ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ Over the Phone (Bayverse!Raph x GN!Reader)
ᯓ★ smut, raph being a horn dog, m_sturbation(m!only), reader pronouns not mentioned! (This is a short lazy one, had to let it out)
ᯓ★
Imagine video calling your boyfriend, blabbering about your day on and on, completely oblivious to the fact that his hand is shoved deep inside the thin fabric of his boxers. His hand curled into a fist as he pumps his throbbing hard cock to ecstasy.
Can you blame him though? You're just so cute and he's missed you for days now. He licks his lips, his eyes focused entirely on you. He couldn't help it. Especially when you're wearing that low cut top. It's like you're doing this on purpose to seduce him.
"Are you listening?" You asked, chuckling a bit when you notice you could only see the top half of his face now. His pillow seeming to be the thing you're talking to.
He grunts.
"Yeah..." He blurted out, his words stuttering for a bit.
You smile with your head rested on the palm of your hand.
"You know I love you right?" You confessed and the way you looked at him full of love, it only made him speed up the pace of his hand.
"Yeah?" He answered, a breathy laugh escaping between his lips.
"Yeah, I was thinking of going out tomorrow night. I made sure to clear out my schedule so I'd be free" You placed your phone on your desk, the wall supporting it. He watches the way you run your hands across your hair.
Why couldn't you just be here right now?
"Tomorrow... s-sure..." He muttered, his eyes fluttering shut as he could feel the muscles in his forearm start to burn.
"You tired baby?" Your teasing tone made him whimper out of desperation.
"Need ya.." His voice completely out of breath.
He was close.
His precum had completely soaked the fabric through his pants. The fluid made it slippery enough for him to go faster. Images of you riding him was all he could think about in his head. He always loved it when you straddled him, edging him to his limits. You can be so sweet yet so cruel to him sometimes.
"You're adorable, you know that? Well... I'm beat... I'll see you tomorrow then" You stretched your arms exhaustedly.
"Bye baby, I love youuu" You cooed and it took every last remaining strength in him to not moan and out himself.
"Love you more" He said. With a smile on your face, you ended the call.
The moment you disappeared from the frame of his screen, he threw his phone aside as he shoved his face into his pillow. With his cursing muffled, he could feel his face burning up. Imagining you crying out his name the way he always makes you simply turned him on.
How you'd dig your nails into his shoulder. That lust in your eyes.
His breath hitches.
"Ohfuuuck—!" He moans, his orgasm wetting his pants to the mattress beneath him. His toes curled as he gave himself a few more tired pumps before turning to his back to catch his breath.
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 🙏
This has been in the back of my mind for a while now. So I figured I’d try getting it out. While this doesn’t mean I’m “back” back, it doesn’t mean the few good folk on here shouldn’t (hopefully) enjoy this. For the foreseeable future I don’t feel like I’ll be taking request but you can maybe catch my own doings here and there.
But on with the show.
Rated Explicit (18+ only)
You feel you’ll go out of your mind at this rate.
All the staring.
The quiet little gestures.
His passive resistance.
You’ve remained glued to your spot for so long. Hoping that maybe somewhere between weeks in the months of the years you’ve known him, that he’d crack.
Leonardo doesn’t crack easily you’ve gathered.
He hardly moves. He doesn’t allow his eyes to betray him. His hands remain within eyesight, but it’s in the subtle clench of his knuckles. The way his hands ball up and quickly stretch exposing the veins.
While he smiles sweetly, almost submissively at the sound of your voice. You know he doesn’t show this to just anybody. He doesn’t allow himself the luxury but god dammit, you can see that he wants to drink you in.
You’re liquor to him, addicting and burning.
You’re oil to him, never quite mixed with the water he floats upon.
You’re pornography to him, a hidden treasure for when he’s too far gone.
So why does it ache so much to open your mouth? To make a move. To peel back that layer of protection he’s been so steadfast in building.
Because he could still reject.
He could push away your pulling aura.
So when you stand next to him during the group picture April insisted on taking. Feeling the cold of his skin so close to your arm. Your little hairs sticking out to somehow feel something of his. You don’t think, don’t linger on the possibility of rejection. Because when your pinky reaches for his palm, gently caressing his hand, begging for permission you somehow only whisper in your mind…
You hold back the gasp as his own finger wraps around yours.
It’s tentative and charged with electricity.
He’s a knife.
You chance a look at him from the corner of your eye and watch his throat bob. The tension in his broad shoulders, the shakiness of his irises. The fight to turn and stare right back at you, to cut you with his blue eyes and inquire if his fantasies have become fact for once.
When you feel an arm around your shoulders as everyone screams cheese, it takes your entire will to muster your designer smile. Leo seems to do the same, a defeated retreat from the prize.
You still feel him weeks later. The way the top of his hand rubbed against your own.
What you’d give to have that palm right now between your legs, trying to rush the blood to your brain and drowning you in the ecstasy he could give. You wonder if he’s done the same? Have you driven him insane all these months? Made him question every waking moment of his life?
Are his pretty beaten hands wrapped around himself right now?
Is he begin for you?
Is he dying for you?
Somehow this all comes to fruition one evening. Another night with your friends. Celebrating another big win.
You get sent to the supply closet to get something (because at this point you forgot what) and as you rummage through a box, that tiny bulb swinging around you like a halo. You feel that rush when the door opens.
A hand reaching and gripping the back of your neck and pulling.
Lips.
At the shell of your ear.
You gasp.
Leo feels mortification sink deep.
But before he allows the logical side to quick in, you grip the fabric of his pant leg.
“Don’t-“ you hold him there, silently begging him.
Leo let’s out a breath he’s been holding since his feet took him to you.
Several heartbeats pass, tension building and swirling around both your souls. Somewhere between bravery and madness you grab those hands press those palms around you.
And hold on for dear life.
Presses you against himself like a security blanket. Greedily inhales and exhales you. You’re shaking but god Leo is shaking worse.
He slides down you, comes to his knees and watches you turn around his embrace and watch him as he lets his vices win this time.
It’s the way those eyes look up at you, apologetically, fascinated, tormented.
His stomach drops when you cup his face, fear overwritten his features.
He looks weak, he knows it.
But to you? To you he’s the most beautiful creature. Gentle features, eyes as blue as the sky. Lips surprisingly warm, hesitant and yet needy. He’s kissing back just as your hands run across his cheeks and neck. Lips molding, desperation kicking in because now he’s had a taste. Now he knows what paradise tastes like.
His hands fall to your hips, gripping as he leans up more, still tall enough on his knees for your comfort. When he feels your moan, captures it inside his throat; he knows he’s done for.
Weakened by you.
Overwhelmed by you.
He can hear himself panting, the blood inside his veins pumping. How your sounds pick up the more he kisses you back.
You smile against the corner of his mouth as he grabs your waist and stands up with you in his arms. The contents inside the supply closet rattle to the ground but his hold is bruising and the prospect of his hand marked on your flesh make you euphoric.
Leo’s tongue and yours.
His nails digging into your rear, yours at his neck.
His teeth meet your bottom lip.
He’s hard and rubbing against the spot of your underwear.
You should stop, lead him into something more understandable.
But the greedy little creature inside of you chants ‘more!’ Just as he moans into your mouth for the twentieth time. A sound hitches in the back of your throat when you feel something warm gush and connect with your wetness.
You’re doing this to him.
You’re causing this.
He’s cumming for YOU.
That desperate point of no return is there, the two of your skating down it. His kissing is erratic and out of sync because his eyes are going wide.
His locked to your own blown out pupils.
He wants to apologize, to stop but your hips just rubbed up against him just as you start to cum. His name seeping out of your wet parten lips.
Maybe… just maybe we all grew out of a phase. I won’t say grow up because it was never about being grown. It was about escape. What, where, why we were escaping was irrelevant. Whatever that phase was…. Holy fuck it was good. I know the Bayverse fandom is very slim and it literally hurts to watch it crumble but I was one of the fortunate ones who got to see it in the height of its glory days. To my Bayverse peeps, I love you all so very much.
I just wanted to post something as it'll be a while yet until I update Dog Days. Inspired by this Instagram video of a fireman getting out of his suspenders.
(FWIW, chapter 34 is pretty much done, but I gotta write a couple more first so I make sure shit matches up)
THAT'S IT. I'M TIRED OF PRETENDING THAT THE 2014/2016 TURTLES AREN'T PEAK!! They're funny, the plot is somewhat good, and I love their voices. The 2nd one isn't as good as the 1st one cuz Casey literally just looks like your average white male that would post something controversial and then get canceled. BUT I LOVE THE TURTLES SO MUCH DUDE.
People say they're creepy, but I think they're charming in their own way. My favorites are Raph and Donnie. I find the movie(s) to be hilarious, but it's just my sense of humor. I WILL FOREVER LOVE THESE UGLY LOSERS!!
Dawn Toretto @multifandomqueen2002 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
