WARNING: The views and events here are totally fucked and if you aren’t 18+ GTFO. I do AI art, photoshop, gifs, head cannons, one shots and small fics for Bayverse TMNT and also Durotan from WoW or orcs/monsters.
MASTER LIST
TMNT Bayverse/SMUT/NSFW/LANGUAGE/BODY IMAGE TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️
3-20-2022 1:15 pm
The feeling was inescapable. Every time you’d go down to
Howdy from Australia 🇦🇺. If you could do some Raph and male reader smut, I’d be highly appreciative. Preferably a reach around scenario yeah
Heyyyy!! I’m gonna leave u to roam free with this and do your thing but will give u some details.
So, my boy Mikey, first time. He’s all mo
I feel you could do this justice. I was talking with my male bestie and funnily enough we entered the topic about how guys already know the
Okay. Here's mine. For Raph:
56. Come to daddy
70. Abandoned building
94. Rough sex
134. "Take it all. I know you can handel me."
TMNT/
Hey hey, I’m not sure if request are open but if they are and you wish. Could I get fem reader and Mikey with the following?
75. Vern’s apa
Okay babe, you know I’m gonna ask for 93. Threesome with Raph and Donnie. 66. Garbage truck. And for dialogue, 21. “Allow me to be the bad-a
Mun is ragging and feeling needy af so without further ado...
LEONARDO
The alpha male, not to mention tedious leader can sense something o
Hey beautiful! I’ve been thinking about something you said yesterday about not ever really writing the guys’ first times. And I know how wel
An AU where Donatello, hardened by the war between humans and mutants, ends up finding a home in the last person he ever expected. A slow-burn enemies-to-lovers story, built through shared experiences, small acts of kindness, and the slow rebuilding of trust. 💜🐢
I’m working on another mini art project where Modo introduces Azura to his family. It’s gonna be a bunch of interesting reactions coming from everyone. Especially Modo’s momma for sure. 😅🤣 And seeing the height difference between Modo and Azura is just too damn cute!
And yes, Azura, and Birdie are Martian Forest mice. A Shorter species than their Martian cave mice counterparts. Despite both their families originally moved to the city, a year after Azura was born. but sadly both Azura and her older cousin Birdie equally devastatingly lost their parents because of the wars going on. Leaving the city life behind completely, and moving back to their peaceful forest home, they relied and took care of each other being very close like sisters ever since. Until one day they suddenly met the biker mice, and the rest is history. 😄
A/N: I haven’t written headcanons in quite a while, so here’s the start of some I’ve been working on—though these are technically more mini “scenarios” than anything 😅 Regardless, I hope you enjoy!
CWs: Mostly fluff with some angst, hurt/comfort themes, emotional burnout, stress, minor blood & injury, wound care, sensory/touch surprise, brief mention of a terrible day and exhaustion. All characters are aged-up.
LEO
The air up on your apartment roof is biting, carrying the scent of impending rain. You have your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, leaning against the brick of the parapet.
You know he’s coming.
You didn’t receive a text or a call. But after the terse, clipped message you got from April earlier about a disastrous patrol and a blow-up argument between the brothers, you simply felt it. Leo always seeks high ground when the world below becomes too heavy. And lately, you have become his favorite vantage point.
A soft, almost imperceptible thud sounds nearby. Despite standing well over six feet tall and being built like a living tank, his stealth is always breathtaking. You turn slowly.
Leo’s massive frame stands out against the city lights’ ambient orange glow. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t have to. The exhaustion is etched deeply into the lines around his eyes, his shoulders slumped in a way he would never, ever allow his brothers to see. The burden of leadership—of keeping his family alive in a world that would destroy them—is a visible, suffocating cloak around him.
“Stay right there,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper so as not to shatter the fragile quiet.
You slip back down the fire escape into your apartment just long enough to grab your thickest, warmest fleece blanket. When you return, Leo hasn’t moved an inch. He is staring out at the skyline, lost in the turbulent sea of his own mind. You walk over to him, your footsteps intentionally audible to ground him in the present.
Without a word, he sits flat on the roof, his long, thick legs stretching out in front of him, forming a V-shape. It is a silent invitation, one you have learned to read perfectly. So you step into the space between his legs and lower yourself down.
As you settle, you lean your back against the solid wall of his plastron. You drape the blanket over your lap, making sure to tuck the edges over his knees. For a long while, there’s only the sound of the wind rattling the rooftop vents and the steady beat of his heart against your spine.
Slowly, carefully, Leo gently wraps his huge, calloused hands over your shoulders. His fingers are large enough to encompass your entire shoulder joint, but his touch is agonizingly gentle, as if he’s terrified he might break you. He pulls you back just a fraction of an inch, ensuring there is no space left between your back and his chest.
Then he lowers his head.
You feel the texture of his skin as he buries his face directly into the crook of your neck. The moment his skin meets yours, a physical shudder runs through him. He lets out a long, heavy sigh. The sound is ragged, carrying the weight of a hundred unspoken fears, near-misses, and the crushing guilt of every argument he has had with his brothers.
You reach your hands up, resting your fingers lightly over his where they grip your shoulders. You begin to trace the familiar, worn straps of his gear. The repetitive, mindless motion seems to anchor him. You can feel the rigid, defensive tension melting out of his muscles, his breathing slowing to match yours.
“You don’t have to carry it all by yourself,” you murmur.
Leo shakes his head slightly against your neck, his breath ghosting warmly over your collarbone. “I do,” he whispers, his voice a gravelly rumble. “But knowing I can come here … it makes it bearable.”
He shifts his grip, pulling you an inch closer, burying his face deeper into the warmth of your neck. He takes a deep breath, inhaling your scent as if it were the only oxygen left in the world. “You have no idea,” he murmurs, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely lets show, “how grateful I am for you. You are my calm in the storm.”
He turns his head just slightly. You close your eyes as you feel the soft, incredibly tender press of his lips against the top of your head. He rests his chin there, his arms acting as an impenetrable shield against the world.
Here, elevated above the chaos of the city, wrapped in the quiet sanctuary of each other, the war he fights every day finally falls silent.
RAPH
The sharp, aggressive tapping on your fire escape window jolts you awake. You glance at the digital clock on your nightstand; it’s half-past two in the morning. You don’t need to guess who it is—because only one person knocks on glass like they are actively trying to intimidate the windowpane.
You pad over to the window, sliding it up. The chilly night air rushes in, bringing with it the towering, hulking form of Raph. He takes up the entire window frame, his huge shoulders practically blocking out the city lights behind him.
“Raph? What are you doing here?” you ask, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.
He grunts, stepping through the window with surprising agility for someone his size. “Was in the neighborhood. Wanted to see ya. That a crime?” he deflects, his gruff accent thick with forced nonchalance.
But you know him better than that.
Your eyes immediately drop from his intense green gaze to the dark, wet stain seeping through the fabric of the makeshift bandage wrapped poorly around his right shoulder. “Raphael,” you chastise. “You’re bleeding. Why didn’t you go to Donnie?”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Donnie makes a big production out of everything. Shines a spotlight in my face, lectures me about tetanus, complains I’m getting blood on his tech. It’s just a scratch from some rusty rebar. Nothin’ to cry over.”
“A scratch that’s soaking through your gear,” you point out, grabbing his uninjured forearm. “Bathroom. Now.”
He grumbles something under his breath about you being bossy, but he follows you with no real resistance. In fact, there is a subtle eagerness in the way he trails behind you, like a giant, grumpy dog that just wants to be cared for.
Your bathroom is tiny: a standard, cramped New York apartment setup. When Raph steps inside, he instantly makes the room feel microscopic. He takes off the upper section of his gear and drops them into the empty bathtub, then turns to face you.
“Sit,” you instruct, pointing to the stool tucked in the corner.
He looks at the stool, then down at his large thighs, and gives you a look of pure skepticism. “I’m gonna crush that thing into powder.”
“Just be gentle,” you insist, opening your medicine cabinet to gather alcohol, cotton pads, and bandages.
With a heavy sigh, he carefully lowers his enormous bulk onto the tiny stool. His knees are practically up to his chest, his hands resting awkwardly on his legs. He looks absolutely ridiculous—a “terrifying” ninja reduced to perching on a piece of plastic meant for holding clean towels. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.
You step between his spread knees, the only place you can comfortably stand in the cramped space. The proximity is immediate and intimate. “Let me see,” you murmur, gently unwrapping the bloody cloth. The scratch is deep, angry, and jagged, running along the thickest part of his shoulder muscle. You soak a cotton pad in rubbing alcohol. “This is going to sting.”
“I can take it,” he rumbles.
You press the soaked cotton to the wound. Raph’s entire body goes still. He doesn’t flinch, but the sudden rigidity tells you exactly how much it hurts. You carefully clean away the dried blood and grime. Every time you touch him, you feel a subtle tremor run beneath his surface.
He’s completely quiet. The usual bravado, the loud mouth, the need to prove his toughness—it all vanishes. When you glance at him, you catch him watching you. His eyes are locked onto your face with an intensity that makes your heart stumble and race in your chest.
“Almost done,” you whisper, reaching for the antibiotic ointment. You dab it onto the angry red skin. To soothe the sharp sting of the medicine, you lean in close and gently blow a stream of cool air on his shoulder.
Raph’s breath hitches violently, a gasp catching in his throat.
Before you can pull back to ask if you hurt him, his hand moves. He reaches out, his fingers gently circling your waist. He pulls you forward, closing the scant distance between you until your thighs press flush against his knees and your stomach rests against his face.
He doesn’t look up. Instead, he rests his forehead against your stomach. You freeze, the tube of ointment still in your hand, as the towering, hot-headed brawler completely melts against you. You carefully rest your free hand on the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the tails of his red bandana.
“You’re too good to me, doll,” he murmurs, his voice a gravelly, muffled vibration against your stomach.
You look down at him, feeling the heat of his skin seeping through your clothes. His huge hand, capable of crushing cinderblocks, is resting on your hip. His fingers begin to lightly, almost reverently, trace the hem of your top. The touch is so unbelievably gentle, so full of careful, restrained adoration, that it brings a lump to your throat.
“You deserve to be taken care of, Raph,” you say softly, stroking the thick skin of his neck.
He lets out a low, contented rumble that sounds almost like a purr, his fingers continuing their slow, mesmerizing trace of your hem. He just holds you there in the tiny, brightly lit bathroom, letting the world outside fade away, perfectly content to be entirely at your mercy.
DONNIE
Quietly, you walk into the lair’s garage.
At the center of the mechanical hurricane is the turtles’ garbage truck, currently hoisted up on heavy-duty hydraulic lifts. And nearby is Donnie in a chair, working on the engine block on a large table. He’s muttering a mile a minute to himself, a steady stream of tech jargon and frustrated complaints about the thermal inefficiency of combustion engines.
“If I just reroute the auxiliary power from the localized dampeners to the primary drive, I can boost the torque by at least fourteen percent without compromising the structural integrity of the chassis,” he mumbles, his long fingers working a wrench with dizzying speed.
You stand a few feet behind him, watching his shoulders hike up to his ears with tension. Moving silently, you step up right behind him. Then reach your hands out and place them on his shoulders. You slip your fingers just beneath the straps of his harness and begin to firmly but gently massage his incredibly tense muscles.
Donnie freezes so suddenly it’s as if he’s been struck by lightning. The wrench in his hand clatters loudly against the table. He spins around so fast, you’re surprised he doesn’t topple the chair over.
“I—what—who—!” he stammers, pushing his goggles off his face and up onto his forehead.
His face is completely flushed, a deep, comical shade of red bleeding through the green. His hazel eyes are wide with shock, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as his genius brain totally short-circuits, completely unable to process the sudden tactile affection.
You let out a bright, ringing laugh. “Hey, D. You looked like you were going to snap a wrench in half. Thought you could use a break.”
“A break! Yes. A break. That is—that’s a highly logical suggestion,” he stammers, his voice cracking slightly as he nervously adjusts his glasses. “I was just—the torque, you see—and the harness is—it causes friction, naturally—”
He is rambling, his hands fluttering awkwardly in the air as he tries to figure out what to do with them. It’s incredibly endearing. This big, intimidating mutant, who possesses an intellect that rivals the greatest minds in history, is completely undone by a shoulder rub.
You smile at him, your eyes soft. “You work too hard.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. He looks at you, the frantic energy in his eyes slowly melting into something deeply tender, deeply adoring. He takes a deep breath, visibly gathering every ounce of courage he possesses.
With a sudden burst of bravery, he reaches out to wrap his arms around your waist. Before you can even react, he lifts you off the ground with effortless strength and pulls you directly down onto his lap. You let out a startled laugh. He kicks his leg out, swiveling the chair around 180 degrees to the computer setup in the garage.
“Donnie?” you ask, smiling as you settle against him.
He wraps his left arm tightly around your waist, pulling your back flush against his plastron. He leans his head forward, resting his chin on your shoulder. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your neck.
“The truck can wait,” he murmurs, his voice much lower, much softer now.
With his right hand, he reaches out to the keyboard on the opposite table. He begins to type single-handedly, lines of complex code flying across the dark screen in a blur of neon green.
You relax back against him, highly amused. “Are you just going to code with one hand while holding me?”
“Diagnostics, technically, but yes,” he answers, his chin shifting slightly against your shoulder. “My productivity might decrease by approximately forty-two percent, but …” He pauses, his arm tightening around your waist in a sudden, protective squeeze. “… I am completely content to let you be my favorite distraction.”
You smile, reaching your hand down to rest it over his forearm where it circles your waist.
MIKEY
Today has been awful. The kind of awful where everything goes wrong, the sky is perpetually gray, and the weight of the world feels like a physical ache in your chest.
You had dragged yourself home from work, fully intending to crawl into bed and stare at the wall until tomorrow. But before you could even unlock your door, your phone buzzed with location coordinates and a message in all caps: EMERGENCY! MEET ME HERE RIGHT NOW! BRING YOUR BEAUTIFUL FACE!
Knowing Mikey, “emergency” could mean anything from an alien invasion to a shortage of soda. But you drag yourself back out into the city anyway, following the GPS to a chained-off, abandoned subway entrance in Brooklyn.
You slip past the gate and descend the concrete stairs, the darkness of the tunnels pressing in. You’re just starting to think this was a terrible idea when you turn a corner and stop dead in your tracks. Spanning across the platform, constructed out of what looks like old tarps, curtains, and discarded construction scaffolding, is a literal blanket fort.
A booming, joyful voice echoes through the station. “You made it!”
Mikey drops from the rafters above. His bright baby-blue eyes are shining with unrestrained, infectious joy.
Before you can even say hello, he crosses the distance in two big strides. He throws his arms around you, completely enveloping you in a crushing, warm hug. He lifts you clean off your feet and spins you around in a circle. You can’t help but shriek with laughter, the sheer kinetic energy of his affection forcibly knocking the bad mood right out of your system.
“Put me down!” you laugh, breathless as your feet finally hit the ground.
“No can do, babe!” he grins, his smile impossibly wide. He practically drags you toward the fort. “I sensed a disturbance in the good-vibes force. You were having a bummer day, and Dr. Michelangelo is here to prescribe the cure.”
He pulls back the curtain of the fort, revealing an interior that is aggressively cozy. He lined the floor with thick gymnastics mats and piled them high with every plush pillow he could find. Strung across the tarp ceiling are dozens of fairy lights. In the center of it all sits a portable speaker and three boxes of your favorite pizza.
“Mikey … you did all this for me?” you ask, genuinely moved. The tightness in your chest from the terrible day completely dissolves.
“Duh!” he says, dropping onto the pillows and patting the spot next to him. “Now sit. Eat. Tell me who I gotta go beat up for making you sad.”
You spend the next hour doing exactly that. Eating pizza, laughing until your sides hurt as Mikey tells you wildly exaggerated stories. His energy is a physical force; it’s warm, tactile, and completely enveloping. He constantly bumps his shoulder against yours, casually tossing an arm around you, his affection overflowing and impossible to contain.
As you finish your last slice of pizza, he suddenly jumps up. He walks over to the portable speaker, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration as he taps his fingers on his phone screen.
The booming, energetic hip-hop he had been playing cuts out. A moment later, a smooth R&B track fills the cavernous subway station. The deep bass echoes perfectly off the walls, wrapping the space in a warm, romantic groove.
He turns to you, the goofy grin softening into something sweet as he steps forward and holds out his hand. “Dance with me,” he requests, his voice dropping an octave.
You smile, taking his hand. He pulls you up and immediately draws you against his chest. For a ninja, Mikey is delightfully clumsy when it comes to slow dancing. He sways you back and forth, stepping lightly to avoid crushing your toes with his feet. He rests his hands flat against your lower back.
You rest your hands on his broad chest, looking up into his expressive eyes. The twinkling lights reflect in his gaze, making him look magical. He grins the whole time, a soft but dopey smile that radiates pure love.
He spins you once, entirely out of time with the music, laughing as he pulls you right back into his chest. As you collide softly with his plastron, he leans down. He cups your face with one hand, his touch tender, and then presses his lips to yours.
He pours all of his chaotic, loving, vibrant energy into the kiss. It’s warm, deep, and leaves you feeling completely breathless, as if he is trying to physically transfer all his light directly into your soul. When he finally pulls back, you’re both smiling. He rests his forehead against yours, his nose brushing against your cheek.
“See?” he whispers in the neon-lit dark, squeezing your lower back affectionately. “You’re smiling. And making you smile is my absolute favorite thing to do.”
I have participated in my own prompt challenge again!
Shocking, I know.
Prompt: The accidental kiss - maybe feelings finally take over. Or maybe you/TOC leans down and gives you a big ol' smooch before leaving one night. Maybe it means something, maybe it doesn't.
Is this for 2012 Raph, you ask?
Why yes! Yes, it is.
➡️ Aged-up, adult turts
TW: Fluff. Raph being a stubborn ass. Pining idiots. Definitely swearwords.
Red Kisses
Ellipsus makes it easy for anyone to write together.
Please don't steal my work. Reblogging for others to enjoy is highly encouraged, though🤩
I've teamed up with some of my turtly friends and we've all decided to do a little spring cleaning and start posting the works we've had in our files for a small eternity.
Some may include OCs, some may be unedited, and some may be short and sweet. But they will all definitely be my own. I will be posting works AS IS, so it might not be beautiful LOL
So without further ado, I give you one of my Discord drabbles.
TW: Fluff, pining idiots, terrible editing.
This story is brought to you by the color Purple.
Blue Roses
Ellipsus makes it easy for anyone to write together.
Please don't steal my work. Reblogging for others to enjoy is highly encouraged, though🤩
