hotheadedhero

[hotheadedhero]

You know, it's just my luck that I get ill on my week off

[hotheadedhero]

Clippers have arrived. Today I'm going to attempt to shave the underside of my head

Wish me luck 🤪

[hotheadedhero]

It was... literally staring me in the face, how could I have missed this?? 😩

I'm a little late to the party (as usual), but HAPPY PRIDE MONTH EVERYONE!!! 🏳️‍🌈❤️🧡💛💚💙💜🖤🤍🤎🩷🩵🩶

And, in the spirit of LGBTQIA+, my hot take for the evening...

Gay icon

I can't really explain in a, like, scholarly way why he is a gay icon in my eyes, but it's just- it's just the essence of him

The way he holds himself, the occasional sassy remarks, how he moves, and OH don't even get me started on how he points down to the ground when he's fighting those soldiers GAWD 😩

Carry on, Queen, ily 💖🙏

AND AN EXTRA UNDER THE CUT BECAUSE I'M FREAKING FR! I'M ONLY JUST FINDING OUT THAT THIS VERSION OF BISHOP IS VOICED BY NOLAN NORTH???

WHICH MEANS HE ALSO VOICES THE KRAANG BOTS??? AND CHROME DOME?!?!?! DBHJUCFGBQRVFGBADJLVFGBEWS

I can't believe this has evaded my knowing for the last 12 and a half years...

And I call myself a fan 😔

[hotheadedhero]

I'm a little late to the party (as usual), but HAPPY PRIDE MONTH EVERYONE!!! 🏳️‍🌈❤️🧡💛💚💙💜🖤🤍🤎🩷🩵🩶

And, in the spirit of LGBTQIA+, my hot take for the evening...

Gay icon

I can't really explain in a, like, scholarly way why he is a gay icon in my eyes, but it's just- it's just the essence of him

The way he holds himself, the occasional sassy remarks, how he moves, and OH don't even get me started on how he points down to the ground when he's fighting those soldiers GAWD 😩

Carry on, Queen, ily 💖🙏

AND AN EXTRA UNDER THE CUT BECAUSE I'M FREAKING FR! I'M ONLY JUST FINDING OUT THAT THIS VERSION OF BISHOP IS VOICED BY NOLAN NORTH???

WHICH MEANS HE ALSO VOICES THE KRAANG BOTS??? AND CHROME DOME?!?!?! DBHJUCFGBQRVFGBADJLVFGBEWS

I can't believe this has evaded my knowing for the last 12 and a half years...

And I call myself a fan 😔

[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."

[hotheadedhero]

Imagining a reader who takes off their fake lashes in front of their turtle s/o for the first time, him freaking out, and casually lying to him about how it's a normal thing for some humans to shed their lashes sometimes

[hotheadedhero]

Trying to write fanfiction when an old obsession comes back is like trying to listen to two completely different pieces of music in separate earphones

And one side is getting louder than the other

I'm putting this under the cut because I have no idea if anyone in my little cult following gets it this bad, but-

VICTOR NIKIFOROV MY ICE PRINCE

His existence should be illegal, actually

It's been almost a decade, and I'm still not over this show or him omg

LIKE HE'S SO PRETTY WDYM

We're never going to get another season, nor the movie we were promised

And I-

I don't think I'll ever be able to live with that

[hotheadedhero]

I just spent an hour getting so absorbed into trying to make my own divider because, ya know, I wanna jazz up the way my fics look

Can't say I'm 100% there with it yet, but you know what they say about practice

EDIT: I think I got something I'm much happier with ;)

But knowing my indecisive self, I'll probably end up changing it again

[hotheadedhero]

your writing style is so good omg!!! i just finished reading “preoccupied” and i can’t even express how much i loved it! i could read an entire book written by you! you write yearning!raph so good and his characterization >>>🛐 hope he’ll get to realize his fantasies in the future, that boy deserves it! also, i hope you’re doing alright and remember to take care of yourself!💟

Aahhh omg! You're so sweet! I can't, tysm 😭 I had my nerves with this story, but I really did have fun writing it in the end, so I'm glad it's got the seal of approval 🙏

There is a long Bay Raph fic that I'm planning for that's going along with the 'enemies to lovers' trope. I'm talking like 16 chapters at least! (But it is still going through all the storyboard stuff currently, so unfortunately, I have no clue when it's due to start coming out :') Fingers crossed, not long!)

And who knows? Maybe our gruff sweetheart in red will find salvation, maybe he won't. Who's to say? 🤭

Thank you again, my dear Anon!! Right now I'm a little rough coz of my insomnia and whatnot, but I promise I'm looking after myself as best as I can 😔 Same goes for you!! You've put such a big smile on my face this morning 💖

[hotheadedhero]

Never mind... I figured out why

Okay, I can't tell if I'm just being really stupid or if the cards are currently against me

Why is my latest story not coming up on the 'tmnt raph x reader' tag??? 😭

[hotheadedhero]

Okay, I can't tell if I'm just being really stupid or if the cards are currently against me

Why is my latest story not coming up on the 'tmnt raph x reader' tag??? 😭

[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 🙏

[hotheadedhero]

Ive been following your blog for a while and nice going on the diagnosis! I hope it helps you, was it hard to get? Coz ive been trying and its as if the doctors dont even want to give me the time of day

Thank you, Anon!! That really means a lot, and I'm also so sorry that it's been such a difficult journey for you :( I couldn't even imagine how many people are still awaiting a diagnosis, or even being refused a fair consultation, in the first place

I think the process really depends on what country and what region you live in. I'm from the UK personally, and the beginning of this was a little messy, too

After finishing Uni and moving away from my hometown to live with my partner, I decided I was finally going to try my hand at seeking aid, because so many people in the years before had suspected I might've been neurospicy, and I wanted to improve my quality of life. That first meeting with my new GP didn't go so well, however. Despite how upset and emotional I had gotten about the topic, and without giving me a chance to explain, she just straight up said she doesn't think I have ADHD, and instead got me a CBT referral for my anxiety (which, yes, I've had for years but it's been so much better)

That interaction alone made me crumble, and I thought, "yeah, maybe I don't have it and I'm just trying to make excuses for myself". It took a lot for my fella and my friends to really push me into fighting for it. Luckily, the CBT therapist assigned to me was so so so lovely, she's the first therapist I've ever felt that comfortable with, and after my course was done with her, she took the liberty of referring me to our local ADHD team

I will say, it was still a process, what with the waiting lists and such, but even just knowing there was something happening made me feel a lot better. Although after a year of silence, I did think they forgot about me 😂 BUT once I had gotten to the part where you fill out the forms and questionnaires, it was surprisingly prompt. I've now gotten my medication, and I'm due a follow-up in the coming month!

So, Anon, if there is any advice I can give to you to get you on this path, it's that you should:

Really push for it. Even if you worry about sounding pushy or forceful, sometimes it's the way you have to do it to get through to them. Telling your doctor/clinician/current therapist how much this is affecting your daily life - the impact it's having - is often the only language they understand Or

Go directly to the source. If you're having trouble getting a referral, it might be worth looking up your local services and contacting them instead. Make your statement if you have to

Do your research. I personally had a look at the DSM-5 and made notes of all the examples I could think of that related to each diagnostic criteria, both from my childhood and my life currently. You can never do enough research; it really helps when you get to talking to a professional on the matter. Be sure to check the reliability of your sources, though. As I say, DSM-5 is probably the best way to do it

Be patient. Universally, the waiting lists are long. More and more people are seeking answers every day, so don't worry if you feel like you've been abandoned. They will get to you eventually

And I will also say that medication isn't explicitly the way forward. They should give you the option to either go forward if you're happy with your diagnosis or to trial meds if you want to give them a go

I wish you the best of luck, and I hope you're able to get the help you need because you never know just how much it might improve your life 💖

[hotheadedhero]

After almost three years of waiting lists and conversations, I have officially gotten an ADHD diagnosis

Now, let's hope these meds treat me well and don't affect my writing

We shall see :')

[hotheadedhero]

RESULTS ARE IN!! And it's more or less what I expected (minus the draw between two of the stories)

I reckon I'll work through these in order of popularity, that just makes the most sense to me

Better get to writing my first official smut 🤪

Once again, I call on your aid because I am STUCK!! 😭

I have a bunch of Raph x Readers in need of attention, but I'm struggling to figure out which one I work on first (I've already started them, but choosing a primary focus has been proving difficult)

Here's a synopsis for each one:

Walking on the Wrong Ground - 2012 Set in the Mutant Apocalypse Arc. You're alone, fighting to survive in a wasteland that tries so hard to see your end. Will you ever find your friends from a past life long forgotten, or are you doomed to die in isolation?

Greener Grass, Greener Envy - Bayverse During the events of Out of the Shadows (OOTS). Tensions are high with the police's discovery of your friends, but even higher when you find out why. You can't figure out what hurts more, the fact that Raphael can't get to grips with his appearance, or how he tried to keep this a secret from you.

Baby Jitters - 2003 A small continuation of the 'Baby Bumps' headcanons. There's excitement to be had with the expecting baby on the way, but certain fears that can't be ignored either, as much as Raph wants to.

Preoccupied (18+) - Bayverse Every day is like torture for the poor turtle, who frequently has to go head-to-head with his own thoughts. His thoughts only betray him more and more, whether you're around or not, and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do about it.

[hotheadedhero]

Over a day in, and I think I can already see where this is headed, you scandelous hazbins, you

As if I'm any better :')

Once again, I call on your aid because I am STUCK!! 😭

I have a bunch of Raph x Readers in need of attention, but I'm struggling to figure out which one I work on first (I've already started them, but choosing a primary focus has been proving difficult)

Here's a synopsis for each one:

Walking on the Wrong Ground - 2012 Set in the Mutant Apocalypse Arc. You're alone, fighting to survive in a wasteland that tries so hard to see your end. Will you ever find your friends from a past life long forgotten, or are you doomed to die in isolation?

Greener Grass, Greener Envy - Bayverse During the events of Out of the Shadows (OOTS). Tensions are high with the police's discovery of your friends, but even higher when you find out why. You can't figure out what hurts more, the fact that Raphael can't get to grips with his appearance, or how he tried to keep this a secret from you.

Baby Jitters - 2003 A small continuation of the 'Baby Bumps' headcanons. There's excitement to be had with the expecting baby on the way, but certain fears that can't be ignored either, as much as Raph wants to.

Preoccupied (18+) - Bayverse Every day is like torture for the poor turtle, who frequently has to go head-to-head with his own thoughts. His thoughts only betray him more and more, whether you're around or not, and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do about it.

[hotheadedhero]

Once again, I call on your aid because I am STUCK!! 😭

I have a bunch of Raph x Readers in need of attention, but I'm struggling to figure out which one I work on first (I've already started them, but choosing a primary focus has been proving difficult)

Here's a synopsis for each one:

Walking on the Wrong Ground - 2012 Set in the Mutant Apocalypse Arc. You're alone, fighting to survive in a wasteland that tries so hard to see your end. Will you ever find your friends from a past life long forgotten, or are you doomed to die in isolation?

Greener Grass, Greener Envy - Bayverse During the events of Out of the Shadows (OOTS). Tensions are high with the police's discovery of your friends, but even higher when you find out why. You can't figure out what hurts more, the fact that Raphael can't get to grips with his appearance, or how he tried to keep this a secret from you.

Baby Jitters - 2003 A small continuation of the 'Baby Bumps' headcanons. There's excitement to be had with the expecting baby on the way, but certain fears that can't be ignored either, as much as Raph wants to.

Preoccupied (18+) - Bayverse Every day is like torture for the poor turtle, who frequently has to go head-to-head with his own thoughts. His thoughts only betray him more and more, whether you're around or not, and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do about it.