So excited to see you writing again!! No pressure, but can you put out the next part of To Fix Whats Missing?? You left it on such a horny cliffhanger than im feeling a little blue balled 🫣
{A Bayverse! Raph x Reader Mini Series}
꒰Estimated Parts - 3-4 (5?)꒱⸒⸒
His eyes don't leave your face. Those bright green irises, blown dark at the center, hold yours with an intensity that makes your chest ache. His fingers stay hooked in your waistband, not pulling, not moving—just waiting. The Christmas lights flicker. The pipe drips. Somewhere distant, Donnie's equipment hums its steady electronic drone.
"You gotta say it," Raph rasps. "Use your words, sweetheart."
Your throat works. The vulnerability of being shirtless beneath him, of having his mouth still hovering an inch above your navel, of wanting what you want—it all crashes together in a wave of heat that pools low in your belly.
"Your mouth," you manage, and your voice comes out bruised and breathy. "I want— I want your mouth on me."
His exhale gusts across your stomach, warm and uneven. Those three fingers flex against the fabric of your pants. "Where."
"Yeah." His grin flashes, quick and sharp, but his voice stays soft. "But I still wanna hear it."
"Raph." A whine creeps into your tone. You don't care. "Please."
"Please— fuck." You swallow hard. Your hands are still fisted in the sheets, knuckles aching from the grip. "Please put your mouth on me. Down there. I want— I want you to—"
The words land like a physical touch, rippling down your spine and settling somewhere deep and molten. Your hips shift without permission, and he makes a low sound of approval—that rumble that vibrates through his chest and into your skin.
Slow. Deliberate. He unfastens your pants with those thick fingers, and there's something mesmerizing about watching them work—blunt and powerful, capable of snapping bone, now easing your zipper down one careful tooth at a time. The sound is loud in the quiet room. Louder than the dripping pipe. Louder than your own ragged breathing.
"C'mere," he mutters, and one hand slides beneath your lower back, lifting you just enough to work the fabric down. Your hips, your thighs, your knees. The pants catch on your ankles, and he pauses to tug them free with a patience that makes your heart stutter.
Then you're bare beneath him except for the thin cotton of your underwear, and the cool air of the lair raises goosebumps across your thighs. You resist the urge to close your legs, to cover yourself, to hide from the way he's looking at you.
Because the way he's looking at you—
"Geez." The word scrapes out of him, barely audible. His hand settles on your knee, rough palm sliding up the outside of your thigh with agonizing slowness. "Look at you. Just— look at you."
Your face flames. "You keep saying that."
"'Cause it keeps bein' true." His thumb traces a circle on your inner thigh, and the sensation of that textured skin against such a sensitive place makes your breath catch. "You got any idea what you look like right now? Spread out on my bed like this? All soft and warm and—" He stops. Swallows. His jaw works. "Been imaginin' this a long time. Reality's better."
Before you can respond, he lowers his head and presses his mouth to the inside of your knee.
The kiss is soft. Almost chaste. His lips are dry and textured, and he lingers there for a long moment, breathing against your skin, before pulling back just enough to look at the spot he kissed. Like he's memorizing it. Like he's cataloging every inch of you for later.
Your inner thigh this time, a few inches up. Open-mouthed and warm, his tongue flickering out to taste. The slight coarseness of it drags sensation across nerve endings you didn't know you had, and a sound escapes you—something between a gasp and a moan, breathy and involuntary.
"Yeah," he breathes against your skin. "That's it. Keep makin' those sounds."
"Good. Don't." He kisses higher still, and now his mouth is maddeningly close to where you want it, his breath ghosting across the cotton of your underwear. He doesn't touch you there. Not yet. Just breathes, slow and steady, while his hand continues its path up your thigh, thumb stroking back and forth, back and forth.
"You're teasing me," you manage.
"Mmhm." He presses a kiss to the crease where your thigh meets your hip, lingering. "That a problem?"
"I—" Your hips buck involuntarily, seeking friction that isn't there. "I don't know."
"You don't know?" His head lifts. His eyes find yours, and there's something wicked in them, something playful and hungry all at once. "You want me to stop teasin' and get to it? Or you want me to keep goin' slow? Your call."
The question undoes something in your chest. He's still asking. Still checking. Still giving you the reins even while he's got you spread out beneath him like a feast he's been starving for.
"Slow," you whisper. "Keep going slow. I just— I need—"
"I know what you need." He drops another kiss to your hip. "I got you."
His mouth traces across the waistband of your underwear, following the elastic from one hip to the other. Hot breath. Wet heat. That slightly coarse tongue dipping just beneath the fabric before retreating. Your hands fly to his head, fingers gripping the worn tails of his red mask, and he groans against your skin.
"Do that again," he mutters.
You do. Gently at first, then harder when his groan deepens. The mask tails are soft in your grip, frayed at the edges, and the act of holding him there—of anchoring him to your body—sends a rush of something fierce and possessive through your bloodstream.
His mouth reaches the center of you, still separated by damp cotton, and he exhales slowly. The heat of his breath seeps through the fabric, and your whole body tenses.
"Good." One thick finger hooks into the side of your underwear. "Lift up for me."
You do, and he pulls them down with the same deliberate care he's used for everything else. The fabric slides over your hips, your thighs, past your knees, and then you're completely bare beneath him and the vulnerability of it makes you tremble.
Raph doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just looks at you—all of you—with an expression that borders on reverence.
"Pretty," he says finally, and the word is rough, scraped raw. "So damn pretty. Don't let anyone tell you different."
Your eyes sting. You blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall, but something in your chest cracks open anyway. No one has ever looked at you like this. No one has ever touched you like you were something precious. No one has ever asked, and kept asking, and waited two years for you to say yes.
"I know." He presses a kiss to your mound, so soft it's barely there. "I know, sweetheart. I got you."
His tongue traces a line through your folds, and the world narrows to a single point of contact.
The texture is shocking—that slight coarseness dragging against the most sensitive part of you, different from anything you've ever felt. Your back arches off the mattress. A sound tears from your throat, high and breathy, and your fingers tighten in his mask tails. He groans against you, and the vibration travels through his tongue and into your core, sparking something bright and electric.
"So good," he mutters, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips slick and shining. "Taste so good. Better than I imagined."
"More times than I'm gonna admit." He lowers his mouth again, and this time he doesn't tease. His tongue licks a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit, slow and thorough, cataloging every dip and curve. When he reaches the top, he circles the swollen bud with the tip, and your hips buck hard against his face.
"Easy," he murmurs, but he's smiling. You can feel it against your skin. "I got you. Just let me—"
His mouth seals around your clit and he sucks, gentle at first, then with more pressure as your moan fills the room. His tongue works in tandem—stroking, circling, flicking in patterns that make your thoughts dissolve into static. One thick finger traces your entrance, not pushing in, just stroking the slick heat gathered there.
"More," you gasp. "Please, Raph, more—"
"Yeah?" He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes, and the sight of him undoes you—lips wet, pupils blown, mask askew from your grip on the tails. "You want my fingers too?"
"Since you asked so nice."
His finger slides inside you slowly, one thick digit, and the stretch makes your breath catch. He's bigger than a human—wider, blunter—and he pauses halfway to let you adjust, watching your face, waiting for any sign of discomfort.
"More than okay. Keep going. Please keep going."
He does. His finger sinks deeper, curling slightly, and when he crooks it just right your vision whites out for a heartbeat. His mouth returns to your clit, tongue working in steady counterpoint to the slow thrust of his finger, and the combination of sensations builds and builds and builds—
"That's it," he breathes against you. "Let go. I got you. Let go for me, sweetheart."
You come with a cry that echoes off the concrete walls, your body arching and shaking and clenching around his finger. He works you through it, mouth and hand steady and patient, drawing out every pulse and aftershock until you collapse against the mattress, boneless and gasping.
When you finally open your eyes, he's looking at you like you hung the moon.
"Told you," he says, voice wrecked. "Ain't bad at anythin'."
Here pookie! I had to scrounge around because I broke my old phone on vacation and lost all the drafts that were in my notes app but luckily I had this on a doc! I hope you guys enjoyed this mini series and if you'd like another please let me know!!
