Hello! How would the 2003 turtles flirt/ show female reader that they are interested in them? 💖💖💖
A/N: Hello! Here are your requested headcanons. I hope you enjoy 😊
How the 2003!Turts Flirt & Show Interest
💚 2003 Turtles/Female Reader 💚
CWs: Anger issues, possessive/overprotective behavior, and brief mention of touch aversion. All characters are aged-up.
LEO
On patrol, Leo makes you his priority, positioning himself between you and danger. Silent and watchful, he’s always guarding you, eyes sharp for any threat aimed your way.
His days run on strict discipline: training, meditation, patrol. So when he breaks that routine to listen to you or just be with you, it means you’re truly important. He’s sacrificing his order and control, because your company matters more than his schedule.
He offers to train you—not as a favor, but as a responsibility. A quick correction here, a simple move there. Through the discipline of the art of combat, he connects with you and ensures you’ll be safe when he can’t be by your side.
As the leader, he hides his burdens well. So when he starts opening up to you—sharing his worries, asking about your thoughts—it means he trusts you deeply. Letting you see the weight he carries is the rarest kind of vulnerability for him.
In battle, his commands change to keep you out of harm’s way. Later, he might admit, “I couldn’t focus with you that close to the fight.” Your safety isn’t just part of the mission to him; it’s the reason he fights at all.
He carries the weight of leadership with relentless resolve, believing he must never show cracks. When he finally lets you witness his frustration or exhaustion, that’s when he stops seeing you as just someone to protect and starts seeing you as an equal, a true partner.
Leo doesn’t just confide; he seeks your counsel. When faced with a new enemy or a conflict between his brothers, he genuinely asks, “What do you think I should do?” He values your judgment.
RAPH
Raph doesn’t pick fights, but cross him when it comes to you, and he’s all in. If someone so much as brushes past you, he’s right there—growling low, eyes blazing like fire. He’s rough around the edges. But when it’s about your safety, he’s the fiercest, grumpiest bodyguard you’ll ever have.
His biggest tell is how flustered he gets. A genuine compliment or caught glance sends him snapping at Mikey for loudly pointing it out, while a faint blush colors his neck. Genuine affection throws his tough-guy act completely off.
He usually flinches from any kind of touch. But when you put your hand on his arm, he actually relaxes—shoulders dropping, maybe even leaning in a bit. With you, he finds a calm he rarely lets himself feel.
He keeps his soft side hidden, and you are the only one who ever sees it. Maybe it’s the way he’s gentle with a stray cat or quietly patching up one of his brothers’ wounds. If you catch him, he freezes, a scowl returning to his face almost instantly. But that brief crack? It’s just for you.
His room is off-limits. When he lets you hang out there and stay without a single complaint about your stuff, he’s making space for you in his world. If you catch him tinkering on his bike and he just nods for you to sit quietly, that’s when you know: you’re in.
He’s competitive to the bone: arm wrestling or video games, he plays to win. So when he lets his arm drop against you or he loses a fighting game match and mutters, “lucky break,” that’s when you know he’s putting your happiness above his pride.
Raph never says he’s scared. After a close call, he explodes with anger: “What were you thinking?! You could’ve gotten yourself killed!” But beneath that rage is fear. He’s not mad at you; he’s terrified of losing you. And his anger is the only way he knows how to show it.
DONNIE
Donnie remembers every little detail you mention, like your favorite tea or that your laptop’s running slow. Next time you see him, there’s a box of that tea waiting, or he’s already fixed your computer without you saying a word.
His compliments come out a little technical. Instead of saying, “You have a beautiful laugh,” he might say, “Your laugh has an interesting auditory frequency. It’s … pleasant.” Awkward, maybe. But it’s his genuine, analytical way of showing he cares.
He shows care through his inventions: upgrading your phone with military-grade encryption and extra battery power, rigging your apartment with custom security, and building a music player with a never-ending playlist. For him, these gifts are ways to protect you and simplify your life.
His eyes light up when he talks to you about his work. He drags you into the lab, voice speeding up as he dives into quantum mechanics or complex code. He doesn’t simplify—not because he wants to impress, but because he respects your mind and loves sharing his world with you.
He can get totally distracted by you. He might be welding in the lab and suddenly zone out, nearly burning a hole in his desk. Mid-monologue about astrophysics, he catches your eye and completely loses his train of thought, stammering, a blush creeping up his neck.
He loves sharing his world, but what really matters is when he spends hours learning about your passions, digging into your hobbies or interests. Not to fix anything, but to understand and know you, down to what makes you excited.
Donnie’s gifts are usually practical. But sometimes, he likes to make things for you, like a metal rose or a nebula projector. They serve no purpose except to make you happy, a perfectly illogical project he’s happy to spend time on.
MIKEY
Mikey’s always coming up with nicknames for you, tossing them out with a big, goofy grin. He means every one, and it makes you feel like the luckiest woman around.
He’s all about attention, and you become the center of his world. He’s constantly cracking jokes, showing off, or begging you to watch some silly movie with him. His whole mission? To see you smile, no matter what.
He’s always putting on a show when you’re around. Whether it’s chasing a new high score or trying a crazy ninjutsu move, he’s doing it all for your cheers. With you watching, his antics go from fun to unforgettable.
Physical contact is Mikey’s way of saying, “I’m here.” He’s always finding excuses for a playful nudge, a high-five that sticks a beat too long, or casually draping an arm over your shoulders. It seems like it’s all fun and games, but really, it’s how he keeps close to you.
He picks up on tiny details—like a snack you mentioned—and goes all out to recreate it. He plans hangouts around your favorite movies or whatever activity that interests you. Because your happiness? That’s his priority.
He’s always cracking jokes to dodge heavy feelings, but when you’re really upset, he goes quiet. He sits with you, wraps you in a big hug, and just listens. No jokes, no trying to fix it—just steady, warm support.
He is the goofball, but sometimes he worries he’s not as strong or smart as his brothers. In rare quiet moments with you, he drops the jokes and shows the real guy underneath—the one who just wants to be understood.
Warnings: overstimulation from Raph, he’s testing your limits
Raph is the type of boyfriend to push you past your limit, within reason of course. Whether it’s a ‘c’mon sweetheart, one more set!’ while you’re working out or a ‘just a few more minutes and then we’ll leave, promise’ while you’re out on the town and it’s getting way past your bedtime.
All within reason and with the proper motivation, Raphael is your biggest cheerleader and your number one supporter in all aspects.
All. Of them.
“Just one more, baby. C’mon, you can do it.”
You can hardly keep your head up, panting so heavily out your mouth as your hands scramble to grasp onto Raph’s thick thighs. You’re sitting on his lap, facing a mirror with his cock buried deep inside you with one hand cupping your jaw and his other hovering right above your clit.
He kisses right under your ear, lowering his hand for the lightest touch against your bud but it’s enough to have you jerk upward, gasping sharply at the sensitivity.
“Raph…” Oh you sound so sweet, so desperate and pliant just to his liking. He chuckles right against your cheek, pressing onto your puffy clit and giving slow hard circles, his other hand coming to pinch at your nipple.
“You’ve been so good fr’me, doll. One more and then we’ll stop, alright?”
That’s what he said five minutes earlier— ten minutes prior to that. He already made you come three times but oh, Raphael is feeling greedy tonight, he wants to see just how far he can push you and make your body tremble and quake before you give him your safe word.
“It’s too much,” Your voice is so soft and that only spurs him to coax one more orgasm out of you. He feels something coil in his stomach seeing tears line your pretty eyes and he’s not quite sure if he likes it or not. Something he’ll have to figure out later.
But for now he just wants you to come around him, call you his perfect girl and then clean you up. He can tell you’re close by the way you weakly kick your legs and scrape your nails against his thighs.
“Atta girl, just like that.” He nips at your jaw and grips your thigh as he starts to fuck into you again, tilting your head back and wrapping his hand lightly around your throat. He’d never choke you for real but he does love the image of your neck looking so small beneath his palm.
When you finally come, your walls pulsing delicately around his shaft, it’s enough to tip him over the edge as well. He groans low as he fills you up, continuing to rub tight circles on your clit.
He pecks your cheek as he guides you back down, bones and limbs feeling like jelly from all the work he just put you through.
“You did good fr’me, doll. So perfect fr’me.” He runs his hand up and down your thigh.
But why is it so hard to find Raph fics??? I mean, TMNT has been around since the 80s, tumblr has been a thing since 2007. Fan fiction has been a thing since the beginning of time.
I know there’s more than this.
There’s no way I’ve already reached the bottom of all the Raph tags. There’s no way.
Anyways, I’m gonna make it my mission to weed through all the Raphael x reader tags and organize them here on this blog in (what I think will be) an easy to navigate list. Because I’m sick and tired of not being able to find anything for him 😩😭
Wish me luck 🫡
-Pinto 🌱
P.S. If anyone has any Raph x reader fics (any iteration!) please send them my way! I’ll get started on a master list as soon as I wake up tomorrow 🙏
As Raph climbed onto your balcony and began opening your fire escape window for your usual Friday night hangout, he stopped when a tiny paw swiped at him. Blinking owlishly tiny claws bat at his thick skin. He could honestly say he wasn't expecting anyone else when he wss dropping by.
"Oh Raph don't let them out!" You beg as you come running towards him and the window cat food bag in hand. The furrball hisses and Raph chuckles as he picks the white kitty up. Coming into your apartmemt he closes the window behind him before tilting his head up as the cat in his hands tries to swipe at his face.
"What in the shell is this (Y/N)?" He teases as he scratches under the kitties chin to calm it down. The cat looks confused for a second kicking it's little legs before it close it's eyes and a deep purr escapes their chest. It begins wiggling tail swishing as it nuzzles against Raphs shell letting out pleased noises.
"Its a cat." You respond putting down th catfood before coming over to take the recently adopted stray out of Raphs arms. The cat hisses trying to slash at you before curling up into Raph again. "Oh no fair why do they like you so much? I saved them!" You whine but it's playful. You cross your arms glaring at the traitor of a cat but it ignores you taking all the attention Raph gives them with a smug look.
He chuckles at the cats antics before smirking at you. You smile before showing him all the cat stuff you bought as he walks around your apartment.
"They were outside so I decided to save them." You hum giving a short explanation to the gift intruding on his time with you. "Now I have a bunch of cat crap. Guess I'm that crazy cat person now." You shrug and Raph snorts.
"Guess we're cat parents." He says before kissing the cats head. The cat purrs in response and you roll your eyes unsure of how this split custody came to be.
"Guess we are." You roll your eyes but it's all in good fun. Sharing a cat wouldn't be too bad after all the cat abd you already had somsthing in common, you both liked Raph.
2/2 I wanted to make a request but I have zero ideas so I want to ask if you could do some headcanons for dating Raphael, either 2003 or Bayverse. I’ll appreciate if you started from the pining stage before the relationship and then when he is actually in the relationship! Thank you so much!❤️
A/N: I went with 2003 Raph for this 😊
Dating 2003 Raph (SFW)
❤️ 2003 Raphael/Gender Neutral Reader ❤️
CWs: There’s maybe one headcanon that is sliightly suggestive. All characters are aged-up.
Raph doesn’t realize his feelings at first, writing off his sudden protectiveness as just “looking out for you.” Though you’re just a civilian caught in their world, the more you’re around, the more his tough-guy guard flinches.
You make him laugh in short, surprised bursts. He normally tries to hide it behind a smirk or a snort, but around you, he forgets to hold it back.
He shows his interest through protective rage. If someone gives you a hard time, he doesn’t offer comfort; he clenches his fists and snarls, “Give me their name.” You constantly have to talk him down from retaliation, though you know it’s his way of saying, “No one is allowed to make you unhappy.”
He’s sometimes gruff with you. Not out of anger, but because he’s scared by how much he’s starting to care. Raph isn’t used to wanting someone so much it physically aches.
He watches you with feigned indifference until someone flirts with you, then the tension is palpable. He’ll ask casually, “Who was that guy?” When you reply, “Just someone I met,” he’ll scoff, “Yeah. Whatever.” His sharp tone can’t hide the jealousy in his eyes.
The confession is an accident, bursting out when you confront him about his hot-and-cold behavior. Cornered, his defenses crumble into a frustrated yell: “BECAUSE I LIKE YOU, ALRIGHT?! HAPPY NOW?!” He immediately looks horrified, turning away to hide his sudden vulnerability, and the silence that follows is the most terrifying thing he’s ever faced.
He shares his interests by challenging you. He’ll shove a controller in your hand and say, “Bet you can’t even last one round,” but he doesn’t actually care if you win. It’s just an excuse to be near you. After you lose, his smug grin is immediately followed by, “Alright, two outta three,” just to keep you by his side.
He gives you a gift, and it’s the most Raph-like gift imaginable. It’s not flowers or jewelry. It’s something practical and protective. Maybe it’s a can of pepper spray, a portable flashlight for your keychain, or an enforced lock for your door. He presses it into your hand, muttering, “Here. Don’t be an idiot and actually use it.” It’s his way of trying to keep you safe when he can’t be there.
Raph’s idea of romance is adrenaline-fueled. His idea of a perfect date isn’t a candlelit dinner but speeding through empty city streets on his motorcycle or sitting on a ledge of a rooftop. He loves sharing the thrill of being alive and being on the edge with you.
He insists on teaching you self-defense. “Harder,” he’ll grunt as you practice, not because he’s a harsh teacher, but because his worst nightmare is you being unable to defend yourself. Seeing you grow stronger under his guidance makes him incredibly proud.
He doesn’t call you “babe” or “sweetheart.” He calls you by your name, or some gruff nickname like “trouble” or “smartass” with surprising affection. But when he slips out a quiet, “Hey, baby,” it melts you.
You roast him constantly, and he lives for it. Call him a meathead and he grins. Call him a softie and he rolls his eyes—then pulls you into his lap and purrs, “I dare you to say it again.”
Physical touch is his love language. He is always seeking contact: a hand on your waist or pulling you into his lap. He’ll let you trace his scars, a history of his life that he only trusts you to touch. Your hand in his is his anchor.
He picks you up just because he can. It’s playful. You could be walking through the lair, and suddenly you’re over his shoulder. “Put me down!” you say. His reply, with a teasing smirk: “Say please.”
He introduces you to his version of a “spa day.” It involves the two of you working on the Shell Cycle. He’ll hand you a wrench and give you simple tasks, explaining what each part does. There’s grease, the smell of oil, and classic rock blasting from a speaker. It’s loud and messy, but it’s his happy place, and he’s letting you in.
Raph hates feeling jealous. When someone flirts with you, he goes quiet and broody. Then he pulls you closer, glaring daggers, making it crystal clear you’re taken. He doesn’t admit it right away, but it’s fear—because he’s scared someone else will come along, someone “normal.” Someone who doesn’t live in a sewer or fight Foot ninjas. You have to remind him: He’s it for you.
Seeing you hurt unleashes his worst fears. “What the hell happened?” he’ll demand, his voice all panic. He’ll hover over you, his hands trembling as he scolds you through a cracked voice, “I told you to stay behind me.” Even when you say, “I’m okay, Raph,” his fear remains: “You could’ve not been.” That night, he barely lets you leave his side. He sleeps on the floor next to the couch just to be near you. When you wake up, you find his hand still wrapped loosely around yours.
You are the only person he is truly soft with. He lets his guard down for you, sharing fears and thoughts that he even hides from his brothers, especially after a tough night.
He hides his pain by shutting down or relentlessly punching the training dummy, but you know the signs. You approach gently, promising, “You don’t have to talk, but I’m not going anywhere.” That’s all it takes for his shoulders to drop. He’ll sit beside you and finally admit, “I hate how much I feel sometimes. But you make it better.”
He only lets out his verbal affection at night. When his guard is down, he’ll pull you close and whisper, “I ain’t ever felt like this before. You get that, right?” He’ll wait for your nod before kissing your head and confessing, “Good. ‘Cause I don’t wanna feel it with anyone else.”
He gets into fights for you, but only in secret. If he overhears someone catcall you, he’ll circle back after you’re gone. That person might later find themselves hanging from a fire escape with a gruff warning to be more respectful and to stay away. You just notice that, after a while, creeps on your block give you a wide berth.
You become his reason. On the worst nights, when a mission goes wrong, and he’s beaten and bruised, thinking of you is what gets him back on his feet. He fights harder, pushes himself further, because he has to make it home. You are not his weakness; you are a source of strength. To be loved by Raph is to be the calm center of his personal hurricane, the one person who makes the fight worth it.
Dating Raph feels like standing in a storm with someone who holds lightning in his hands but shields you from every bolt. He’s intense. Protective. Loyal to a fault. And once he’s yours, he’s all in.
He may not say “I love you” often, but he shows it in his actions, like dropping everything to fix your car or listening to you vent with a simmering rage on your behalf. To be loved by Raph is to have a hot-headed, devoted warrior who would take on the world for you without hesitation. You are his to protect, cherish, and fight for. Always.
A/N: This is a commission I’ve done for @darling0donna ❤️🐢
Enjoy!! 😊
CWs: Set in the Turtles Forever movie. Fluff, some angst, mutual pining, themes of low self-esteem & insecurity, jealousy, canon-typical violence, feelings of inadequacy, character (reader) briefly in peril, self-destructive behavior (on Raph’s part), brief description of blood & self-inflicted injuries, hurt/comfort, emotional breakdown, and a happy ending. All characters are aged-up.
It’s been a few hours since four alternate versions of your friends crash-landed into your lives. And the novelty, for most of your turtles, has decidedly worn off.
For you, it’s a different story.
You’re perched on the arm of the couch, watching the spectacle unfold. The 80s versions of the turtles are a mess of energy, laughter, and noise. Their Leo is trying to get them to focus on a “bodacious battle plan.” But their Mikey is more interested in constructing a ten-decker pizza-and-ice-cream sandwich. Their Donnie is trying to explain the finer points of trans-dimensional portals.
Their Raph, well … He’s currently trying to teach a bewildered Master Splinter a peculiar handshake and some 80s slang.
“It’s like living inside a Saturday morning cartoon,” your Leo mutters, rubbing his temples.
“A really, really loud one,” your Donnie agrees. “I can’t concentrate. All I hear are arguments about whether anchovies are ‘tubular’ or ‘bogus’.”
Your Raph is a statue of fury on the far side of the room. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed so tightly over his plastron it’s a wonder he can still breathe. His gaze fixed on the antics with a look of pure aggravation. Every time his counterpart lets out a boisterous laugh or makes a wisecrack, a low growl rumbles in your Raph’s chest.
You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips; you find the 80s turtles adorable and funny. Their ceaseless optimism, their goofy slang—it’s hilarious. They’re a splash of joy in your often grim world.
Your Raph’s gaze flicks over to you, and his scowl deepens when he sees you smiling. He gives you a look that clearly says, This is insane. You offer him a small, sympathetic shrug, but the smile doesn’t leave your face. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t see the harmless fun; he only sees a mockery of everything he takes so seriously.
The 80s Raph, having finally given up on teaching Splinter, spots you. A wide grin spreads across his face, and he saunters over. “Hey there, good lookin’!” he says, leaning an elbow on the back of the sofa, invading your personal space with a cheerful lack of concern. “A dazzling smile like yours could light up this whole sewer. Tell me, did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”
You let out a genuine laugh. It’s so corny, so unabashedly cheesy, that it’s impossible not to be endeared by it. “Wow. I’ve heard that one before,” you say, shaking your head.
“Yeah, but did you ever hear it from a hero in a half-shell?” he winks, pointing a thumb at his own chest. “Because I’m not just any turtle; I’m a lean, green, flirting machine! What do you say we ditch these guys and grab a slice?”
From across the room, you hear a sound. It’s your Raph, pushing himself off the wall and coming towards the two of you. “Alright, comedian,” he grunts, his voice low and dangerous. He stops beside the couch, placing a hand on your shoulder. His grip is firm and protective as he glares at his counterpart. “That’s enough. Go annoy someone else.”
80s Raph holds up his hands in surrender, his grin never faltering. “Whoa, touchy!” He gives you one last wink before heading back toward his own brothers.
Raph’s hand remains on your shoulder. You can feel the tension thrumming through his powerful muscles like a live wire. You reach up and place your hand on his, your fingers lacing through his, giving it a gentle squeeze of reassurance.
“Hey,” you say softly, turning to look up at him. His jaw is tight, a muscle twitching near his eye. “It’s okay. He’s just … like that.”
“He’s an idiot,” he mutters, his gaze still fixed on the other turtle’s back with a homicidal intensity. “And he was in your space.”
“I can handle a few cheesy pickup lines, Raph.”
His eyes finally meet yours, and for a second, a flicker of something else replaces the anger. Something raw and possessive that makes your stomach do a little flip. “Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have to.” It’s clear he doesn’t like anyone else looking at you or treating you that way, not even a goofball version of himself from another dimension.
He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before stalking off toward the dojo, presumably to beat his frustrations out on a punching bag. You watch him go, a fond sigh escaping your lips. His jealousy is just another layer of his fierce, protective nature.
The very nature you fell in love with.
Later, the situation escalates.
As if one set of alternate turtles wasn’t enough, the dimensional portal stick whisks away the nine of you and you meet yet another set of turtle brothers. And these ones are different.
Much different.
Where the 80s turtles are bright and loud, these newcomers are monochromatic and stoic. No vibrant colored masks, no goofy grins. Just cold eyes and rigid sets of their jaws. The 80s turtles try to greet them with their usual “Cowabunga!” and are met with stony silence and suspicious glares. Your turtles are wary from the jump.
“Great,” your Raph grumbles, standing beside you as everyone sizes each other up. “More of us. Just what we needed. A turtle convention.”
But you’re not looking at them with annoyance or suspicion.
You’re looking at them with a kind of awestruck reverence. Their seriousness isn’t off-putting. You can see it in the way they stand, in the way their gazes automatically catalog threats and exits. They are protectors, honed to a razor’s edge by a life of relentless hardship.
They’re the Prime Turtles.
Even the 2003 team, usually the picture of control and professionalism, looks unsettled in their presence. It’s like staring at the ghost of who they could have become if things had gone just a little darker. Beside you, you can feel the storm of energy rolling off your Raph—his frustration, his protectiveness.
Then there’s a crack of energy, splitting the air like lightning.
It’s Ch’rell—your dimension’s Shredder.
Your stomach clenches. Even the Prime Turtles snap to attention. He doesn’t waste time. He strikes.
Everything happens too fast.
Ch’rell’s armor is a blur of red, black, and silver, his movements too swift to follow. You’re knocked off your feet by the sheer force of a blast that goes wide. You hit the ground, the air forced from your lungs in a gasp. Dazed, you try to get your bearings, but a shadow falls over you. You look up, and your heart stops.
Ch’rell raises his arm, aiming to kill. He’s not looking at you with anger or hatred. He’s looking at you with a blank, cold indifference, like you’re not even a person, just an obstacle. In the fraction of a second before his weapon descends, a thousand thoughts flash through your mind. This is it. This is how it ends.
A figure slams into Ch’rell, knocking him off balance. The force of the impact makes the metal armor groan, and the claws skitter a hair’s breadth from your face, sending a few stray sparks flying. You feel a hand grip your arm, pulling you back and away from the danger. You’re on your feet, being held tightly behind a broad, muscular frame.
It’s Prime Raph.
Your heart is pounding in your ears, so loud it almost drowns out the battle. Ch’rell is, thankfully, drawn away by the other turtles. Prime Raph turns his head slightly, his eyes piercing.
“You should be more aware of your surroundings,” he says. His voice is a low, gravelly rumble. It’s not a scolding. But a simple statement of fact from a man who has learned survival the hard way.
“I … thank you,” you say, your heart still hammering in your chest.
He gives a curt nod. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, a flicker of something unreadable in its depths. “You remind me of someone,” he says. “Our … friend. The one who looks after our lair when we’re gone. Stubborn, just like you seem to be. Always in the middle of things. We lost them once. For a long time.” The words are clipped, heavy with a history you can’t begin to imagine. “We don’t make that mistake anymore. There’s no room for it.”
He looks past you, at your Raph—and for a fleeting second, you see not judgment. But a flicker of something that looks like envy for a life that still has room for mistakes.
This hardened, grim warrior sees you, and in you, he sees someone worth protecting, someone who reminds him of his own home. It’s incredibly sweet in the most serious, heart-wrenching way imaginable.
You feel a presence at your side and turn to see your Raph. He saw the whole thing. He stands rigid, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles are white. The look on his face is no longer just simple aggravation. It’s a complex, painful mixture of shock and a new, sharper form of jealousy.
This other Raph—this darker, more serious version—didn’t just protect you. He did it with an instinctual, effortless grace that made your Raph’s own protective nature feel inadequate. He looks from his Prime counterpart back to you, his jaw working silently.
He doesn’t say a word.
Raph walks away slowly. As if every step is carrying something heavier than his body. Like if he doesn’t walk away right now, he’ll fall apart in front of everyone. You watch his retreating back, your breath caught in your throat.
You’ve seen him mad. You’ve seen him punch through training dummies and take down mutants twice his size. But you’ve never seen this look on his face.
You’ve never seen your Raph look small before.
You’re about to follow him when Leo comes up beside you. His voice is low, meant only for you. “Don’t,” he said, placing a steadying hand on your arm. “He won’t hear you right now. I’ve … never seen him look like that.” He gives your arm a slight squeeze. “Just be there for him when the storm passes. He’s going to need you.”
Leo rushes to rejoin the fray. And you don’t follow Raph. Not when he’s holding himself like that—like he’s hanging on by threads so thin you could tear him apart with a breath. You want to say something to him, anything. But what would you even say?
What do you say to someone who’s jealous of … himself?
Twelve turtles move against one overwhelming force. Even Ch’rell’s allies have joined in to assist them. Blasters fire, blades sing through the air, and the ground trembles with every impact.
And your Raph—he’s fighting like a man possessed.
Every time Prime Raph lands a devastating blow, your Raph pushes himself harder. He takes hits that aren’t meant for him, throwing himself in the path of a blast meant for 80s Donnie. He gets up, ignoring the smoking scorch mark on his plastron, and charges back in.
He’s trying to prove something. To them. To himself.
To you.
His eyes find yours across the battlefield for a split second. There’s a wild, pleading look in them, a desperate need for you to see him, to see that he is just as strong—just as capable. Just as worthy of being your protector as the hardened warrior who saved you minutes before.
The battle reaches its crescendo. And in that second, the three Raphs strike. It’s a beautiful, brutal trinity of force. Prime Raph is a sledgehammer, his blow cracking the armor with raw power. 80s Raph is a whip, his sai finding the joint with a bizarre, spinning leap that no one could have predicted.
And your Raph—your Raph is a spear point. All his pain, his fury, his desperate need to prove himself, is focused into one perfect, devastating strike.
Victory eventually comes.
The moment the threat is neutralized, reality begins to mend itself. The gray, muted world of the Prime Turtles bleeds back into its own dimension, while the vibrant, cel-shaded universe of the 80s Turtles asserts its physics. Cracks of light seal themselves, and the oppressive atmosphere lifts.
80s Raph saunters over, the cocky grin back in place. He winks at you. “Told ya we were heroes. But hey, if you ever get tired of Mr. Broody and Moody over there, you know where to find me.”
He starts to turn, but then pauses, his tone dropping the goofy act for just a second. He glances at your Raph, who is radiating misery across the way. “Hey,” he says, his voice surprisingly serious. “He’s a good turtle. A lot of passion, that one. Sometimes that stuff just gets tangled up. Don’t let him stay tangled.” With a final, more genuine smile, he’s gone.
You and your turtles finally return to your world, where everything has been restored. The usual post-battle banter is gone. Leo and Donnie are too exhausted, Mikey too subdued. And Raph … Raph is a ghost, moving with the rest of you but not truly there.
Later, the lair is quiet. Leo is meditating, trying to center himself after the dimensional chaos. Donnie is asleep at his desk. Mikey is curled up on the couch, watching a movie, seeking comfort in the familiar. Raph is in the dojo.
You follow the sound and lean against the doorframe, watching him. He’s slick with sweat, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. He’s hitting the bag like he’s trying to break not it, but himself. His knuckles are raw and bleeding.
You fetch a first aid kit and return, walking in quietly. You don’t say a word, just set it down on a nearby bench and wait. He ignores you for another full minute, pouring every ounce of his energy into the assault. Finally, his arms give out. He stumbles back from the bag, his chest heaving, and leans his head against the wall, his eyes screwed shut.
“You’re going to break your hands,” you say softly.
“Good,” he rasps, not opening his eyes. “Maybe then they’d be useful for somethin’.”
Your heart aches at the self-loathing in his voice. You step forward, picking up a clean cloth and a bottle of antiseptic from the kit. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine.”
“Raph.” Your voice is gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument. “Let me see.”
He hesitates, then lets out a long, shuddering sigh of defeat. He pushes himself off the wall and slumps onto the bench, holding out his trembling, bloody hands. You kneel in front of him, taking them carefully in yours. You work in silence for a moment, dabbing at the cuts with a tenderness that feels at odds with the violence that caused them.
“It was like lookin’ in a funhouse mirror,” he finally whispers, his voice cracking. “Every version of me was … better.”
You pause, looking up at him. He has his head bowed, his gaze fixed on the floor.
“The clown … he was a joke, a complete goofball,” he continues, the words tumbling out now that the dam has broken. “But you laughed. I saw your face. He made you laugh so easily. I just make ya worry.”
“Raph …”
“And the other one,” he chokes on the words. “He was everything a protector is supposed to be. Hard. Fast. He didn’t hesitate. He saved you, and I was just standin’ there, watchin’. I was too slow. I failed.” He finally looks at you, and the depth of the pain in his eyes is staggering. “He was the real deal. The hero. I’m just the angry, broken copy in the middle. Not funny enough, not strong enough. Just … angry.”
You finish wrapping his hands and then cup his face, your thumbs stroking his cheeks. “Look at me,” you command gently. “The first Raph was charming, in a ridiculous, over-the-top way. It was like watching a cartoon. Like it wasn’t real, if that makes any sense. My laughter was about the absurdity of it all. It had nothing to do with you.”
You lean closer, your foreheads almost touching.
“And the other … yes, he was an incredible warrior. He saved my life, and I will always be grateful for that. But did you see him? His world had burned away everything soft and everything that wasn’t about pure survival. He was hard because he had no other choice. There was no joy in him, Raph. No light.”
You press a soft kiss to his forehead, then pull back to look him in the eyes again.
“I don’t want the comedian. And I don’t want the soldier. I want the turtle who gets fiercely, stupidly jealous because another version of himself told me a cheesy pickup line. The turtle I want argues with his brother not out of hate, but because he’s terrified of losing him. I want the turtle who has so much love and loyalty and fiery passion inside him it spills out as anger because he doesn’t know any other way to let it out.”
A single tear escapes his eye, tracing a path down his cheek. You gently wipe it away.
“That’s the Raph I fell in love with. The one who is perfectly, imperfectly, wonderfully you. You aren’t the copy in the middle. You’re the one with heart. The one who gets to feel it all: the rage and the love. The pain and the joy. They were just echoes. You … you are the source. You are my Raph.”
He lets out a sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh, and then he collapses forward, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in the crook of your neck. His frame shakes with the force of his emotion, the tension and fear and inadequacy finally pouring out of him. You hold him tightly, running your fingers through the ties of his mask, murmuring words of comfort into his skin.
You hold him, a solid, trembling weight against you, absorbing the storm that’s finally breaking. You say nothing, just let him feel the safety of your arms, the solid ground beneath his spiraling thoughts. He stays there for a long time, his breathing slowly evening out, the sobs softening into shuddering breaths against your skin.
Finally, he pulls back, just enough to look at you. His eyes are red-rimmed and exhausted. He keeps his bandaged hands on your arms, as if afraid you might vanish if he lets go.
“I was so scared,” he whispers. “When Shredder went for you… and I froze. For just a second, I couldn’t move. And he—the other me—he didn’t.” His gaze drops to his own hands. “I’m supposed to protect you. I’m supposed to protect my family. It’s the one thing I’m good for. And when it mattered most, I wasn’t enough.”
“That’s not true,” you say immediately. You take one of his bandaged hands, lifting it to your cheek and holding it there. You want him to feel your warmth, to feel that you’re real and you’re safe. “And you know what happened after he saved me?” you say softly. “He looked at me, and he saw a memory. A stand-in for someone else. But when you look at me …” You trail off, letting him see the truth in your eyes. “You see me.”
His breath hitches. He searches your face, looking for any hint of doubt, any pity. He finds none.
“Why?” he asks, his voice thick. “Why me? The clown can make you laugh. The soldier can keep you safe. What do I do? I just get mad. Break things. I push you away when all I wanna do is pull you closer.” He shakes his head, a fresh wave of self-disgust washing over him. “It’s ugly. What’s inside me … it’s all sharp edges.”
“Then I guess I like sharp edges,” you reply without hesitation. “Raph, your anger isn’t ugly. It’s a shield. It’s a fire you use to keep the dark out, to protect the people you love. I’ve never feared your anger, because I’ve always seen what’s behind it. I see the turtle who would throw himself in front of a blast for his brother. I see the turtle whose heart is so big and so full of love that it has nowhere to go, so it comes out as a roar.”
You lean in, your voice dropping to an intimate whisper. “I don’t want the joke. I don’t need a perfect, emotionless soldier. I want the passion. The fire. I want the Raph who held me on a rooftop after a nightmare and didn’t say a word, just let me listen to his heartbeat until I fell asleep. I want the Raph who gets so jealous he can barely speak—because the thought of anyone else having me is something he can’t stand.”
He closes his eyes, a sense of peace settling over his features. The war inside him seems to have finally called a truce. When he opens them again, the vulnerability is still there, but it’s now mingled with a dawning certainty.
“I love you,” he says. The words aren’t loud or dramatic. They’re a quiet, simple truth spoken into the space between you, as real and as solid as the dojo floor beneath you. “I have for a long time. That’s why it all hurt so much. Seein’ you smile at him … seein’ the other me save you … it felt like I was losing something I didn’t even have the right to claim.”
Tears of your own well up now, tears of relief and overwhelming love. “You always had the right,” you whisper. “You always have.”
He looks from your eyes to your lips. You give the barest of nods, and that’s all the invitation he needs. He leans in and kisses you. His lips are gentle against yours, hesitant at first, as if he’s still afraid this isn’t real. You kiss him back with all the unspoken feelings you’ve held for him, with all the certainty he’s been lacking.
You bring a hand up to cup the back of his head, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his mask, pulling him just a little closer. He sighs into the kiss, his arms tightening around your waist until you’re pressed against his chest. His bandaged hands are careful not to grip too tight, but the gesture is clear. He’s not letting you go. Not now.
Not ever.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless. You rest your forehead against his, your eyes still closed, just soaking in the moment.
“So,” he says, his voice a low, rumbling murmur against your lips. “No more funhouse mirrors?”
You open your eyes and smile just for him. “No more funhouse mirrors,” you confirm. “Just you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
He grins, one that lights up his whole face. It’s not the easy, goofy smile of his counterpart, or the grim smirk of a hardened soldier. It’s his.
And it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
He looks down at his bandaged hands, then back up at you, the grin softening into something more tender. “So,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Guess this means I gotta stop punching things so hard. Kinda hard to hold your hand with scraped-up knuckles.”
A laugh bubbles up out of you, full of relief and joy. You take his wrapped hand gently in yours. “I would hold your hand no matter what.”
He helps you to your feet, and for the first time since this whole mess started, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his arm settles around your waist, pulling you against his side as you walk out of the dojo together. The storm is finally over.
And in its place, something new and quiet and strong has finally been allowed to grow.
Hi there! Do you think you'd be down to write a fluffy 2003 Raph x tomboy reader fic? Like maybe she works at an axe throwing place that Casey goes to and one day he forgets his stuff so she offers to go drop it off and accidentally walks in on Casey and Raph having a beer and watching a wrestling match? Which leads to an awkward meet cute and Casey introducing the two of them and teasing Raph about having a crush on her when she leaves?
A/N: For some reason, I can’t remember whether Casey had a cell phone in the 2003 series? But he does here (because I’m sure April insisted he have one.)
Enjoy! 💖
Axe Marks the Spot (fluff)
❤️ 2003 Raphael/Female Reader ❤️
CWs: Fluff, mild language, alcohol consumption, discussions of sports violence, a bit of an unconventional meet-cute, and some teasing. All characters are aged-up.
You adjust your stance, the worn leather grip of your favorite throwing axe a familiar comfort in your palm. With a practiced flick of your wrist and a smooth follow-through of your arm, the axe arcs through the air, embedding itself dead center into the painted bullseye.
“See?” you say, turning to the nervous couple you’re instructing. “Just commit to the throw. Don’t overthink it. Feel the weight, aim, and let ‘er fly.” You retrieve the axe from the wood. “Any other questions before you give it a go?”
They shake their heads and shuffle towards their lane. As they start their practice, you spot a battered duffel bag left abandoned over at lane three—and you know immediately whose it is: Casey Jones, a regular here and practically a friend at this point. And this isn’t the first time he’s left his stuff behind, either.
Matter of fact, this is the third time this month.
“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath as you go over to it, scooping it up before slinging the strap over your shoulder. “For a guy with such a good arm, he’s real bad at remembering his crap.”
You check your phone, shooting him a text as you head to the employee break room.
You: You forgot your bag, dumbass.
You wait. No reply.
You: Want me to come over and drop it off for ya?
Again, no response. You sigh, checking the time; your shift is almost over. You know the guy well enough, so you decide to stop at his place.
After punching out, you leave Axe the Landing and hop on your motorcycle to drive to Casey’s pad. His place isn’t far—just a half dozen blocks away. In the meantime, you allow yourself to enjoy the ride. You like the city at night, the wind whipping past your face, the neon signs of late-night diners and closed storefronts blurring into streaks of electric color. You weave through the traffic, grateful for the familiar rhythm of the road.
You pull up to Casey’s apartment building, a brick structure that looks like it’s seen better decades. Parking your bike, you kill the engine and dismount with his bag and your helmet tucked under your arm. You’re still grumbling to yourself about his chronic forgetfulness while you enter the building and take the steps, two at a time, to his third-floor apartment. Even before you reach 3E, you hear a commentator getting overly excited as you approach the door.
You knock. No answer. You try again, louder this time—even though you know he probably can’t hear you because of his TV blaring.
“Casey? You in there?” you call out.
There’s the sound of yelling—someone getting body-slammed, maybe? Then it finally clicks. Of course he left in a hurry, forgetting his stuff; tonight’s the wrestling match he’s been looking forward to all week. He talked your ear off about it a few days ago, and you humored him, even though you’re not much into this sport in particular.
You reach for the knob, finding it unlocked. “Casey?” you repeat, pushing the door open a crack. “You left your junk again!” You proceed further into the apartment.
The wrestling match blasts from the TV while two figures are sprawled across the worn couch, illuminated by the flickering screen. Casey is the first to notice you. He turns with a start, a beer halfway to his mouth.
“Yo!” he blurts, eyebrows shooting up as he forces a grin. “Uh … didn’t hear ya knock!”
“Clearly,” you deadpan. “Figured I’d just bring your bag by. Again.”
You toss the duffel toward the cluttered corner where it always ends up, but your eyes don’t stay there long. Because sitting next to Casey—slouched comfortably with his arms crossed, a beer in one hand—is someone you most definitely weren’t expecting.
A red-masked turtle. With broad shoulders and a physique that makes even the wrestlers look scrawny. He turns his head at the sound of your voice, and you see intelligent eyes widen slightly in surprise.
You blink, hard, as you struggle to register what you’re seeing. An awkward silence descends upon the room, broken only by the grunts and slams from the TV where two dudes are beating the hell out of each other.
Your brain stutters, and so does your mouth. “Uh … Sorry, I didn’t know you had company.” A giant, bipedal turtle. Drinking beer. Watching wrestling. It’s a lot to take in on a Thursday night after a long shift.
“Uh,” the turtle says. Voice low, gravelly. “Hey.”
Casey’s eyes flick between you and his companion. His grin falters, replaced by a sudden, dawning ‘oh crap’ expression. He clears his throat and stands abruptly, almost sloshing his beer. “Right! Uh, yeah—this is … this is Raph. He’s, uh, a friend.”
You raise an eyebrow at Casey. “Right. A friend. Who happens to be a tall talking turtle.”
Casey laughs loud, tipping back his beer. “I just got weird friends, ya know?”
“Weird? You’re one to talk, Case,” Raph retorts.
You blink again, not sure if you’re tired, hallucinating, or both. But Raph doesn’t disappear. He just gives you this look, like he’s trying to gauge whether you’re about to scream, faint, or bolt. You do none of the above.
Instead, you shrug. “Cool shell.”
Casey nearly chokes on his drink.
Raph stares for a second before a quiet, raspy chuckle escapes him. “Didn’t think you’d take it that well. Not many humans do.”
“Honestly?” you say, setting your helmet on the counter and crossing your arms. “After working customer service for four years and dealing with bachelorette parties hyped on tequila for another two, this barely cracks my top five weirdest nights.”
That gets a full-blown laugh out of Casey. “Knew you two’d get along!”
Raph’s eyes flick over to you again, this time with a little more curiosity—and maybe something else. You’re not sure if it’s the lighting or just the way his posture subtly straightens, but he looks … intrigued.
“Anyway, Raph,” Casey begins, “this is the axe-chucking badass I keep telling you about.”
You raise a brow, tearing your gaze from the mutant turtle to frown at Casey. “You’ve been talking about me?”
Casey grins, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Only, like, every other day! Gotta sing your praises, right?”
Raph’s low chuckle rumbles from the couch. “He ain’t wrong. He said you were a real pro with those things.”
You blush, a faint warmth spreading across your cheeks. “I just throw them. It’s not rocket science.” You shift your weight, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious under Raph’s steady gaze. He’s looking at you again, that same intense, curious look. It’s almost like he’s trying to figure you out, piece by piece.
“So, you do this for fun?” Raph asks, leaning forward slightly, his eyes still fixed on you. “Or is it just a job to you?”
“Both, I guess,” you reply, shrugging again. “It’s my job, but yeah, it’s fun. Good way to blow off some steam.” You glance at the wrestling match, then back at Raph. “Speaking of blowing off steam, you guys are really into this, huh?”
“Nothing beats a good old-fashioned beat down,” Casey declares, raising his beer in a mock toast.
Raph nods in agreement, a small smile playing on his lips. “Gets the blood pumping.”
You smile, too. It’s strange how quickly you’ve already adapted to the idea of a talking turtle. Maybe it’s just how laid-back he seems, or maybe it’s the sheer absurdity of the situation that winds it back around to being almost … normal.
“Anyway, nice to meet you, Raph,” you say. “I didn’t mean to interrupt boys’ night. I can bounce—”
“But you’re already here,” Casey interjects. “Grab a beer, chill a sec.”
“If ya want,” Raph adds, his tone almost … hopeful?
You hesitate before answering. “Fine. But if this match sucks, I’m holding you personally responsible, Jones.” You grab a beer from the fridge—Casey’s stocked up on the cheap stuff, as usual—and sit in the beat-up recliner across from the couch.
To your surprise, things are actually getting exciting in the match. Two guys in spandex are trying to murder each other theatrically while the crowd loses their minds. You take a sip and glance at Raph. He hasn’t looked away from you much, and now he leans forward, forearms on his knees, like he’s about to say something else.
“So,” Raph begins, “you ride?”
You smirk. “Yeah. Bike’s downstairs. You?”
“Yup. I’ve always liked ‘em. Loud. Fast. Kind of like you, huh?”
You arch a brow. “Was that a compliment or an insult?”
Raph smirks, and there’s this little spark in his eye that wasn’t there before. “Guess you’ll have to figure that out.”
“Okaaayyy,” Casey cuts in, dragging out the word. “Don’t make me get the hose.”
You stick your tongue out at him. “Jealous you’re not the most interesting one in the room anymore?”
Casey gasps, clutching his chest like he’s wounded. “Et tu, axe queen?”
Raph chuckles quietly, but you catch it.
The match continues. Casey yells encouragement and insults at the screen, fully invested. You find yourself getting caught up in his enthusiasm, occasionally wincing at a brutal-looking move or laughing at the commentators’ ridiculous lines. Raph is quieter, but his eyes are fixed on the action, and you see his fist clench a few times.
During a commercial break, Casey heads to the kitchen, presumably for a beer refill. An easy silence settles between you and Raph. And he’s still watching you with that same half-guarded, half-interested expression.
You don’t hate it.
You swirl the cheap beer in your hand, watching the fizz settle. The sound of Casey rummaging in the kitchen is background noise now. Raph shifts on the couch, glancing sideways like he’s trying to figure out the best way to break the silence.
“You always this chill around mutants?” he asks, his voice low and just a bit unsure.
You turn your head to look at him fully. His posture is casual, but you catch that subtle tension, like he’s bracing for judgment. “You always this self-conscious around girls with axes?”
His lips twitch, and you spot the faintest hint of a smile. “Touché.”
You lean back in the recliner, letting your shoulders drop. “Look, I’m not saying it’s normal. But I’m not gonna freak out either. Casey trusts you. That’s enough for me.”
His eyes hold yours a second longer than necessary. It’s intense but not threatening. More like he’s not used to being looked at without flinching. And maybe you’re not used to being looked at like you’re interesting.
“So what’s it like?” you ask, “y’know, living in New York when you kinda stand out?”
Raph raises a brow ridge. “Loud. Smelly. People suck. But the pizza’s good,” he replies, and you’re unsure if he’s joking to cover up the actual answer.
Still, you laugh, and he smiles, pleased he got a reaction out of you.
Before you can ask more, Casey returns with three more beers and an open bag of chips and flops back down on the couch. He tosses you a can, which you catch one-handed, and sets the chips between himself and Raph, who gives him a look.
“Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who didn’t wanna stop at the bodega.”
You crack the beer open, watching the two banter with a comfort that speaks of years of friendship. As you take a sip, you still try to wrap your head around how easily you’ve settled into this moment. Then again, you’ve always been the type to go with your gut, and right now?
Your gut says this feels right.
Raph glances at you between bites of chips, and there’s a pause in the air that he doesn’t seem in a rush to fill. You notice he’s quieter when Casey’s not teasing or poking at him. Like he’s used to blending into the background, or maybe just doesn’t know what to say to someone new.
So you decide to say something first.
“You ever tried axe throwing?”
Raph tilts his head, considering. “Nah. Never really had the chance. Closest I’ve come to it was, uh … throwing my sai at bad guys. Not quite the same vibe.”
You grin, making a mental note to ask about the ‘bad guys’ thing later. “Not unless they were painted with targets.”
That gets a genuine laugh out of him. Low and rough, but real. It sounds good. You like it.
“Anyway, I could show you the ropes sometime,” you offer casually. “You know, if you ever wanna hurl sharp objects at hunks of wood and feel mildly powerful.”
Casey coughs pointedly from the couch, muttering something about mildly powerful under his breath. You ignore him.
Raph shifts slightly, his gaze lingering on you, contemplative. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Eventually, the match ends, and Casey throws his arms up in celebration. “Called it! Dude’s undefeated!”
You shake your head, finishing your beer. “You’re way too invested in fake fights, Jones.”
“Blasphemy,” he gasps, feigning offense. “Fake?! That was peak drama!”
You snort and stand, stretching your arms over your head. “Alright, I’m heading out. Gotta work tomorrow. We have a booked party with a bunch of finance bros who’ll probably try to flirt and fail at throwing straight. Can’t wait.”
You grab your helmet from the counter, catching Raph’s eye one last time. He’s watching you again—quiet, attentive, like he wants to say something but can’t quite figure out how.
“Later,” you say, flashing a quick smirk. “Try not to break anything—or each other.”
“Good luck with the suits,” Casey calls out with a grin, lifting his beer in a lazy salute.
You nod, and your gaze flicks back to Raph one last time. “Nice meeting you, Raph.”
His reply is slower, softer, his eyes lingering on yours for a beat longer. “Yeah. You too.”
You’re halfway out the door when you pause, your hand resting on the worn wood of the doorframe, turning back just enough to catch Raph’s eye over your shoulder. “Before I forget,” you say, “you still think you’re up for that axe-throwing lesson?” You arch an eyebrow, daring him, just a little.
A grin pulls at Raph’s face, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. It’s a surprisingly disarming expression, softening the rugged lines of his face and making him look younger. “You free sometime soon?”
Your heart does a little flip. “Ask Casey for my schedule. Or just show up. I’m usually there.” You smile. “Looking forward to seeing you.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Your gaze flicks to Casey, who’s been watching the entire exchange with a wide, almost comically invested grin. “I’ll return your bag in a week when you forget it again.” Before Casey can retort, you say, “See you around, Raph.”
You go out into the hallway, closing the door behind you. You’re only four steps away when you hear Casey’s—and Raph’s—voices muffled but distinct, through the door.
“Dude! Seriously? What was that all about?”
“What’re you talkin’ about, bonehead?”
“Oh nothing,” Casey says, his voice dripping with fake innocence. “You were totally checkin’ her out! I saw you! That little half-smirk thing you do when you’re tryin’ not to look impressed?” You hear a can being opened. “Never seen you so quick to agree to a ‘lesson’ before.”
“She offered. It’d be rude to say no.”
“Rude?” Casey snorts. “Since when do you care about being rude, Raph? Especially with humans you just met.” He pauses, probably taking a swig of his beer. “And that whole ‘loud, fast, kind of like you’ line? Real smooth, Romeo. Did you come up with that all by yourself?”
“Shut up, Case! I was just makin’ conversation.”
“Conversation, huh? Looked more like you were tryin’ to see if your eyeballs could actually pop out of your head from starin’ so hard. I thought you were gonna start droolin’ when she said she was lookin’ forward to seein’ you.”
“I was not starin’! And I don’t drool.”
“Coulda fooled me,” Casey sing-songs. “You were quiet as a mouse when she was talkin’, too. Usually, you’re all grunts and one-liners. But with her? Suddenly you’re Mr. Chatty.” There’s a brief pause. “Admit it, tough guy. You like her.”
“Casey, I swear—”
There’s a thwack, followed by Casey’s yelp of mock pain.
“Hey! Violence! I’m tellin’ April!” Casey’s voice, still laced with laughter, rings out.
Raph’s growl is too low for you to make out most of the words, but the exasperated, defensive tone is clear as day, even through the closed door. “Just … shut it, Jones!”
You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips as you continue down the stairs, the echoes of their bickering fading behind you. As you hop on your bike and put on your helmet, you replay Raph’s voice in your head. You hadn’t expected that kind of softness from someone who looks like he could bench-press a sedan.
The engine growls to life as you start your bike, rolling your shoulders once to shake off the adrenaline buzz. You’re not flustered. Not really. But you are smiling like an idiot as you pull away from the curb, a strange flutter in your chest.
You’ve taken plenty of shots before—but none of them were ever as interesting as him.
I would like to humbly request more scenarios of vampire!Reader x the turtles!
I straight up want to commission you for different paths too!
Like for example which one turtle would end up with Reader or something like that!
Lowkey love how they all give reader a special feeling 💖💖💖
A/N: At first, I wasn’t sure how to approach this request. But I think the best way—for now—are individual scenarios for each of the turtles/the reader that take place straight after Centuries in Shadow. Though if anyone wants these expanded, we’ll see what comes of that in the future 👀
Enjoy!! 💖
Blood Bonds (paranormal/mild angst)
💚 2003 Turtles/Gender Neutral Reader 💚
CWs: Violence aftermath & injury recovery (including scars); themes of angst, guilt, & fear of loss; first kiss scenarios. All characters are aged-up.
LEO
The days following Bishop’s attack are a blur of pain and meticulously managed care.
You spend most of your time in Donnie’s lab, but Leo becomes your constant shadow. He sits in a chair in the corner of the lab while Donnie works. He says it’s for security, a necessary precaution.
You know it is more than that.
You see it in the way his shoulders tense when you let out an involuntary hiss of pain. The way his eyes, sharp and assessing, track your every movement as if he could will you to heal faster through sheer force of will.
As your strength returns and you can sit up for longer periods, his vigil transforms. It starts with strategy. He unrolls blueprints of the sewer system, pointing out potential EPF entry points and asking for your perspective. Your centuries of experience in evasion and fortification prove valuable.
These tactical discussions bleed into the quiet hours of the night when the lair is still, and it is just the two of you under the low light of the lab. He asks about your long life, not with Donnie’s scientific fervor, but with a leader’s contemplative curiosity.
“To see empires rise and fall,” he muses one night, “it must give you a unique perspective on permanence. On what’s worth fighting for.”
You open up to him in a way you haven’t with anyone in decades. You share stories. Not of great battles, but of quiet moments: the changing constellations in a sky not yet polluted by city lights, the shift in language over a hundred years, the feeling of watching generations live and die while you simply … remain.
He listens with an intensity that makes you feel truly seen. He speaks of the immense pressure of leadership, the constant, gnawing weight of his brothers’ safety. In you, he finds an unlikely confidant, someone who understands the loneliness that comes with responsibility.
Weeks pass.
The scorched flesh on your back has healed, leaving behind a scar. One night, the stillness of the lab becomes unbearable, so you slip out. You find Leo where you knew you would: in the dojo, practicing his forms. He is a living embodiment of the focus you have always admired.
He stops mid-arc when he senses you, katanas held perfectly still. He turns to face you, his expression unreadable. “You should be resting,” he says. It’s not an order, but a statement of ingrained concern. A familiar refrain.
“I have rested enough,” you reply, your voice quiet. “I’m growing tired of walls. I need to feel like I am still myself.”
He nods slowly, his gaze softening with understanding. Sheathing his weapons, he walks toward you. He stops a few feet away, his serious gaze sweeping over you, assessing your strength. “The scar … does it pain you?”
“It is a memory now,” you say, your hand ghosting over your own back. “A reminder.”
“Of your sacrifice,” he finishes, his voice laced with an emotion you can now clearly identify as a personal gratitude that borders on reverence. “You saved my brother. I haven’t properly thanked you for that.”
“You owe me no thanks, Leo. In that moment, he was as much my family as yours.” The words leave your lips before you can stop them, and the truth of them hangs in the air between you.
His breath catches, just for a second. He comes closer, close enough that you can see the conflict in his eyes. The leader, the protector, the soldier—all warring with something softer, more vulnerable. Something that has grown in the quiet of your late-night talks.
“For centuries,” you confess, “I have kept the world at a distance. It was the only way to survive. And now …”
“Now you’re a part of ours,” he says, his gaze unwavering. “Whether or not you intended to be.”
He reaches out, his fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, his touch surprisingly warm against your cool skin. It’s a touch that asks permission, that offers comfort. You lean into it, your eyes fluttering shut. The crushing weight of loneliness you’ve carried for so long feels, for the first time, manageable.
“I was terrified,” he admits, his voice rough with an emotion he no longer tries to hide. “When that beam hit you … I haven’t felt fear like that in a long time. The thought of losing you …” He trails off, the words too heavy to speak.
You open your eyes, meeting his gaze. The leader’s mask is gone. In its place is only Leo—and his fear for you is a humbling thing to witness.
You lift your hand, placing it over his on your cheek, mirroring his gesture. “I am still here,” you murmur.
“Stay,” he whispers, the single word a plea.
He leans in, his lips meeting yours in a soft, searching pressure. It is a kiss of quiet strength, shared burdens, and a safe harbor in the endless night. He pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his thumb stroking your cheek.
And in the quiet stillness of the dojo, you feel the beginning of a new eternity, one you might actually want to live.
RAPH
Your recovery is a slow, infuriating process.
And Raph seems to feel every bit of that frustration alongside you.
He doesn’t offer gentle words or clinical care. Instead, he channels his guilt and rage into a fierce protectiveness bordering on anger. He avoids your gaze, stalking around the lair like a caged beast.
He brings you blood packs from your private stash, which he and Leo retrieved, shoving them onto the table beside you with a gruff, “Here,” before storming away as if your very presence burns him.
At first, you think it is his old suspicion returning. But you soon learn to read the language of Raph’s anger. It is a shield; he can’t stand to see you injured. To see the proof that he wasn’t fast enough—or strong enough—to stop Bishop. His anger is not aimed at you.
It’s directed at himself.
As you heal, moving from the lab to the main area, he finds new ways to hover. If you’re reading on the couch, he’ll start aggressively cleaning his weapons nearby. If you’re watching a movie with Mikey, he’ll lift weights in the corner. He is always there, a guardian at the edge of your vision.
One afternoon, weeks into your recovery, you grow tired of the inactivity. You find a bokken and attempt to run through some simple forms in the dojo, testing your mended muscles. You don’t get through two movements before he storms in, his face a thundercloud.
“What the hell do you think you’re doin’?” he growls, snatching the wooden sword from your hand. “You’re gonna tear somethin’! You ain’t ready!”
“I need to know my limits, Raph,” you reply coolly, meeting his furious gaze without flinching.
His expression flickers. For a moment, fear replaces the anger. He shoves the bokken back at you, but gently. “Then you’ll find ‘em with me,” he mutters. “But we go slow. You feel anything pull, you stop. Got it?”
For the next hour, he guides you through forms. His corrections are blunt. But he controls his movements, telegraphing every move. He is actively fighting his own nature to give you the space to work out your body. It is the gentlest you have ever seen him be, and it is all filtered through a lens of simmering frustration. This, you realize, is his unconventional way of caring.
Finally, a month after the attack, you find him in the dojo late at night. He’s not training. He’s just standing there, staring at his sais, turning them over and over in his hands.
“Blaming yourself will not change what happened,” you say softly, stepping out of the shadows.
He jumps, whirling on you, his expression a mix of surprise and a scowl. “What’re you doin’ up? You should be in bed.”
“I’m not made of glass.” You take a step closer, into his space, refusing to let him retreat behind his anger. “This was not your fault.”
“Yeah, well, it was my job to stop him!” he snarls, his voice cracking with emotion. “I saw him aimin’ for Mikey, and you were just … faster. You took a hit that shoulda been for one of us. That I shoulda taken.”
“You were fighting to protect your family,” you counter. “So was I. That makes us the same.”
The fight drains out of him at your words. The tough-guy act crumbles, revealing the guilt-ridden turtle beneath. “I can’t stop seeing it,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “You, on the floor … the smell of …” He can’t finish. He shoves his weapons back into his belt and turns away, slamming a fist against the wall with a cry of frustration.
You move before you think, closing the distance between you. You place a hand gently on his trembling shoulder. “Raph.”
He freezes at your touch, his entire body tense. Slowly, he turns back to face you. His eyes are glistening with unshed tears of rage and sorrow. In that moment, he looks so much younger than the fierce warrior he presents to the world.
“Don’t,” he chokes out, a plea for you not to see him so broken.
“You are not allowed to carry this,” you say, your voice firm but gentle, an order he can understand. “I made my choice. I would make it again. In a heartbeat.”
That’s what breaks him.
He surges forward, his hands coming up to cup your face—before crashing his mouth against yours. The kiss is fierce, messy, and full of all the things he cannot say. It’s a thank you, an apology, a release of weeks of pent-up fear and fury.
You kiss him back with equal fervor, your hands tangling in the tails of his mask, pulling him closer. This is his language, you realize—a raw, unfiltered honesty that is more potent than any carefully chosen words.
And for the first time, you feel completely fluent.
DONNIE
The first days are full of Donnie’s scientific dedication.
He monitors your vitals, synthesizes a nutrient-rich salve, and logs every minute detail of your unprecedented cellular regeneration. He speaks in terms of biology and physics, his focus solely on your recovery.
But as the long hours in the lab stretch on, the nature of it shifts.
He starts to see you as more than a collection of extraordinary data points. It begins with small gestures. He notices you dislike the silence and puts on soft classical music. He starts bringing two mugs of tea into the lab during his late-night shifts: one for him, and one for you. You don’t need it, of course. But you accept it every time.
The conversations evolve. He asks about your life, his questions going from “how” to “what was it like.” He wants to know about witnessing the first printing presses, the discovery of electricity, the birth of the very sciences he holds so dear. You, in turn, are captivated by his brilliant mind.
You ask him to explain his own work, and his eyes light up as he details the elegance of a piece of code or the beauty of a flawlessly integrated microchip. You discover a deep intellectual kinship, a meeting of minds that transcends the centuries between you.
One evening, he’s struggling with a complex schematic for a new defensive perimeter. He’s been staring at it for hours, muttering. You lean over, your head close to his, and point to a section.
“In the 17th century,” you say softly, “fortress architects realized that a simple external ravelin could disrupt a direct assault far more effectively than a complex internal bastion.” You sketch a simple alteration on a spare notepad.
He stares at your drawing, then at the schematic. And then at you, his mouth slightly agape. “That’s brilliantly simple. It breaks the loop entirely.” He looks at you, not as a patient, but as a collaborator. A blush colors his cheeks.
The night he is to remove the last of the bandages is quiet. The rest of the lair is asleep; it’s just you and him in the glow of his lab’s monitors. You’re sitting on the edge of the medical cot, your back to him.
“There is scarring, but the tissue has fully regenerated,” he says, his voice soft with a mixture of professional relief and personal awe. His fingers trace the edge of the scar tissue. His touch, however, is no longer clinical.
It’s tender, sending a shiver through you.
“Thanks to you,” you say, your voice a murmur. “I would not have healed so quickly, or so well, without your care, Donnie.”
You turn to face him. He quickly pulls his hand back, the blush returning with a vengeance. He fusses with a nearby scanner, avoiding your gaze. “It was just … applied science. The data was clear.”
You smile, reaching out to still his fidgeting hands with your own. His skin is cool, and you can feel a slight tremor in his fingers. “It was more than that. You have been a wonderful … everything.”
He finally meets your eyes. “I was worried,” he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not just scientifically. The probability of complications was high, but that’s not what kept me awake. I was … worried about you. The person, not the patient.”
The simple, heartfelt admission makes your heart ache with warmth. You see past the genius, past the inventor—to the kind soul who has painstakingly pieced you back together, both body and spirit.
“Donnie,” you whisper.
His breath hitches. You lean in slowly, giving him every chance to pull away. He doesn’t. He watches you with wide, trusting eyes as you close the distance between you.
Your lips meet his in a kiss that is as gentle and tentative as he is. He makes a small, surprised sound, then melts into the kiss, his hands coming up to rest shyly on your waist. It is a kiss of shared intellect and gentle care.
A perfect equation that solves for a feeling you never thought you would experience again.
MIKEY
In the hazy, pain-filled aftermath of Bishop’s attack, Mikey is your light.
While Donnie tends to your physical wounds, Mikey tends to your spirit. He refuses to let you succumb to the pain of your recovery. Appointing himself your ‘Entertainment Guru,’ he sets up a small TV in the lab to play your favorite old black-and-white monster movies. He reads you his comic books, dramatically doing all the voices.
He is the one you saved, and he carries that fact not as a burden, but as a badge of honor. His gratitude manifests as an unwavering need to see you happy. He’s not just in awe of your “super vampire powers” anymore; he genuinely cares for your well-being. He fluffs your pillow and makes sure your blood packs are within easy reach.
When you are strong enough to leave the lab, he becomes your constant companion. You watch him play video games for hours, and he hands you a controller, insisting you try. Your preternatural reflexes make you a formidable opponent, and your victories are met with whoops of his delighted laughter.
He teaches you to skateboard in the lair’s main room. You, who can move like a phantom through the night, are clumsy at first on the rolling board. He skates circles around you, laughing. But his hands are always out, ready to catch you.
It is in these simple, shared moments you feel the walls you’ve built over centuries begin to crumble. His joy is utterly disarming and infectious. One afternoon, he sees you staring out towards the sealed sewer entrance, your expression wistful.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” he asks softly, sitting beside you.
“The sky,” you murmur, a rare moment of vulnerability. “I sometimes forget what a blue sky looks like.”
Uncharacteristically serious, he gives a nod. He thinks for a moment, then dashes off to his room, returning with a sketchbook and colored pencils. He sits beside you and, with intense concentration, draws a vast blue sky filled with fluffy white clouds and a smiling sun.
“Here,” he says, ripping it out and handing it to you. “So you don’t forget.”
His empathy strikes a chord deep within you. You carefully fold the drawing and keep it.
One evening, you are finally well enough for a proper movie marathon on the couch. Mikey insists, piling blankets and pillows around you to create a “fort of ultimate comfort.” He puts on an action film full of chases and thrilling fight scenes.
Halfway through, a vivid battle scene flashes on the screen, with lasers and explosions too reminiscent of the EPF attack. You flinch, a sharp gasp escaping you as the phantom pain of the UV beam ghosts across your back.
Instantly, the movie is paused. “Hey, you okay?” Mikey’s voice is soft as he leans towards you, his face etched with worry.
“I’m fine,” you lie, trying to regain your composure. “Just a memory.”
“A bad one,” he says, his perception once again surprising you. He doesn’t press. Instead, he shifts closer and, with a shy hesitation, puts his arm around your shoulders. “It’s okay,” he says. “You’re safe here. I’m here.”
You lean into his touch, the warmth of his body comforting. You rest your head against his shoulder. And he responds by gently pulling you closer, so you’re tucked against his side in the blanket fort.
“You’re the bravest person I know,” he whispers into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “When you … when you jumped in front of me … I’ll never forget that.”
You turn your head, your face now inches from his. The adoration in his eyes is pure and unfiltered. “I would let no one harm you, Mikey.”
“I know,” he says, his gaze flicking down to your lips for a heartbeat before meeting your eyes again, a blush spreading across his cheeks.
Then he leans in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that is as heartfelt as he is. You cup his cheek, your thumb stroking his skin, and kiss him back. In his arms, you feel something you thought was lost to you forever.
