raisin-shell

[raisin-shell]

Been working relentlessly on this story. Posted a ton of new chapters if anyone is interested. Still lots more to go. @thelaundrybitch @imthegreenfairy86

@adebauchedsloth @aurora-the-kunoichi

@fyreball66 @hummerhouse

@leosgirl82 @memes-in-a-half-shell

@moxfirefly @pheradream-15

@ravn-87 @raphaelsrightarm @southernblossoms

@carozie @raisin-shell

[raisin-shell]

Small edit 🦐

Stud in the roses 🌹🌿🌹

@kawaiibunga @raisin-shell @leosgirl82 @tmnt-tychou @thelaundrybitch

[raisin-shell]

Rainy ⛈️ day in June

Small edit ✨ 🦐

@kawaiibunga @raisin-shell @leosgirl82 @thelaundrybitch @tmnt-tychou @jenuinelycurious

[raisin-shell]

🪻✨🪻✨🪻✨🪻

@kawaiibunga @raisin-shell @leosgirl82 @tmnt-tychou @thelaundrybitch @jenuinelycurious @imthegreenfairy86

[raisin-shell]

Pretty Random Turtle Thunks

Noise

Rating: Cookies and Cream (16+ plz)

Summary: Flash Fiction of 835 words.

Bay!Raph struggles to deal with overwhelm of living in a world constantly at full volume.

His latest struggle with sound is you.

pspsps @avery73 @anobodyinabog @redsrooftopprincess

I have a little something for ju big red girlies

Raphael always thought that he had a solid grasp on understanding what it meant to live in a world full of noise.

His entire life, his entire world for as long as he could remember, had always been a collection of cacophonies. 

From the constant racket of living beneath THE city that never slept or the never ending tumult that came from the reckless and wild life he lived, Raph had forever been surrounded by sound. 

If it wasn’t the city, or vigilant violence, any chance of possible silence was shattered by Raph’s brothers.

Leo’s tirelessly tirades, Donnie’s incessant info-dumping and Mikey’s constant chatter. 

Call him a grinch or whatever but it was always noise, noise, noise.

And if not his own brother’s, then Raph’s Achilles heel, his very own traitorous heart would betray him. The beat of heated drums that thrummed in his veins. Thoughts of inadequacy, self loathing and all over anger. At the world. At himself.

Such resonance that haunted his every step, his every thought, the entirety of his existence.

Raph, the little Atlas that he was, thought he could bear the weight of it all. His shoulders were certainly wide enough. He was strong enough. 

Ohhhh he made very sure that he was strong enough to could carry it all. Even convinced himself that he’d miss the weight of the hubbub if it was gone.

So yeah, he thought he can handle the noise of it all. 

Until you. 

Oh, until you. 

He didn’t know what it was. Just the comfortability of a safe companionship that grew over time? A stubborn seedling of fond affection that he never could seem to unroot in the protected garden of his heart? Or maybe the inevitable weakness of a spring season hinting just around the corner? 

Whatever it was, lately whenever you were near, the world went silent and you…

Well, you just…you were loud. 

Not necessarily in exact volume, though you did tend to get a bit more passionate in those moments of innocent and genuine excitement.

Those small moments that Raph treasured deep in the recesses of his heart that he would pull out like a picture to glance at on a rainy day. 

No, you were loud in the way that everything about you just started to scream for his attention. 

It wasn’t unbearable per sé, but it was heavy with a sudden weight that for the first time, Raph didn’t know how to hold. How to handle.

Your smile was a flash bang that had him reeling every time you shot it in his direction. Completely blinded by the fact something as soft and delicate could ever be graced upon such a creature as himself. 

It made his face hurt in his attempts to strangle back the ferocity of desire to smile, really smile the way he wanted to, right back at you.  With you, his heart cried out.

Your sweet scent was a siren song in a key that beckoned to him that caused his soul to ache for the mere whisper of hope, the smallest chance to have the privilege to harmonize with you. 

Your presence, just a mere brush or touch of your hand caused the constant state of drumming that was his heart to increase tempo like intense war drums. To the point he could feel it in his pounding in his finger tips as he had to physically restrain himself from unconsciously reaching out to you. 

If he ever go the chance to touch you, to hold you the way he wanted to, Raph wondered if he’d finally find the peace and quiet that he so desperately craved. 

Would all the noise go away? Or with your body in his hands, your heartbeat dancing in tandem with his, would all the volume of the world, in his head, in his heart, finally make sense?

Would all the sound come together and get lost in the symphony of you?

So that’s why he finds himself he’s sitting alone in his brooding corner. His elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, his breath heavy and labored with the weight of trying to hold the weight of…well…everything back.

Your visage branded to the back of his eyelids and your voice echoing in his memory like an unfair vision of the night. 

It made Raph feel like slamming his hands over his head and fully retreating into his shell, hoping to finding one dark corner not haunted by you, where he could get the stupid staccato of his heart back into place.

Because he couldn’t look away; he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t stop listening. 

And the worst part of it all, was Raphael was scared of the fact that he didn’t know if he could, or even wanted to. 

Yeah, Raph thought he could handle the noise.

But he very may well just perish at the thought of being able to one day have the privilege of pulling a sound from you.

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AngelNardo Edits

@kawaiibunga @raisin-shell @leosgirl82 @thelaundrybitch @tmnt-tychou @jenuinelycurious @cactimorada

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Donnie, Raph, Leo and Mikey))Heroes in a half shell!

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Raphael from tmnt 2 secret of the ooze.

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AngelNardo 🌊🧜🏼‍♀️

@raisin-shell @kawaiibunga @thelaundrybitch @leosgirl82 @tmnt-tychou @jenuinelycurious

[raisin-shell]

I promise guys , I’ll get to your requests soon! But for now, I hope you’ll enjoy this one💜

“Under a Blanket of Code”

Bayverse!Donatello x Reader

The power had flickered out about an hour ago.

Mikey screamed something about the pizza oven dying and Raph immediately took it as a sign of the apocalypse. Leo was trying to organize a response plan, but Donnie had already disappeared into the darker parts of the lair—heading toward his lab like a man on a mission.

You didn’t even ask. You just followed him.

It was quiet in his workspace. He had a few emergency lights wired up, casting everything in deep purple and gold. Small LEDs blinked from different shelves, some flickering faintly like fireflies. In the middle of it all, Donnie was crouched beside a stack of servers, furiously typing on a portable rig.

You leaned in the doorway, watching him. He muttered something about “backup fuses” and “secondary distribution lines,” and then paused.

“I know you’re there,” he said without looking. “And I’m not mad. Just… mildly panicked.”

You smiled. “I brought tea.”

That made him glance up. His glasses caught a soft glint of blue from a nearby monitor, and he blinked, surprised. “Oh. Uh. Thank you.” He took the thermos from you awkwardly, hands still faintly buzzing with static.

“Want some company?” you asked gently. “I figured you might need backup.”

Donnie hesitated for a second too long. Then he nodded. “Actually… yeah. That would be nice.”

He gestured to a low platform on the floor surrounded by wires, toolboxes, and glowing screens. You kicked off your shoes and stepped carefully between cables. A fuzzy blanket was already half-draped over the space, clearly something Mikey had tossed aside days ago.

You plopped down, crossing your legs. “So what’s the damage?”

“Main power grid’s fried,” Donnie murmured, sitting beside you. “Generator’s holding up, but I’m going to need to do a manual reroute.” He adjusted his glasses with a tired sigh. “In the meantime, I figured… might as well make the place livable.”

He grabbed a small remote and tapped a button. A string of soft purple lights lit up overhead—cheap LED strips, flickering slightly, but warm in their own way.

“Donnie,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “Did you build yourself a tech blanket fort?”

He looked flustered. “No. I mean—not intentionally. I was optimizing work conditions, and the blanket just… enhances acoustic absorption and comfort for long-term programming sessions.”

“So,” you grinned, “a blanket fort.”

He huffed. “Fine. Yes. A highly advanced blanket fort.”

You giggled and tucked the edge of the blanket around your shoulders. “I love it.”

He blinked. “You do?”

“Of course. It’s kind of perfect.” You leaned back slightly. “It’s warm, quiet, glowy… and it smells like solder and coffee. Very ‘you.’”

Donnie was silent for a beat. Then, he mumbled, “I wasn’t sure you’d like it down here.”

You turned to him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He shifted awkwardly, fingers fidgeting with a loose wire. “Most people… wouldn’t exactly enjoy sitting in a dark lab full of failing circuits and overheating processors.”

“I’m not most people,” you said softly.

Donnie didn’t respond at first. He looked down at the blanket, at the way it pooled around the two of you, and then carefully set aside the laptop.

“You know,” he started, voice lower now, “sometimes I forget there’s a world outside this lab. Not in a dramatic way, just… I get stuck in my head. The math, the logic, the endless systems I can’t control—sometimes that’s all I focus on.”

You were quiet, letting him talk.

“And then you show up,” he continued. “With tea. And sarcasm. And blankets.” His gaze lifted to meet yours. “And suddenly the world feels… a little quieter. Like the code finally compiled.”

You smiled, heart thudding gently in your chest. “Is that your way of saying you like having me here?”

“Yes,” he said immediately. Then cleared his throat. “I mean—logically speaking, your presence has a statistically significant impact on my overall mood and cognitive focus.”

“Donnie,” you said, nudging his arm with your elbow, “just say you like me.”

He went red. Deep red. The color crept all the way to his bandana. “I—okay—fine. I like you. A lot.”

You laughed and leaned your head against his shoulder. He froze for a second, then slowly, slowly relaxed under the pressure.

“I like you too,” you whispered.

Donnie didn’t say anything, but you felt it—the soft exhale, the way his hand curled just slightly closer to yours under the blanket. He didn’t need grand declarations. Not tonight.

You sat together in the tech-fort, surrounded by quiet buzzes and blinking lights, with the world outside temporarily short-circuited.

And honestly?

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

[raisin-shell]

I had a little burst of inspiration yesterday, so here you go, dudes 🤍

“Unexpected Company”

Bayverse Michelangelo x Fem!Reader

You smoothed out the fabric of your sundress, the soft yellow skirt swaying with each step as you descended into the lair. Makeup done, hair curled, nails painted—you were fully prepared for a girls’ night with April. Until, of course, she got called out to cover some emergency broadcast, apologizing profusely before dashing out in a whirlwind of heels and stress.

You could’ve just gone home.

But the thought of microwaving leftovers in your apartment and wiping off your lip gloss while watching reruns felt a little…defeated.

Besides, you weren’t far from the lair, and you knew the guys wouldn’t mind the company.

As you stepped into the main living space, the ambient glow of multiple TV screens lit up the room. Mikey was the first to notice you.

And oh, he noticed.

“Whoa—” Michelangelo stood up so fast he nearly knocked over his bowl of popcorn. “Angel in the sewer alert!”

You laughed, rolling your eyes as you walked in. “Hey, Mikey.”

He skated over, slowing to a dramatic stop a few feet in front of you. “Hold up. You’re not April… You’re like… a sun goddess.”

You smirked, twirling a little for show. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Take it, frame it, put it on a wall.” He blinked slowly, still staring. “You, uh… you always dress like this for the sewer, or…?”

You laughed again. “April and I had a girls’ night planned, but she got called in for work. I didn’t feel like going home just yet.”

“Well, thank the pizza gods for that.” He offered a gallant bow. “Mi casa es su casa, señorita sundress.”

You flopped down onto the couch as Mikey plopped beside you, eyes still wide with admiration. “You look amazing,” he added, quieter this time. “Like, actually. I mean it.”

Your cheeks warmed, though you tried to play it off with a smirk. “You’re laying it on thick tonight, Michelangelo.”

“No lies, only vibes,” he grinned. “But seriously—I’m glad you came.”

The sound of a snort came from the hallway. Raph walked past with a towel over his shoulder, side-eyeing you both. “Mikey, quit droolin’.”

Mikey shot back a grin. “Can’t help it. There’s actual sunshine on the couch, bro.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Ignore him.”

“Oh, I always do,” Mikey said. Then he perked up. “You hungry? We’ve got leftover pizza, like… three kinds.”

“Depends,” you said, teasing. “What kinds?”

“Cheese, triple cheese, and… cheese with olives.”

You bit your lip, pretending to consider. “Tempting.”

He leaned closer. “I can microwave it and serve it on a paper plate, all fancy-like. Maybe light a scented candle. We’re talkin’ peak sewer hospitality.”

You laughed so hard you had to clutch your stomach. “Wow. I feel so spoiled.”

A beat of silence passed. Then, in a softer voice, Mikey said, “You know… you’re really pretty when you laugh.”

You blinked, caught off-guard by the sincerity.

He looked away a moment later, scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry. That was probably lame.”

“No,” you said gently, reaching over to brush your fingers against his. “It wasn’t.”

He looked back at you with those wide, earnest eyes—surprised, maybe, but hopeful too.

“You wanna hang out?” he asked. “Like, just us? I got video games, movies… or we could just sit and talk. I mean—only if you want.”

You smiled, nudging his side. “I’d love to.”

The night didn’t go as planned. No face masks or gossip sessions. No wine or chick flicks. But sitting next to Mikey, sharing a lukewarm slice of pizza and laughing at a ridiculous movie with his hand slowly inching closer to yours?

Yeah.

You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

[raisin-shell]

I don’t know who the artist is but hot DAYUM Leo sir!! 🥴🥴

[raisin-shell]

Mikey: It’s what’s on the inside that matters.

Raph: Name one time that’s been true.

Mikey: The fridge.

Raph: Fair point.

[raisin-shell]

I don’t know why, but I’ve always pictured Raphael with an artistic S/O - like, genuinely. And I’ve never seen anyone write a one-shot or fanfic in that style before, so I decided to do it myself, haha!

“Color Me Real”

Bayverse Raphael x Reader

There was a chill in the air tonight. Not the kind that made you shiver, exactly—just enough to bite at your fingers and make you exhale a little slower, like your breath needed time to catch up with your thoughts.

You had the radio playing low, the studio heater on its last leg, and a cup of coffee you’d forgotten about long enough for it to go lukewarm.

Another night, another canvas.

Your hands were already stained in cerulean blue and burnt umber, fingernails crusted with dried paint you hadn’t bothered to scrub out. You stood barefoot on the drop cloth, one brush clenched in your teeth while the other moved in smooth, practiced strokes. You didn’t even notice how your shoulder had started to ache from the angle. The world narrowed until it was just you, the canvas, and the weight in your chest you were trying to turn into color.

That’s how Raphael found you.

Not that you were surprised. He wasn’t exactly stealthy when he didn’t want to be—too heavy, too big. And besides, you knew the way his presence shifted the room before you ever heard a sound. You didn’t turn around right away. Didn’t need to.

“You just gonna hover again or are you gonna come in this time?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then the clink of metal as he stepped through the cracked storage door.

“I ain’t hoverin’,” he said, but his voice lacked any bite. “Just checkin’ in.”

You finally turned, brush still in hand. “Mhm. And how long have you been ‘checkin’ in’ from the shadows?”

He gave you a look, one brow cocked under his red mask. “Long enough.”

You chuckled, stepping aside to make room near the space heater. “Well, grab a crate. Heat’s dying, but it’s doing what it can.”

Raphael hesitated. Then, with a shrug, he lowered himself onto an overturned milk crate. You noticed he looked tired—tension clinging to his shoulders like it always did, but his eyes were softer tonight. More alert.

“Rough patrol?” you asked, dipping your brush back into the palette.

“Not really. Just… noisy. Y’know?”

You nodded. You did.

The city had a way of feeling loud even when it wasn’t. The buzz of lives you couldn’t live, streets you didn’t quite belong to. It wore on you in a way you couldn’t explain, and sometimes it helped to sit in silence next to someone who got it without asking you to explain.

“Paintin’ helps with that?” he asked.

You glanced at the canvas—still unfinished, but it was coming together. It was darker than your usual style. Moody, abstract. Like a cityscape caught in a dream. The brush strokes weren’t perfect. Neither were you.

“It doesn’t fix anything,” you said honestly. “But it’s the only way I can make sense of stuff sometimes.”

He nodded slowly, eyes flicking over the layers of color. “Looks real good.”

You laughed, a tired sound. “You say that every time.”

“’Cause it’s always true.”

There was no sarcasm, no teasing. Just a simple, matter-of-fact tone that made you go still for half a second.

“Thanks,” you said, a little quieter this time.

You didn’t remember exactly when your friendship with Raphael had become a constant. You’d met through April—just another weird night in the city, another impossible story. The turtles had been a curiosity at first. Now they were something else entirely. Family, maybe. Or something close to it.

Still, Raph wasn’t an easy read. He didn’t open up unless he wanted to, and when he did, it was like watching a dam crack one sliver at a time.

He spoke again after a while. “That one from last week—the alley with the steam vents—what was that about?”

You blinked. “You remember that one?”

“’Course I do. It stuck with me. Looked like somethin’ I’ve seen before.”

Your stomach fluttered, unexpectedly.

“I painted that after you told me about your run-in in Hell’s Kitchen,” you admitted.

Raphael looked over sharply. “Seriously?”

You shrugged. “You described the way the steam caught the moonlight. It stayed in my head. So I painted it.”

He was quiet. Then: “Didn’t think you were really listenin’.”

“I always listen to you.”

Another beat of silence.

Something shifted.

His gaze lingered on you, heavy but not unwelcome. He wasn’t looking at your painting anymore. He was looking at you.

You swallowed. “What?”

“Nothin’.”

“Bullshit,” you said gently.

He exhaled through his nose, a rough sound that almost passed for a laugh.

“I dunno,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… you ever look at somethin’ and it hits you, all at once, that it means more than you thought?”

You paused, brush frozen midair.

“Yeah,” you said, heart suddenly thudding in your ears. “All the time.”

His eyes met yours again, and for once, he didn’t look away.

“You’re different,” he said quietly. “Not ‘cause you paint. Not ‘cause you don’t freak out ‘round us. Just… you see things other people don’t.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Not right away. So you looked at your hands—stained with paint and calloused from years of holding brushes too tightly.

“I think maybe you do too,” you said.

The air between you settled, heavy with everything that hadn’t been said before.

Then he stood, slowly. You looked up.

“I should go,” he said. But he didn’t move.

You gave him a tired smile. “Back to the chaos?”

He hesitated. “Yeah.”

Another pause. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then, without warning, reached out and gently touched a smear of paint on your jaw. His thumb brushed your skin, slow and unthinking.

“You got somethin’,” he murmured.

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

He let his hand fall away, but not before his fingers lingered just a second too long.

Then he nodded once, pulled his hood over his head, and stepped into the night without another word.

You watched him go, heart hammering.

And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t touch the painting again.

Because the feeling—whatever had passed between you and him—was already finished.

And some things, you realized, were better left in real life than trapped on a canvas.

[raisin-shell]

if you’re not into some dumb embarrassing shit you’re not living your truth

[raisin-shell]

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 🙏

[raisin-shell]

…unfortunately these two look alike IM SORRY