop top that read: “I Cry When Girls Yell.”

A chalk sign was propped up beneath him. It read:

“Hi, I’m Todd. I’m a big, dumb, concrete-throwing jerk who hits girls. My biceps are fake. Don’t be like me. This could happen to you.”

“Next time,” Raph said, crouching down beside him, voice calm but terrifying, “you keep your hands to yourself. Or I’ll let Mikey use the glitter glue.”

Todd whimpered, nodding frantically, tears dripping down his inverted face.

“Glitter. Never comes out,” Mikey added with a wink.

With that, the brothers disappeared into the night, high-fiving as they vanished into the shadows.

Lesson taught. Message delivered.

And Todd? He never went near another woman without a very polite tone -- and two feet of personal space.

You, however, saw it in the news the next day.

The headline read:

“Masked Vigilantes Hijack Construction Site to Publicly Shame Harasser -- Chalk Sign Warns: ‘Don’t Be Like Me. This Could Happen to You.’”

You groaned, rolling your eyes.

“Raphael Hamato! Come here! Now!”

You heard the unmistakable sound of his boots thudding down the stairs before Raph appeared at the entrance to your room, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, baby?” Raph said, leaning against the doorframe, all casual confidence. His smirk widened as he took in your unimpressed expression. “You, uh… saw the news, huh?”

You held up the newspaper, shaking it at him. “This was your idea of ‘handling it quietly’?!”

Raph shrugged, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering into the room. “Eh, we didn’t kill him. That counts as quiet for me.”

You groaned again, tossing the paper onto the bed. “Raph, you literally left a chalk sign. And Mikey drew on his face.”

“Yeah, and?” Raph flopped onto the bed beside you, stretching out like a smug cat. “Dude’s lucky that’s all we did. You shoulda seen the other ideas Mikey had-- we didn't even use the glitter.”

You shot him a glare, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “You’re impossible.”

Raph grinned, reaching out to tug you closer. “Nah, just thorough.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, voice dropping into that low, dangerous tone that still sent shivers down your spine. “And now everyone knows what happens when some punk puts his hands on you. He ever comes near you again, they ain't gonna find his body.”

You huffed, but you couldn’t fight the warmth spreading in your chest. “...You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Raph agreed, unrepentant. “But I gotta make sure my girl's taken care of.”

You sighed, finally letting yourself smile as you leaned into him. “...Thanks, Raph.”

He squeezed you tighter, pressing another kiss to your bare shoulder, just above the strap of your tanktop. “Anytime, shorty.”

(And if, later that night, you may have doodled a little heart next to the newspaper clipping before tucking it into your desk drawer? Well. That was your business.)

[oozedninjas]

Spring fleeting

A/N: Fucking rude of me not to have fed my pretty girlies in this much while. In compensation, I offer you: a mating season special!!! You can shoot in a prompt and I'll turn it into a short smut ;) ily!!

Warnings: 18+ / MDNI / Smut / NSFW / edging, orgasm denial, dom!turtles, oral sex / General verses / Mutant guys are 25-29 y/o and they're suffering from spring heat!

Leo doesn't want to breathe because if he does he might get carried away by your scent. He watches from a safe distance never leaving sight of your neck and shoulders. Fuck, he wants to bite them, suck on them, lick a stripe over your pulse line that would cut your breath sharply. Shit, he wants you to hold from the upper end of his shell, begging. Before he registers he's calling your name. Let him lure you elsewhere, yeah?

Raph loves fucking you stupid. Your eyes closed and gaped mouth have him on the verge of coming. Words scarcely coherent enough to moan for more. He's balls deep in you, aching to fill you up once more. But Raph edges himself, just for the bliss of numbing everything away with each crashing orgasm. 

He trembles inside you, cum dripping from your abused cunt as he thrusts. Fuck you love him, you're crazy about him, and he just grins, amused at your stupid failed attempts to communicate it.

Donatello's knowledge of each sensitive part in your body borders on mean when he uses it like this. From your neck to your back, to your lower half. He's held you still for what feels like ages, nibbling, marking, and kissing the bruise after. But none of what he's done equals the cruel way he's sucking your clit: just enough to make your back arch, but never quite granting release. 

Begging wouldn't suffice, it wasn't about that. It was about him showing you how fucking good he could make you feel if you let him, how hard you could come just by his expert tongue. And shit, who are you kidding? You fucking adore it.

Mikey loves how hot you look riding his cock. He's got the best of views! Everything in you is perfect. He reaches up, palming every bit of skin he can get his hands on, squeezing, pinching, scratching. He loves it when his touch makes you weak enough to lose the rhythm, seemingly tumbling over his plastron, finally giving out. 

He's softer when he's had enough, and brings your mouth to his gently, big hands covering your back, pushing you down to his chest before he thrusts up. He reaches that sweet spot so easily like this, and your clit rubs so deliciously over the lower part of his plastron. Come on, don't hold back, you don't gotta do nothing, just relax.

[dancingdonatello]

2012 boys with a reader who likes hearing them churr? Will purposely do things to make their turtle churr or pull them off to a more private area to cuddle with them and just exist- the fluffy stuff? :3

Bonus points for if the turtles were nervous to make the more turtly noises in case the reader thought they were weird- but in reality we just melt at the cuteness of it and just think our turtle boy is comfortable with us??

Love your writing! Hope your having a lovely timezone :]

2012 tmnt x reader

“Please?” You prodded Leo in the side. He gave you a tense look.

“No.”

“Come on, it’s not as weird as you make it out to be!” You scooted further into his side, looking up at him. “Nobody’s here either. Just you and me. Please? You know you wanna…”

He looked around, flushing darkly. “I don’t know why you like it so much.” You pressed an ear to his plastron, giggling when you could faintly hear the noise. You could more feel it than heat it.

“Cause it means you’re happy or that you like me so much, I don’t know.” You listened to it gradually grow in volume, grinning happily. He slowly started to relax, probably with how you pressed so much weight into him that you forced his shell to the couch cushions. You laid on his plastron, tracing patterns into it as you listened to the stuttering engine noise.

Raph rolled his eyes violently as you dragged him into his room. You stared up at him with expectant eyes and when he looked back at you blankly, you tackled him into his bed.

“Raph, don’t you want to make me happy?” you pouted, nuzzling in under his chin. He laid stiffly below you, gritting his teeth. You giggled as he struggled to stifle it in his chest. “Raphie.”

“Shut up.” He gave up and let the noise start up, staring up at his ceiling as you squeaked happily. How stupid things like the turtle noises he could make made you so happy confused him but whatever.

“Doesn’t it feel better to not hold it in?” That was definitely not how it worked but he stayed silent, besides the churrs.

Donnie rubbed his chin over the top of your head, his churring quiet but constant. You had been on his lap for the past few minutes, lazily scrolling on your phone. All it had taken was you petting over his scales and he started churring. He ignored your smug look and looked away.

You’d always try to embarrass him in front of his brothers by messing around and petting him of all things. All that just to hear him churr because you were convinced it was as cute as a pure from a cat.

He didn’t have the heart to inform you that churring didn’t always mean a turtle was just happy. He didn’t want to make it even more embarrassing for himself or his brothers.

It didn’t take a lot to get Mikey to churr. If you smiled at him, he churred. If you brushed hands, he churred. Even asleep, when you crawled into his bed, he would churr unconsciously at the feeling of you next to him.

Even if he was embarrassed about it, he couldn’t stop it. He could never push it down like his brothers could. He’d run away when it kickstarted up and you’d chase after him with a giddy grin.

He couldn’t talk either when churring. It’s definitely one way to shut him up.

[theturtlelovers]

Raph is the kind of turtle who tenderly brushes your hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear and kissing your temple, all while he's pistoning into you with such intensity that your cries of pleasure are unavoidable.

[redsrooftopprincess]

Chills

Raphael xGN!Reader

The sound of the evening bustle transitions the city from day to night, seeming to herald the neon darkness, and you smile to yourself a little more with every streetlight that flickers on. If he isn't already, he'll be on his way soon, ascending with the darkness, rising like steam from the tunnels below. Up, over, and above the rooftops.

Standing at the window, looking out into the blooming night, you tug on the latch. It's easier to open now, the action smooth besides the slightest catch. You remember when it used to stick horribly. And you totally didn't use it as an excuse to keep him longer when you first met, why would you think that? But time, and an abundance of use, has left it opening easier these days. (Either that, or it's about to break. You may need to talk to Donnie about that.)

It's only been a week since you saw him last, both of you having been busy with work, and separately, both of you have been feeling the distance. Calls and texts can only do so much when your body is screaming for someone. There's this itch. This need. You'd been friends for a while, but a week ago everything changed.

It had been a normal night. Nothing out of the ordinary. It was your night off, and you'd been looking forward to it because it meant he'd be coming by on his "lunch break." You loved nights like this. When it was just the two of you on the rooftop in the wee hours of the morning. When even The City That Never Sleeps is quiet.

It was magical. Like you were alone in the world. In those small hours there was freedom. Unconstrained by propriety, acceptability, and expectation, you could just... exist for a little while, side-by-side with someone you know you're safe to just exist with. Being beside Raphael is like being in the eye of a hurricane. No matter what chaos is spinning around you, Raph is peace. Home. Clear skies, and safety. And that night, the weight of your gratitude pressed heavy on your chest.

It did that sometimes. He'd do something, or say something, or even apropos of nothing, your heart would swell and your chest would ache with something beautiful and profound, and you'd need to be close to him.

It's the feeling you'd always imagined having with... someone. This peace. This pain. This is what you'd been chasing in every failed relationship. It wasn't until recently that you realized you have a type. You're drawn to fire. To passion. The problem with that type, is that those that carry fire inside them... tend to be explosive.

The last one was a couple of months ago. You had to spend a good three hours trying to convince Raph not to kill the man who'd put his hands on you. In the end, he wheeled away, breathing, with only a broken spine.

You took a deep breath, exhaling into the night, and laying your head against his arm. He responded by sliding that hand around your waist, and pulling you closer. Not lifting from his arm, you turned your face upward to find him already looking down at you.

You can't help the smile that blooms across your features, "What?" you challenge, lifting your chin.

Usually, at this point, he would clap back with something sassy, or suck his teeth and look away, feigning indignation. But that night he just... looked at you. A quiet smile on his face, feeling his own flood of gratitude blooming in his chest, warming him from the inside out.

He'd always dreaded the day when he would fall in love, if it ever were to happen, that is. He knew it would hurt all the more because he couldn't act on it. But then you happened. He'd love to hate it. To hate you for making him feel it. But the day he realized he was in love with you, it didn't hurt. And he could act on it.

Maybe not fully. Maybe not entirely the way he wanted, but love is an action word, and he loved you every single day with every last piece of him. Calling you at work to make sure you'd eaten, walking you home, being there to pick up the pieces every single time someone or something tore you apart, Raphael loved you. Completely.

He couldn't hate it, or you. You'd come into his life and he'd let your light fill him, and warm him, and in the end he didn't care what you called it, or what it looked like, you were a part of his world and he was grateful. But some nights, like that night, his heart ached, heavy with all the love he could never give you.

His smile became almost sad, and he turned to look back out into the darkness. You saw it. You always did. The blue-black flicker of mourning set deep within his amber eyes. He couldn't hide. Not from you. You never mentioned it. Whatever it was, it was deep, and important, and belonged to him, and you had no right to know if he didn't want to tell you.

But, for some reason, that night, you couldn't bear it. Even if you couldn't help, he should at least know that you care. That you see him.

You sit up, pulling yourself from his arm and nigh hovering over the edge of the rooftop to face him. You reach up, gentle fingers brushing the side of his jaw "No really, what?"

He returned his gaze to yours, still wearing that sad smile. "Nothin'," I love you... "I just..." I love you... The blue-black in his eyes poured into you then, as he drew a deep breath, and his eyes softened as yours stung, "Nothin'." I love you...

He looked at you like the sun through a sewer grate. Like he longed to bask in you, but had convinced himself he was content with the smallest break in the shadows. Like that's all he was worthy of. It was the first time you saw it. Really saw it. Deep red in the blue-black, his own beating heart, and you.

Your fingers trailed down his jaw, and it was everything he could do not to lean into the touch. When they whispered over the scar on his lips, his eyes fell closed with a soft sigh. When his eyes opened again, they held a deep pain, and a question he was unworthy of asking.

He reached up and took your hand, his lips longing for the taste of your fingertips, and resisted the urge to kiss each one. His thumb bushed over your palm, and down your wrist, scattering gooseflesh down your arm and across your chest, as he held your gaze. He couldn't help it, the hand on your waist tightened and pulled you closer.

Every sweep of his thumb over your pulse drew shivers from your skin, and as he took notice, the question in his eyes became clearer.

I love you...

Will you let me...?

You held his gaze. You hadn't been looking for this. This feeling. This want. With every inferno that you'd allowed you consume you, you hadn't been chasing this.

You'd been chasing him.

And, your eyes held the impossible answer.

Yes.

The hand holding yours pulled you to him and the one around your waist pulled you up, as he captured your lips with his. Both of your arms looped round his neck and his hold on your waist tightened as he kissed you deeply over the edge of the rooftop.

Almost floating in free space, all you could feel was his body on yours, scales cooled by the night air sliding against bare flesh, he was all that tethered you to the earth. He usually was.

Opening to him, your tongues tangled in a dance older than time, and his hold tightened as a thunderstorm gathered in his chest. Every gasp and quiet sigh carried that storm into your own, as you pressed against him and his churr deepened.

It could have been a few minutes or an eternity, and it wouldn't have been long enough. You parted, foreheads pressed together, grinning, laughing breathlessly, in equal parts relief and disbelief. It was like breaking through surface tension. The weight of want had lifted, and you both were almost dizzy with the oxygen high.

Leo had called not long after, and it was like being dragged away by chariots, but, duty-bound, he went.

The sun now, officially, below the horizon you look out over the living room, almost nervous. Dinner and a movie. A pretty typical (if rare) night off for the two of you. But you'd taken your time getting ready, and power-cleaned the apartment, despite the fact that he basically lived there, anyway.

A soft landing overhead draws your eyes upwards. You clear your throat and pull it together so that the moths swarming in your stomach don't cause you to giggle like an idiot. You manage to scale it back to just a grin, the window slides open, and he lands, meeting your gaze with a soft and deadly smile.

"Hey."

....

...

Tag list

@thelaundrybitch @the-cauldron-witch @fyreball66 @ninnosaurus @tmntngl @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @zagreustomb @ramielll @silverwatergalaxy @gornackeaterofworlds @daedric-sorceress @sophiacloud28 @iridescentflamingo @milykins

[theyhavetakenovermylife]

Random Headcanons (18+)

2007!Raphael x reader

A/N: Felt like it had been a minute or two since I had written anything for 2007, especially 2007!Raphael, so here ya go. Takes some inspiration and vibe ideas from my Anger series. Enjoy❤️

All characters are aged up.

Warnings: Mentioning of rough sex, mentioning of BDSM, mentioning of being heard by others during sex.

Raph has always been more to the rougher and harder things, when it came to sex. Forceful is probably not the best way to describe it, but he did have a tendency to be impatient, and more often than not, willing to skip the foreplay and jump straight to action, meaning that you would have to keep him in check, and remind him that you in fact wanted foreplay, and in some cases actually needed it. It’s not that Raph didn’t like foreplay, but it’s simply because could get so impatient, wanting to get to the big price as soon as possible.

After Leonardo left New York City for South America, there was a noticeable shift in Raphael’s mood. Sure, Raph had a tendency to easily get moody or straight up mad, up until that point. But after Leo left, Raph’s mood only seemed to take on a downward dive, and you could certainly feel that in your relationship. Raph’s mood didn’t dive down in the form of a depression, instead he seemed much more angry. And that led to a lot more angry sex, where Raph could take his anger for the world, out in a way that provided pleasure for the two of you. And luckily for you, you loved the force and speed at which Raph would ram into you, when he was mad and frustrated.

Raph didn’t have time for bondage or any additional props in the bedroom. He found that they were getting in the way of what he wanted to do, and that they were taking up too much focus. But Raph surely was into BDSM, and especially being a dominating partner in BDSM dynamic. It was definitely Raph’s default mode when it came to sex, and all just came natural to him.

Hair pulling, spanking, choking, biting, restraining you with his own hands against the bed, all that lovely stuff. Raph is into it all, and will not shy away from any of it, even if there was nothing but a thin wall between the two of you, deep in action, and the rest of his family on the other side. “That’s their problem”, Raph might even say, while having his member buried deep within you.

When Leo returned from South America, there was once again a switch in Raph’s mood. He was once again angry, being just how he was when Leo left. But now, he would visit you more and more often, not wishing to be around Leo more often than he needed to. That of course led to a lot more sex for you and Raph, just as you had thought that the two of you was having as much sex as possible.

[delulu-julia]

Can I have headcanons for tall reader, and she is very tactile, and when she’s hugging turtles, they always bump to her chest, but she doesn’t care at all (romantic, before any confection) feel free to ignore

How boys hugging you

(romantic, before confession. female reader)

This one was in my box for soo long actually,, I just felt writing this today, so enjoy!

Leonardo

He’s so respectful it’s almost painful. Every time he bumps into your chest, he freezes like someone hit him with something sharp

“Oh—! I-I didn’t mean to— Sorry, I really—!”

He’ll immediately pull back, hands hovering awkwardly like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

Lowkey thinks you’re doing it on purpose at first. But then you stay all casual, smiling so bright, and he gets lost for a moment

“You’re very… affectionate” he says once, awkwardly, after you done this to him a couple of times

He has to meditate longer now. To “clear his mind” (calm down after your hugs.)

The thing is, he loves your hugs. Your warmth calms him down. But he’s hyper- aware of every part of the contact. His honor code is screaming

Eventually he starts preparing himself mentally before a hug. Bracing for impact. Standing straighter. Trying (and failing) to maintain eye contact.

He won’t tell you to stop. He couldn’t. But when you leave? He tries not mention it and hides in the dojo

Keeps wondering what it would feel like to hold you back —on purpose

Raphael

The tough guy who’s not tough at all around you

Instant flustered rage mode.

The first time you hugged him and he got smushed against your chest, he pushed you away like “Tch— watch it!”

But you saw the bright red on his cheeks and the way he wouldn’t look at you for the rest of the day

And if you hug him more… he’ll try to push you again. He will growl, go back slightly — because he’s embarrassed and doesn’t know what to do with the explosion in his chest

You wrap your arms around him and pull him close? His cheek is immediately squished into your chest and he just stays quiet for a little

“What the—!? D’you even notice where you’re—”

“Mhm. You’re warm...”

And then continue hugging him. He stops struggling after five seconds. Six seconds in, his arms are around you too.

From then on, every time you go in for a hug, he pretends to protest but leans into it faster every time.

He acts like he’s annoyed, but if you don’t hug him after a mission? He actually gets moody

Donatello

You once hugged him mid-rant about Kraang code. He didn’t speak again for a full 30 seconds

He becomes fully broken every time. You hug him, and his brain reboots. There’s white noise only. Static.

“H-huh? Oh. Uh—um. I—I think we’re—too—close —!”

He dropped his screwdriver three times after that

When you don’t let go, he just… stands there. Stiff as a board. Face burning. Mind racing.

His inner monologue: “This is fine. Just two friends. Hugging. Very tightly. With my face where it absolutely should not be— ”

But you’re always casual. You don’t even comment on it. And that makes it worse

He starts secretly practicing possible things to say next time you hug him. He never actually uses them

Eventually, you hug him and he finally just… melts a little. Doesn’t pull away. Lets himself enjoy it

Your hug habits become his new favorite variable. He might thinks about them a lot. Secretly

He might even rest his chin on you if he’s feeling bold

One day, you hugged him from behind and he let out a little noise. You teased him. He hasn’t recovered since

Michelangelo

He lives for it.

The first time it happened, he blinked… looked up at you… grinned like a devil, and went:

“So THIS is what heaven feels like”

Doesn’t care how flustered he gets. Hugs you back tighter. Smushes his face against you like a cat

You’d think he’d make inappropriate jokes, but surprisingly, he doesn’t. Mikey loves touch, and he knows your hugs are genuine. He just gets really soft about it

That said, he definitely teases the others about it, like:

“You guys get the forehead hugs, but I get the squishy ones”

Or…

“Aww, Raphy, what’s wrong? Didn’t get your daily booba hug?”

*Throws a beanbag at him*

He starts leaning into hugs before you even reach him. Sometimes lifts one leg like he’s being dipped in a rom-com

When you walk into a room and your arms are open, he runs into them like a happy golden retriever

Starts making excuses to get you to hug him “I’m cold” “I stubbed my toe” “I’m emotionally fragile...”

You carry him once just for fun. He let out a high-pitched giggle, practically bouncing in place

[popcat69]

Incorrect Tmnt quotes

Mikey: What does 'take out' mean? Donnie: Food. Leo: Dating Raph: Murder Y/n: IT CAN MEAN ALL THREE IF YOU'RE NOT A COWARD.

Donnie: Favourite horror movie?

Mikey: It

Raph: Saw

Leo: Annabelle

Y/n: High School Musical. after watching it I spent all my middle school years terrified that the entire school would start singing something and I’d be the only one who didn’t know the lyrics

Leo: Croissants: dropped

Raph: Road: works ahead

Y/n: BBQ sauce: on my titties

April: Shavacado: fre

Mikey: Miss Keisha: fuckin dead

Donnie:

Donnie: I didn’t understand a single word of that and I hate every single one of you.

Y/n: Change is inedible.

Donnie: Don't you mean inevitable?

Y/n, spitting out coins: No, I did not.

Mikey: Hey Donnie,

Donnie: Yes?

Mikey: Can a person breathe inside a washing machine while it’s on?

Donnie:

Donnie: Where’s Y/n?

Donnie: April isn’t answering their phone

Y/n: I’ll call

Donnie: Casey and I have both tried six times each, what makes you thi-

April: Hello?

Y/n: Top 30 reasons why y/n is sorry... Number 5 will surprise you!

Raph: Top 30 anime deaths. Number One: YOUR FUCKING ASS RIGHT NOW!!!

Mikey: I'm incredibly fast at maths.

Y/n: Alright, what's 30x17?

Mikey: 47

Y/n: That's not even close.

Mikey: But it was fast.

Donnie: Would you guys be there for me if I was going through something?

Raph: Nope, absolutely not.

Leo: I hope it sucks, whatever you're going through.

Mikey: I hope it emotionally scars you for the rest of your life.

Casey: I hope you reach out to me so I can ignore you.

Y/n: I can't wait to go to your funeral, knowing I could've changed that outcome.

*Everyone is standing around the broken coffee maker*

Splinter: So. Who broke it? I'm not mad, I just wanna know.

Everyone:

Leo: ...I did. I broke it.

Splinter: No. No you didn't. Mikey?

Mikey: Don't look at me. Look at Y/n.

Y/n: What?! I didn't break it.

Mikey: Huh, that's weird. How'd you even know it was broken?

Y/n: Because it's sitting right in front of us and it's broken.

Mikey: Suspicious.

Y/n: No, it's not!

Raph: If it matters, probably not, but April was the last one to use it.

April: Liar! I don't even drink that crap!

Raph: Oh really? Then what were you doing by the coffee cart earlier?

April: I use the wooden stirrers to push back my cuticles. Everyone knows that, Raph!

Leo: Okay let's not fight. I broke it. Let me pay for it, person A.

Splinter: No! Who broke it!?

Everyone:

Raph: Splinter... Donnie’s been awfully quiet.

Donnie: rEALLY?!

*Everyone starts arguing*

Splinter, being interviewed: I broke it. I burned my hand so I punched it.

Splinter: I predict 10 minutes from now they'll be at each other's throats with warpaint on their faces and a pig head on a stick.

Splinter:

Splinter: Good. It was getting a little chummy around here.

'Can I copy the homework?'

Donnie: I can help you with it!

April: Yeah, sure.

Y/n: Bold of you to assume I did the homework.

Raph: lol nope.

Mikey: Wait, we had homework?!?!?!

Leo: *Read 5:55pm*

Leo: bitches b like “im baby” but have childhood trauma and neglect like wtf do u know about being baby u were forced to grow up from an early age anyways I’m bitches

Leo, driving y/n and April: So how was your day?

Y/n: We almost got surprise adopted!

Leo: What?

April: We almost got kidnapped.

Leo: Oh, okay.

Leo: *slams on the breaks* WAIT WHAT?!

[stellaspectral]

Can I request a rottmnt Raph x Female-Reader? I was thinking about a first encounter were Raph falls in love with the Reader at first sight (I’m picturing a very adorable/shy and girly reader who likes pink and cute stuff because I am like this, but you can make it more vague so that more people can insert themselves in her if you want) but he’s very insecure about it because 1) it’s the first time that he has a crush 2) he is a mutant turtle while she’s human 3) he told her that he was wearing a costume so she doesn’t know that he is not human. I don’t know if it’s enough for a request, I hope it’s okay! Thank you, have a good day! <3

A/N: Hey, anon! No worries, this is definitely enough for a request. I really enjoyed the idea of Raph falling head-over-heels at first sight, and writing the insecurities that come with that. Especially given the whole ‘mutant turtle’ situation. I also tried not to make it too angsty and attempted to stick to a mix of shyness/sweetness and a bit of awkwardness in their initial encounter.

I hope you enjoy! ☺️

This Fluttery, Warm Thing (fluff/mild angst)

❤️ ROTTMNT Raphael/Female Reader ❤️

CWs: Fluff, meet cute, awkward banter, mild angst, hopeful ending. All characters are aged-up.

The late afternoon sun casts an orange and gold glow on the sidewalks of New York. You’re walking home, humming a little tune, clutching your favorite tote bag that has embroidered flowers and a stitched patch featuring a cute cartoon mascot. It’s been a good day, filled with the satisfaction that comes from a successful treasure hunt.

Inside the tote, nestled amongst your usual essentials, is the prize: a small, perfectly square box. It’s the reason for the extra spring in your step, the silly grin on your face. You’d been searching for this specific blind box series—the limited-edition Cozy Cumulus Pals—for weeks. They’d vanished from online stores almost instantly.

According to rumors, only a few brick-and-mortar shops had received any stock. You’d almost given up hope after striking out at two different hobby stores last weekend. But today, on a whim, you’d ducked into that tiny import shop tucked away on a side street. And there it was: only one box left. You’d snatched it immediately, the cheerful, pastel packaging feeling like a tiny victory in your hands.

Your heart had given a little leap as the cashier scanned your purchase. She hadn’t batted an eye at you as you practically vibrated with excitement. But to you, your acquisition felt momentous. And now, walking home, you resist the constant urge to check if the box is still safely inside your tote.

You can almost feel its light weight, imagine the crinkle of the plastic wrap. Which character would it be? Pillow Puff? Naptime Nimbus? Or the rarest, the rainbow variant of Sleepy Stratus? The anticipation is a delicious little hum beneath your skin.

A cab honks impatiently, pulling you back to the bustling street for a moment. You sidestep a hurried commuter, tightening your grip on the tote’s strap. Just a few more blocks. Then, home, a cup of tea, and the delightful little ritual of unboxing your long-awaited, incredibly cute find.

Yes, it’s definitely been a good day.

Suddenly, your foot catches on an uneven crack in the pavement you didn’t notice. Gravity takes over and you stumble, a gasp escaping you as the contents of your bag—carelessly left unzipped in your happy distraction—spill onto the sidewalk. Papers flutter, your wallet skids a few feet away, a tube of lip balm rolls out of sight.

And the thing that makes your heart plummet the most is your treasured keychain, the one with the charm shaped like a fluffy alpaca with rosy cheeks, bouncing precariously close to the gaping maw of a storm drain grate.

“No, no, no!” The words burst out, laced with genuine distress. You scramble to gather your belongings, dropping to your knees, ignoring the scrape of the ground.

You reach for the keychain, your heart sinking as you see it teetering on the edge of the grate—and you know you won’t be able to grab it in time.

Before panic can truly set in, a huge shadow falls over you. You freeze, mid-reach, and slowly look up. Standing there, blocking the sun, is the largest person you have ever seen. He’s incredibly broad-shouldered and … green? He wears some kind of red bandana mask over his eyes, along with wraps. Or whatever they are.

But before you can process the sheer strangeness of his appearance, his massive, three-fingered hand darts down with surprising speed. He deftly scoops up the tiny keychain, rescuing it nanoseconds before it’s about to tumble into the depths of the drain.

He straightens up, holding the delicate charm carefully between his thick thumb and forefinger, and looks down at you. Behind the mask, you see his eyes—surprisingly expressive dark pools—widen slightly. There’s a flicker of something you can’t quite place. Surprise? Alarm? You tilt your head.

He seems almost … flustered.

He holds out his hand, offering the keychain back. His movements are careful, hesitant, as if he’s worried a sudden move might make you bolt. “Uh,” he starts, his voice a deep rumble, but much softer than you’d expect from someone his size. “This … this yours?”

You’re still a bit stunned by the near loss of your keychain and the presence of the guy who saved it. Finally, you find your voice, albeit shaky. “Y-yes! Oh my gosh!” you say, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment. As you take back the keychain, your fingers brush against his, feeling the cool, slightly rough texture.

He helps you collect the rest of your things, and you stuff them back into your bag—making sure to zip it up properly this time.

“Thank you so much!” you say. “I thought it was gone for sure.”

“Yeah. No problem,” he rumbles again, his voice still low and gravelly, but definitely tinged with … discomfort? He takes a half-step back, clearly signaling his intention to leave.

“Wait!” you blurt out, feeling a sudden need to acknowledge the sheer oddity and kindness of the moment. “That was… really amazing. How you caught it. I mean—” You gesture vaguely with the hand holding the alpaca keychain. “—you’re incredibly fast.”

Now that the immediate crisis is over, you take in his appearance again. The green isn’t paint; it looks … real. And you felt the almost scaly texture of it. And the shell—wait, is that a shell strapped to his back?! It looks ridiculously heavy, yet he moved with an agility that defies his bulk just moments ago.

He shifts his weight, his gaze flicking down the street, then back to you, the awkwardness radiating off him in waves. He seems less like a menacing figure and more like someone caught doing something they weren’t supposed to, despite having just performed a random act of kindness.

The question escapes before you can stop it, fueled by unfiltered curiosity. “Um … sorry, this is maybe a weird question, but … what are you?”

You see him physically recoil, just slightly, his posture stiffening as he blushes. He looks away sharply, down the street—anywhere but at you for a few beats. Then his gaze snaps back, masked eyes wide.

“Oh! Uh, yeah—costume!” He coughs, forcing the word out. It sounds unnatural, like he’s tasted something bad. “Big … comic fan convention nearby! Ya know, sci-fi stuff.” He gestures vaguely down the street, though you don’t recall seeing any signs for a con.

But hey, it’s New York. Stranger things happen before breakfast. “Wow,” you say, in a sort of bewildered admiration. “It’s incredible. Seriously, the detail is amazing! The skin texture looks—and feels—so real.”

Again, he blushes. “Uh, yeah,” he says, rubbing the nape of his neck. “Thank you.”

You realize you’re still holding the keychain. “But thank you again. Really. You saved my favorite little alpaca.” You hold up the fluffy charm again.

He looks at it, then back at your face. He seems to be studying you, taking in your eyes, the way you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The nervousness is back, rolling off him in waves. He looks profoundly uncomfortable, yet unable to look away. It’s surprisingly sweet.

In a giant-green-man-in-a-costume kind of way.

Because who did he think he was fooling?

“N-no problem,” he finally stammers. “Just … uh … watch where you’re goin’, okay? Sidewalks are … rough.”

“I definitely will now,” you promise, offering a small, shy smile. “Thanks again, um …” You trail off, realizing you don’t know his name.

“Raph,” he blurts out, before looking startled, as if the word escaped without permission. “Name’s Raph.”

You tell him your name. “It was nice meeting you, Raph.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. He then repeats your name softly under his breath, as if testing the sound of it. “Nice … nice meeting you, too.” From behind the mask, his intense and strangely vulnerable eyes still lock on yours.

Then, an awkward silence stretches between you. You clutch your bag, suddenly very aware of the surrounding city sounds returning to focus. He opens his mouth slightly as if to speak, then closes it again. Almost as if he wants to say something more, but has no idea what.

“Well,” you say finally, breaking the spell, “I should probably get home. Dinner and all that.” You tilt your head toward where you were originally going. “But thank you, Raph. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Sure. Yeah. No problem,” he says, taking a half-step back, as if forcing himself to give you space. “Get home safe.”

You nod, offer one last quick smile, then turn and start walking away. Curiosity compels you to glance back over your shoulder after a few paces. Raph is still standing exactly where you left him, a giant green statue silhouetted against the setting sun, watching you go. He looks strangely … lonely.

You feel a pang of sympathy.

But what you don’t feel—or see—is the internal chaos erupting within Raph as your figure recedes down the street. You don’t feel the thunderous, frantic thump-thump-thump of his heart against his plastron, a feeling entirely new and almost terrifyingly strong. He just met you, just saw your shy smile, the way your eyes lit up when he rescued your keychain.

You don’t see how his entire world has tilted on its axis.

And detonated.

Wow, he thinks. She’s … she’s … wow.

Then the crushing weight of reality slams back down on him.

Costume? COSTUME?! The word screeches in his head, mocking his panicked lie. Smooth move, Raph. Real smooth.

But what else could he have possibly said? ‘Hey, thanks. But I’m actually a giant talking turtle mutated by alien ooze. Nice to meet you?’ Yeah, right. You’d have run screaming.

She’s human, the thought follows, cold and heavy. Beautiful, gentle. Human. And he’s … this. Green, hard-shelled, different. A monster in the eyes of the world.

He clenches his fists. This feeling—this fluttery, warm feeling in his chest—is completely foreign. Because a crush? On a human, who thinks he’s just some guy in a costume?

He lets out a long, shaky breath, his shoulders slumping. Confusion and a strange, aching sweetness war within him, making him feel dizzy. He stares down at his own large, green, three-fingered hands, then back up at the now-empty stretch of sidewalk where you stood just moments ago.

“What is Raph supposed to do now?” he murmurs.

He replays the encounter in his mind. You hadn’t recoiled in horror. You looked surprised, maybe a bit flustered. But not terrified.

And most importantly, you didn’t run.

He looks down at his hands again, the hands that saved your keychain, the hands you’d briefly touched without flinching. A new thought, small but persistent, flickers to life within him. Maybe being different didn’t have to mean being alone. And he doesn’t know how.

But he knows you’ll find each other again.

[hotheadedhero]

Preoccupied (18+)

AN: Is Bay Raph constantly on my mind? Yes. Should you be on his mind constantly? DAMN STRAIGHT! I need not say more 😘

(NOTE: I had to delete the last post and reupload because for some reason it wasn't coming up on Tumblr under any of the tags. If the world doesn't need my smut just tell me now 😭)

Raphael x Reader

All characters are aged up

Warnings: NSFW, smutty content, 18+, MDNI, swears (though that's probably the least of your concerns in a fic like this), dirty thoughts, bordering on obsessive, masturbation, angsty because, damn it, I can't help myself, this got weirdly biblical for some reason, idk how to tag nsfw content, an insomniac trying to grammar, my first official smut so apologies if it stinks :'D

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.

This is kind of an idea I coined off of @moxfirefly (called Obsesión on AO3) when I realised the similarities halfway into writing, so go read that!! It's a good one yo 🙏

[monolynn]

You’re Found Silently Crying Alone

BayRaph x reader

He finds you in the quiet corner of the lair, shoulders trembling ever so slightly, your face turned just enough that he sees the glint of tears on your cheeks.

Raph freezes. At first, he just watches—heart thudding hard in his chest, caught off-guard by the raw sight of you crying. Then the adrenaline kicks in.

“Who did it?” he asks, voice low and already dangerous, fists clenched at his sides like he’s about to throw hands with the air itself. “Who the hell made ya cry like this?”

You scramble to wipe your face, laughing all awkwardly to calm the situation. “It’s nothing,” you sniff, waving him off. “I just… got some dirt in my eye.”

Raph narrows his eyes like he’s just been told the most insulting lie in the history of lies.

“Some dirt my ass.”

He spins on his heel like a bloodhound catching a scent, already storming around the lair like a security system just got triggered. “Was it Mikey? I swear if he made another dumb joke—no, no wait, was it that punk Vern? Did he say something to you again? ‘Cause I got no problem payin’ him a little visit—”

“Raph—Raph, stop!” You grab the back of his shell before he can stomp up the ladder. He turns to look at you, scowl softened just enough to reveal the worry etched behind it.

“You’re seriously gonna tell me ‘dirt’ made ya look like that?” he mutters. “Come on. You don’t gotta lie to me.”

His voice is quieter now. Frustrated, yeah—but protective. That hard shell of his cracking just a little for you.

You shake your head and give him a small smile. “I just needed a moment. But I’m okay now. Promise.”

He doesn’t believe you. Not really. But he huffs and folds his arms, settling beside you like a bulldog on high alert.

“Fine. You don’t wanna talk? Cool. But I ain’t movin’.”

(｡· v ·｡) ?

You glance at him.

“I’m stayin’ right here. Just in case the ‘dirt’ comes back.”