#bayverse tmnt

[acidichcl]

Get a load of this guy

[peppermint-turtles]

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

ft. my completely accidentally movie vs show split

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

and some additional clarifying memes as well

[sweeneydino]

“Anime ending credits” with bayverse. Cause.

[t333th]

Finally, my wife I mean my iteration's Donatello. Please squint at his battle shell and pretend you don't see any imperfections I'm too lazy to fine tune it anyway. Softshell Donnie W

[luv4arinn]

Bayverse!Raph as a Boyfriend Headcanons <3 (but I psychoanalyzed him way too much)

Parenting: Raph x Female Reader

Warnings: Low self-esteem, body dysphoria, this is more serious, sorry, yeah nsfw

This man is the definition of “I’m a mess, but if someone even looks at you, they’re dead.”

In the Bayverse movies, Raph carries a deep-seated resentment toward himself. It’s not just his aggressive attitude or his constant need to fight—deep down, he’s convinced that he doesn’t deserve anything good. And when it comes to love… God, it’s even worse.

In his mind, it’s impossible for someone to see him as anything other than a monster. Not a mutant, not a warrior, not a man—a monster. And even though he’d never say it out loud (because, to him, admitting it would give it power), every time he sees you—every time you smile at him, every time you talk to him like he’s not some freak of nature—his brain just short-circuits.

Because what could he possibly offer you?

Donnie has intelligence and could talk to you about a million fascinating things. Mikey would make you laugh and shower you with love without hesitation. Leo… well, Leo has always been the strong one, the one who makes the right decisions, the one who is everything he isn’t.

But him? He’s just Raph. Impulsive, hot-headed, stubborn, and with a track record of messing up at the worst possible moment.

And the worst part is that even though he loves you in silence, even though he wants you more than he’d ever admit, he would never dare to do anything about it. Because… what if you realize he’s not worth it? What if you snap out of it and realize you could have someone better? What if one day you look at him and see what he sees in the mirror?

That’s why Raph would never make the first move. He’d never stare for too long, never dare to cross that line. But his possessiveness would betray him. The way his brow furrows when you talk to someone else. How his jaw clenches when someone gets too close. How his knuckles go white when he feels like someone else has what he’ll never be able to have.

And if you do return his feelings… God, Raph won’t process it. He won’t believe it. He’ll convince himself it’s a mistake. That he’s going to ruin it. That he doesn’t deserve this—that you deserve better.

But if you prove him wrong—if you stay, if you choose him every single day—he’ll be the most fiercely loyal and protective person you could ever have by your side.

Because even if he never says it out loud, even if he never fully admits it, even if he still doesn’t quite believe it himself… knowing that someone sees him as more than a monster is the only thing that could ever heal the wounds he’s carried his entire life.

Raph doesn’t know how to love halfway. He doesn’t know how to be lukewarm, how to be indifferent. His love is a wildfire—one that consumes and leaves scars if left unchecked. And that’s exactly why he hides it. Because he’s afraid that if he lets it out completely, he’ll end up burning the thing he loves the most.

He’s a passionate lover. But not the kind who sweetens his words or whispers promises in hushed tones. No. Raph loves through actions. He loves by protecting, by holding on, by remembering every little detail, by always being there even when you don’t ask. His love is something you feel in the tension of his muscles when someone gets too close, in the way his gaze darkens when someone makes you laugh a little too much, in the way his hand—his massive hands—grip your waist as if you might disappear at any moment.

But as fiery as his love is, his insecurity is just as cold as a bucket of ice water. He’s not the type to throw tantrums or make a scene just because someone else talked to you. No. His jealousy is quiet, internal, corrosive. Not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he doesn’t trust himself.

Every time he looks at you, every time his eyes land on you, his mind is flooded with the same whirlwind of thoughts:

“God, she’s so beautiful.”

“I love her.”

“Mine.”

“Incredible.”

“I don’t know how she chose me.”

“She could have anyone else.”

…

“I don’t know how she chose me.”

“There are better men than me.”

That last thought is the one that hurts the most. Because no matter how many times you prove him wrong, no matter how many times you stay, no matter how many times you choose him over and over again—deep down, the idea that you could leave never fully leaves him.

That’s why he holds on, even if you don’t notice. Not in a desperate way, not in an obvious way. But it’s there. In how he always walks in a way that keeps his body between you and any other man. In how his fingers sometimes grip the fabric of your clothes just a little too tightly when you’re around others. In how his gaze turns sharp and lethal, even without saying a word.

Because Raph is a warrior. A soldier. A fighter.

But when it comes to love, he doesn’t fight with the same confidence.

Not because he doesn’t want to—

But because he doesn’t believe he has the right to.

Raph isn’t afraid of many things. Not of pain, not of fighting, not of facing an enemy who could kill him at any moment.

But he’s afraid of heights.

And he’s afraid of himself.

Sometimes, on the darkest nights, when the world is silent and there are no distractions to keep him occupied, that fear eats him alive. It burns through his chest like acid. Because he knows what he is. He knows he’s not like Leo, who can think before he acts. He knows he’s not like Donnie, who can analyze things without letting emotions cloud his judgment. He’s not like Mikey, who can let things go with a smile.

He is rage.

He is fire.

He is violence contained within a body too big and a mind too tormented.

And if that rage were ever directed at you…

That thought alone is enough to make his stomach twist. It sickens him, makes him want to throw up, to punch something just to distract himself from the possibility. Because Raph knows what it’s like to lose control. He knows what it’s like to feel his vision go red, to not realize what he’s doing until it’s too late.

But never, never could he allow that to happen to you.

And yet… he’s human. (Well, as close as he can be.) And he makes mistakes.

If you ever fight—if his emotions ignite like an uncontrollable wildfire, if the heat of the argument blinds him, if his voice rises until it becomes a roar—God, he doesn’t even realize what he’s saying. The words spill out like daggers, sharp and unfiltered, filled with frustration and things he doesn’t mean. And deep down, as every syllable poisons the air between you, his throat tightens, his tongue tastes foul, like he’s chewing on something rotten.

But that’s not the worst part.

The worst part is when, in an impulsive act—because he’s always impulsive—his fist slams into the wall right beside you.

The sound echoes. A sharp, heavy thud.

Loud. Too loud.

And when the dust settles, when the echo of his own fury stops ringing in his ears, that’s when he sees it.

Your eyes.

Wide open. Shocked. Scared.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

That fear in your gaze hits him harder than any enemy he’s ever faced. It’s like a punch to the chest, a bullet straight to the heart. His breath catches. His entire body freezes, and the fire inside him—the one that fuels him, the one that’s always raging—suddenly dies out.

There are no words to describe what he feels in that moment.

Shame. Guilt. Self-loathing.

He’s not afraid that you’ll hate him. He’s afraid that you’d be right to.

That you’ll finally see what he’s always known: that he’s not good for you. That he’s dangerous. That no matter how much he loves you, his own nature will always be his worst enemy.

And if he ever loses you because of that…

He doesn’t even know if he’d be able to keep breathing.

Your footsteps fade into the distance, echoing against the damp concrete of the sewers, and Raph stays right where he is.

Still.

Not moving.

Not doing what every fiber of his being is screaming at him to do—run after you, stop you, grab you, tell you he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to scare you, that he didn’t mean to make you cry.

But he doesn’t.

Because he can still see it in his mind. Your expression, that look in your eyes that wasn’t anger, wasn’t sadness—

It was fear.

God.

He clenches his fists and lowers his gaze. He wants to convince himself that he’s not following you because he’s too proud to apologize, because he hates admitting when he’s wrong (and he was wrong—he always is when it comes to these arguments). He wants to tell himself that it’s because he was already in a shitty mood from arguing with Leo earlier, that it’s not his fault his temper is a ticking time bomb.

But deep down, he knows the truth.

He doesn’t follow you because he’s scared.

Because what the hell is he supposed to say? What words could erase what just happened? How could he possibly fix this without making it worse?

So he does the only thing he knows how to do—

He hits.

His fist collides with the wall again, pain shooting through his knuckles like a reminder of what he is.

Of what he can’t change.

And yet, hours later, there he is.

Standing outside your window.

From out here, he can hear you. Not loud sobs, not heart-wrenching cries, but enough. Shaky breaths, the faint sound of your sniffles. And he—he almost turns around right then, almost runs because he doesn’t know if he can take it.

But he doesn’t.

Because he fucked up. And if anyone deserves to carry the weight of this, it’s him.

Slowly, he opens your window (locked, but you gave him a key). He makes no sound as he climbs inside, though the floor creaks slightly beneath his weight. He finds you sitting on your bed, gaze lowered. And when you finally lift your head and your eyes meet his—

It’s like the air is knocked right out of his lungs.

He doesn’t know what to say.

He’s never been good with words. Never known how to express what he feels without his tongue getting tied, without his voice betraying what he really means to say.

So when he finally speaks, his words are clumsy, short—

A failed attempt at explaining the unexplainable.

But you see it.

You see the way his shoulders slump, the way his eyes avoid yours like he’s not worthy of looking at you. You see the tension in his jaw, the war between his pride and his regret.

And then—he does it.

A step forward. Then another. And another.

Until he’s right in front of you.

His massive hands take hold of you with an impossible gentleness, and in one swift motion, he pulls you against his chest.

It’s firm. Warm. Encompassing.

There are no words that could say what this says.

His breathing is heavy, his heartbeat pounds against your ear. One arm wraps around you completely, the other cradles your head against his neck—like he’s making sure you can’t leave, like he can’t lose you again.

And then you feel it.

A faint touch against your hair.

A kiss.

He doesn’t say “I’m sorry” out loud. He doesn’t need to.

His actions say it all.

And you know it.

So yeah. Reconciliation.

But as he holds you, his forehead pressed against yours, his hand still gripping onto you like he’s terrified to let go—

Raph can only think one thing:

“I just hope I don’t fuck this up again. And if I do… God, please let her forgive me.”

Loving Raph is complicated.

Not because he isn’t worth it, but because he makes it difficult. Because every day is a battle against his own fears, against the thought that maybe—just maybe—he’s not enough for you.

But if you’re wondering about the… intimate side of things.

Well.

We all know Raph isn’t exactly innocent.

In his mind, he’s already had you in every way possible. He’s already imagined you gasping his name, cheeks flushed, breath ragged, looking at him like he’s the only thing that exists. He’s lost count of how many times he’s had to slip away, lock himself in the bathroom, and let his hand do the work while his mind recreates you in vivid detail—every little thing he’s memorized about you.

And when he really can’t take it, when the need is unbearable and his body begs for any kind of release, he just tells Mikey to sleep on the couch.

It’s selfish. He knows that. But he doesn’t care.

Because that night, he needs his space.

He needs your scent still lingering on his pillow, needs to bury his face in it and close his eyes while his hand moves at a frantic pace—imagining it’s your skin he’s touching, your mouth around him instead.

But outside of his mind, outside of his most desperate fantasies—

Things are… different.

So far, the farthest you’ve gone is mutual masturbation. And God.

He thought he was going to die when he felt your lips around his length, when your tongue slid along his shaft and your eyes met his. His back hit the wall, and he let out a groan so deep he swore someone in the lair must have heard him.

And when he had you riding his fingers, gripping onto his arm as you unraveled in his hand, he swore his self-control was hanging by a thread.

But he always stops there.

Because Raph is big.

Not just in size, but in strength, in intensity, in everything. And no matter how much you want him, no matter how many times you assure him that he would never hurt you on purpose, that fear is still there.

That damn fear of hurting you.

Because if he were human, he already would’ve had you. He would’ve taken you the way he’s supposed to, given you everything you want—everything he craves with every fiber of his being.

But he’s not human.

And even though his hands were made to protect you, he can’t stop thinking about what would happen if he ever slipped up. If he ever lost control.

Loving him is complicated, huh?

But if there’s one thing for sure—it’s that you could never get bored of him.

Because there’s something incredible about the way he holds you when he jumps across rooftops, the cold air hitting your face and the night sky reflecting in his golden eyes. There’s something addictive about the feeling of being in his arms, adrenaline rushing through your veins as he moves with lethal precision, like the city belongs to him.

And if you train with him… well, that’s a whole different story.

Because Raph loves seeing you strong, seeing you challenge him, seeing you throw punches at him with all the determination in the world. And even though he’d never admit it out loud, he enjoys it way too much when you sit on his shell while he does push-ups.

Not just because he likes the weight of you on him, but because every time he pushes up and down, he can feel your laughter against his neck, your presence wrapping around him like a second skin.

And God knows—there’s nothing in the world that makes him feel more complete than that.

[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.

[forgetful-nerd]

I need to refind and reblog that one tumblr post that was like: “if 2012 Raph heard Bayverse Raph say ‘that’s how I roll and that's how you roll’ when he threw a guy off a motorcycle, he’d make fun of him mercilessly”

Because yeah, 2012 Raph would absolutely talk shit like that with no fear and no remorse. It doesn't matter that Bayverse Raph is a whole foot taller than him. 2012 Raph would back-talk him and go straight for the jugular every time. Damn the consequences.

[lemiinplss]

BAYVERSE LEO💙💙💙

[yuki2sksksk]

Around 3 years ago, I wrote a crossover fic between reincarnated Kanae and TMNT 2014. It's simple and straightforward, but if I ever were to rewrite it, I probably would try to dive in more with Kanae's trauma and her sister-relationship with the turtles (missing your little butterfly girls? No worries, adopt mutant turtles instead!)

I would start with Kanae's second life parents involved with the Renaissance Project so Kanae and April knew each other. Then Kanae meets up with young turtles and they grow up together.

Why did I do this story? Just for funsies :3

(gonna link Kraang's involvement too tho)

[sprite-writes-fanfic]

Hey , I was wondering how do you think the Bay Turtles would react to that Tik Tok trend where the gf called their bf their husband ? Like they could be at the lair and April calls reader amd reader is like " Ya I'm at my husbands place " etc.

This is the trend I'm talking about

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGeypmGWK/

Very cute idea! Also Bayverse request! 😚👌💙

🐢Calling Them Your Husband🐢

💙❤️Bayverse TMNT x Reader💜🧡

Word Count: 917

CW: Gender-neutral reader, calling him your husband 🥰, fluffy as hell, not proof-read.

TikTok was an interesting platform that you enjoyed scrolling through occasionally, and it wasn’t until one day you stumbled upon the couple side of TikTok. You were planning on scrolling past until a certain one caught your attention, and it certainly got you thinking…

Later that night, you and your boyfriend were doing your nightly activities as you usually did, when you got a sudden call from April. You answered with a smile, “Hey April, what’s up?” You ask, the conversation flowing naturally until she asked where you were at. Without hesitation, you answered, “Oh! Yeah, I’m at my husband's place.” You smile, before glancing over at the turtle beside you, getting the following reaction…

🐢💙Leonardo💙🐢

💙 Leo was staring rather intensely at you, feeling a flood of emotions course through him as he stared at you. He would then let out a soft chuckle, and waited until you hung up. He really liked that, oh he REALLY loved that actually, you saw him as your husband, huh?

💙 Once you hung up, he wrapped his arms around you and kissed you sweetly, “So, what was that about, hm?” He mused, as you giggled a bit. “You want to get married? Why didn’t you just say so?” He smiles, and you couldn’t find it in your heart to tell him it was a TikTok, you just couldn’t, not at the time anyways. And plus, I mean the topic was on your mind after all.

💙 “Oh yeah.” You grin as you draw him into a loving kiss, “Let’s get married?” You ask, smiling at him. A chuckle escapes him and he presses his forehead against yours, “Yeah… Let’s get married.” He swiftly lifts you up, bridal style, “And let’s make it soon. I want this husband title to be more permanent.” He chuckles. (Though you would have to tell him later down the line about this because you felt a tad bit guilty, spoiler; he was confused, but he was fine with it.)

🐢❤️Raphael❤️🐢

❤️ Raph gave you a soft chuckle, before placing a hand on your hip, “Damn right you are.” He smirked down at you. Now this, dear reader, stroked his ego, he absolutely loved it. He waits for you to finish up the call with April, lightly rubbing your skin in a loving manner as he was left with his thoughts for a moment.

❤️ Once you hung up, he kissed your head, “Husband, huh? Get that from somewhere?” He asks, and you couldn’t help but chuckle, “Yes… I did, it was a TikTok idea.” He playfully rolled his eyes, “Now you didn’t mean it?” He teased, making you panic, “Of course I did, Raph!” He let out a small laugh, “Easy, Dollface. I’m messing with you.” He would kiss your forehead, calming you down.

❤️ He was a little disappointed that it was a TikTok trend, but he does have to admit, you calling him your husband certainly felt good. Now he was rather tempted to make you a Hamato, if you catch my drift. But he’d wait, he wants it to be at the right time… For now, he’s just relentlessly bullies you (lovingly) about this for a good while.

🐢💜Donatello💜🐢

💜 Chokes, Donnie literally chokes. He was in the middle of drinking some apple juice when the phrase, ‘my husband’s’, gave him some whiplash with this one. He was choking and coughing, wiping away dripping juice as you panicked and hung up on April to help him, (RIP Donnie, died to apple juice 💀).

💜 Once you finish helping him clean up, he would finally regain his composure, his nostrils still stinging from the apple juice, he asks, “What was that about?” He wasn’t angry, not at all, just really confused about this whole thing. Husband? That’s not the right term, you guys aren’t married (yet)! You end up explaining, “Well… It was a TikTok trend and I kinda wanted to see how you’d react.” You admit.

💜 He chuckles and shakes his head at this, “A TikTok trend?” He asks, “Well, it certainly caught me off guard… But maybe don’t do that the next time I’m drinking apple juice, it isn’t pleasant in the throat nor the nose.” He warns, making you smile, “Right, sorry Don.” And you kissed his cheek, returning back to your fun nightly activities of working on his latest invention.

🐢🧡Michelangelo🧡🐢

🧡 Mikey goes along with it, he’s seen this trend. He wraps his arms around your waist and leans against your shoulder, speaking closer to the phone, “Yup~ Wifeys at my place!” He grins, and now you were feeling yourself get red in the face, now a little flustered that he went along with it. It kinda made you feel a little giddy inside.

🧡 Once hanging up, Mikey was giving you a smug smirk, “Tried to pull that one on me? Well I’m two steps ahead of you, angelcakes!” He grins as he’d kiss your cheek, making you groan, “Damn it, Mikey. I was hoping you’d be a little more on the surprised side, but alas, you know TikTok better than I do.” Making him laugh and nuzzle against your neck.

🧡 He placed sweet kisses along your neck, “Nah, that just takes the fun out of it.” He grins widely, pulling away to look into your eyes, “Plus, I’ve always wanted to call you wifey.” He smirked again when he saw you blush a little harder, making you sigh, “Fine fine! You win.” You groan, hugging him around the shoulders, as he laughed softly and nuzzled your cheek lovingly.

[granddaughter-of-shaokahn]

I have an idea

TMNT BAYVERSE

X

HUNTR/X

[amingethia]

Fuck it here’s another character hot take/analysis thing.

Leonardo was scared of his brothers being human and leaving him.

In the 2016 (Bayverse) movie, his little meltdown has always rubbed me (and many others probably) the wrong way. It feels so random.

Like yes, maybe he’s confident being a turtle and would rather live in the shadows fighting crime than working a 9 to 5 and doing taxes (tbh who wouldn’t?) however, that in no way gives him the right to turn around and tell his brothers “We don’t need that kind of change.” “We’re turtles. Whether you like it or not.” (And of course the infamous and infuriating) “There’s only one vote that counts in this family. Mine.”

So what’s going on here?

My take is that it was fear. Fear of not only losing his little brothers, but them growing apart, growing away from him, deciding they don’t need him anymore. We see in the first movie Raph constantly challenging Leo’s position as leader (as a Raphael does of course) and implies that he hasn’t been leader for very long (we don’t know the exact time between them getting their weapons and Leo being named leader to the actual current events of the movie, but based on their appearance/size in the flashback scene it doesn’t seem very long) (maybe a few months at most). Which all of that concludes that he’s still trying to figure out what that role is and how to proceed.

And possibly has the same weight on his shoulders as other Leo’s, that his brothers lives depend on him, that at the end of the day it’s his job to get all of them home safe.

Then there’s Raph in the first movie talking about walking away and Leo insisting “He’s not going anywhere. We all stick together.” And of course the fact that he was in the cages with Donnie and Mikey, getting his blood drained and having to hear/process his two little brothers suffering/almost dying.

Long story short all of this is just my evidence to say that Leonardo, being the only one against the idea of turning human, was scared that being human would lead them all down separate paths, would cause them to drift apart.

And if he and his brothers drift apart, what team is he the leader of?

[sweeneydino]

Dummy dum pt 3.

Surprisingly, i have 0 qualms with Splinter’s design. It might be because he actually looks like a giant mutated rat and not a dudes face on a rat body… i think i scared myself.

Also, i may have lost track of a teeny bit of plot while making these, so please excuse any inconsistencies-

[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 🙏

[ninnosaurus]

Silly headcanons of mine

Everyone else is sharing silly hcs and I wanted to join 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

- Donnie made meth once by accident

- All three brothers lost Mikey more than once in the sewers when they were kids

- Raph actually had a human friend he snuck out to meet once in a while

- Leo straight up falls asleep during meditation many times. The only reason the others doesn't know is because he doesn't snore sitting up

- Mikey trains when he can't sleep when everyone else is asleep

- He can actually bench more than Raph

- Raph doesn't know that

- Donnie has been caught eating coffee grounds

- Despite what everyone else thinks, Donnie actually has the healthiest sleep schedule in my hc. Why? Because he knows he needs sleep for his brain to function properly.

- LEO is the insomniac. *slaps Leo's bald head* this bad boy can fit so much trauma and anxiety boy can rarely relax enough to sleep

- April got him sleeping pills

- ...they don't work.

- He doesn't have the heart to tell her

- Raph and Mikey often turtle pile and sleep together

- Mikey because he likes to have the weight of Raph on him

- Raph because it means he knows the baby is safe

- Sometimes Splinter finds them all piled together in a snoring heap

Tag list: @redsrooftopprincess @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @the-cauldron-witch

Lemme know if you want on it and I'll do my best to remember <3

[ferox-imagines]

Guys…. Guys I’m so normal…