Reacting to You Wearing Their Signature Color (2003)
💚 2003 Turtles/Gender Neutral Reader 💚
A/N: I’ve done a similar concept before, but I wanted to take another crack at it and do things a bit differently this time.
Enjoy! 😊
CWs: Fluff, mild sibling teasing, protective and somewhat possessive Raph. All characters are aged-up.
LEO
Leo is a traditionalist at heart, so to him, colors have deep meaning; for him, they represent alignment, loyalty, and clan. Seeing you in his specific shade of blue hits him right in his deeply ingrained sense of duty and devotion.
He notices the exact second you enter the lair. He stops mid-sentence or mid-kata, his eyes widening just a fraction. A warm, incredibly soft smile breaks across his face, and his posture immediately relaxes.
He won’t make a loud scene about it. But he’ll walk over, smooth down the shoulder or collar of your shirt, and linger a little closer to you than usual.
If Mikey or Raph tries to tease you about it, he’ll calmly step in, wrap an arm around your waist, and say with absolute, quiet confidence: “I think the blue suits them perfectly. Leave them alone.” He feels an intense wave of pride knowing you are openly representing him.
RAPH
Raph is a creature of intense emotion and possession, but he is also incredibly easily flustered. Red is a loud, bold color, and seeing you wear it is an immediate shock to his system.
When he sees you, his face instantly matches his mask. He will literally choke on his words, sputter, and look away, rubbing the back of his neck to try to hide how much he is blushing.
He gets defensive because his brothers will roast him immediately. Mikey will start making kissing noises, and Raph will threaten to throw Mikey into a sewage tank. But once his brothers leave you two alone? He can’t keep his hands off you. He’ll pull you against his chest, tucking you under his chin.
He’ll mutter into your hair, trying to sound gruff but failing completely: “Hey, listen to me. Don’t wear that outside the lair, alright? Unless I’m with you. I don’t need every punk in New York knowing you belong to me when I’m not around to break their jaws.”
DONNIE
For Donnie, purple isn’t just a color; it’s his identity in a household of loud personalities. He is used to being the tech guy in the background, so you choosing his color feels incredibly validating to his sweet, slightly insecure heart.
He’s usually hyper-focused on a monitor or a disassembled engine. But when you walk into the lab wearing his shade of purple, he drops his wrench. He blinks, and a huge, endearing grin spreads across his face.
He gets a little shy but incredibly affectionate. Then he’ll immediately pull you onto his lap or drag an extra stool over so you can sit next to him while he works. He loves the visual of you matching him while you both hang out.
He’ll look at you with total adoration, tapping your nose. “Is that … my shade? You know, scientifically speaking, purple represents creativity and wisdom. On you, I think it looks perfect.”
MIKEY
Mikey is the hype man of the century. Orange is loud, bright, and energetic—just like him. If you wear orange, he takes it as a literal declaration of your ultimate love and allegiance to him, and he will make sure the entire universe knows it.
When he sees you, he’ll literally gasp, slide across the kitchen floor, or jump over the back of the sofa, pointing at you with dinner forks or a video game controller—whatever he currently has in his hand(s).
He’ll strut around the lair, parading you in front of his brothers. He’ll drape his arms around your shoulders, cheek pressed against yours, gloating to Raph and Leo about how he is clearly the favorite.
“Oh my gosh, LOOK AT THIS! Leo, Raph, Donnie—behold! The official Team Mikey uniform! I knew you loved me best; I knew it! Come here, give your favorite turtle a hug. We are officially matching. We look like a crime-fighting duo. Do you want a cape? I can find us capes.”
This is based off a dream I have from time to time and I’ve been wanting to write something about it so I hope you all enjoy <3
————
You had that dream again.
The one where you find yourself in the middle of the street in the dead of night and there’s not one soul around.
It’s an eerie kind of emptiness that always makes your skin prickle uncomfortably.
With how many times you’ve had this dream, you’d think you’d be able to take control right at the start but you don’t. You call out for help, yell ‘hello’ and walk around but are always met with silence.
You wander
And wander
And wander
You stay on the street because surely you’ll eventually reach the end or even an intersection, maybe come across somebody or even a pigeon.
You don’t take account of how long you really walk for.
Usually around now is when you realize that you’re dreaming so you call out one more time.
Except it’s a name.
You never know what it is because every time you speak no sound comes out but you know you’re talking because you feel the way your throat vibrates and how your mouth forms the word.
You were never good at reading lips so you’ve yet decipher it.
And after calling said name you walk again but not for long because soon you feel a presence, something looming over and watching you from the rooftops.
And you pause for a moment and call out the name again but get no answer.
You’re being watched.
A few more steps are taken and suddenly you sense something closer than before.
You turn and make out a figure in the alleyway and even though there’s a street light, it doesn’t really do much help.
For a moment nothing is said, only a look shared between two strangers.
But you’re not really strangers are you?
You go forward and the figure goes back. It’s odd you think, because they’re the one cloaked in shadows while you’re exposed in light. Yet you’re not afraid, no far from it. In fact you feel almost calm and at peace around this mysterious figure .
So you take another step and then another and this time they don’t back off, instead coming close enough just to the edge of the darkness so as to not expose themself.
Even this up close you can’t really make out any features, only that they seem to have a bulky shape.
You lift your hand, palm towards them and extend it an inch, waiting.
You can practically feel how the figure tenses yet they mirror you and stop right before they’re hit by light.
There’s only a sliver of space between your hands and right when you’re about to touch
You wake up.
The dream has been essentially the same ever since you started having it. You began to write down details because you read somewhere that it helps your mind remember and eventually take control to lucid dream.
Yet no matter how hard you try, you never figure out the name nor do you ever see them casted in light.
And then one night during the dream you call out for them.
But this time you get no response.
You try to push down on the ache in your chest and call out again and again and again but…
Nothing.
When you wake up you place a hand over your thudding heart in an attempt to soothe yourself but it does very little.
For the rest of day the dream weighs heavily on your mind.
‘Why didn’t they show?’
‘Did something happen?’
And you try to rationalize and tell yourself it’s just a dream, that they don’t necessarily mean anything or have significance to real life.
But the heaviness in your heart says otherwise.
And when it’s time to finally go home and call it a day, you end up having to take some roundabout route due to police tape and cars cutting off the main sidewalk you use.
So into the dark scary alleyway you go.
It’s fine at first, only a slightly longer detour to reach your humble abode, no problem.
Except when someone is running towards you, breathing heavily and panting as they barrel in your direction, you think ‘okay, maybe one problem.’
You’re under a singular hanging light and the guy zooms past you with wide panicked eyes and you can only watch (and listen) as he stutters about something about a ‘giant freak’.
The man doesn’t get very far because something gets thrown at his head and he collides into a dumpster and is in an unconscious heap on the ground within the blink of an eye.
You stare in confusion and are almost tempted to go check on him because whatever knocked him out sounded pretty hefty. You make the motion to go forward but then hear something behind you.
“You alright?”
You presume this is the ‘giant freak’ and slowly turn around to face him.
It’s like déjà vu once you register the form of the stranger and even though this is the first time you’re hearing his voice it feels… familiar.
“Fine, I’m fine…” you answer.
You see him nod and start to retreat but something in you calls out.
“No, wait please,”
He stops and looks over his shoulder but doesn’t make any further moves.
You step to the blurry edge of the ring of light that halos you and lift your palm to him because something in you is screaming and tugging you towards him. It’s an invisible rope that’s connecting you two and all you can think of is: ‘it’s them it’s them!’
He stills for a second but then faces you fully once more and also lifts his hand.
In your dream you’re never able to make any specific features but here in reality you can make out what looks to be three fingers instead of five and that should frighten you but it doesn’t.
Just like in your dream.
You try to make eye contact with him but it’s still too dark, the whites of what you think are his eyes barely illuminated. So you rely on your instincts and close that distance of space between your hands.
Calloused.
Cold.
Green.
And upon that first touch you feel the tiniest flinch from him but he doesn’t shy away and neither do you.
And when he says your name; cautious, careful but hopeful, you finally realize the name you’ve been calling out in your dreams all this time.
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 🙏
idiots in love, friends to lovers, tooth rotting fluff
It was another rough night at work, and the ride home on the subway only added to your sour mood as the man from a few seats down took it upon himself to slide into the empty spot next to you, striking up an unwanted conversation as you cursed your earlier self for forgetting your headphones at home this afternoon.
As the doors opened and you stepped off the platform, you made a quick bolt up the stairs and out to the city streets above, the twinkling of the buildings and signs overhead illuminating your steps as you trekked the short distance to your apartment building.
New York City had a way of making you feel big and small at the same time; it was a city where anything could happen- but also, anything could happen.
Your subway experiences had been interesting lately since you started working later shifts, having sometimes uncomfortable encounters like the man today. His comments had left you feeling slimy, and after the day at work you just had- you really needed to go home and yell in a pillow.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket as you trodded down the sidewalk, and you smiled to yourself- knowing who it was without having to check.
Red <3: Night go ok?
A warmth crept over your face as you looked down at the screen. For a self-proclaimed tough guy, he always made sure to check up on you when you weren't there.
Despite his posturing in front of his brothers that he didn't really care.
You shot a quick text back to your friend before sliding the keys into your front door as you unlocked the bolt and stepped inside, flicking on the light with a lazy motion as you unloaded your bag and coat by the entry way.
The couch groaned under you as you flopped onto the cushions face first, sighing heavily into the fabric.
Today sucked.
Your manager at work had been even worse today, hovering over the employees as the team prepped for a visit from corporate. Everyone had been on edge because of it- and it all could've been avoided if your dirtbag manager just got their crap together.
But no.
Your phone vibrated again, and you fished it from your pocket as you sat up from the cushions.
Red <3: Home yet?
Raphael always had a way of just knowing with you.
You had been friends with the turtles for years, but what you and the red-banded ninja shared was, well...it was special.
It was a friendship forged in unconditional trust and understanding; ever since that first night that he had found you crying on your roof- and you had cussed him out for seeing you like that.
You could be open with Raph; and despite the fronts you put up around other people, you could let down the wall in front of each other and just be yourselves.
You could talk about things, feel things-
It was safe.
The tap at your window came quicker than you expected.
He must've had a bad day too.
You walked the short distance to the window, unlatching it and pushing the heavy frame up with a shove as a green, scaled mutant turtle peeked out from the darkness from your balcony.
"...Hey."
A soft chuckle was heard in the silence between you.
"...Hey, Raph."
You took a few steps backwards, giving him space to step into the warmth of your apartment as you grabbed him a beer from your fridge.
He looked down at the bottle as you offered it to him, something warm flickering across his eyes for a brief moment before the thought was interrupted by your question.
"So....tough day?"
He popped the cap off as he answered, shaking his head.
"Ah, nah." You watched as he sauntered over to the couch, sitting down with a flop as the furniture groaned under his weight in protest. He gave you a lopsided grin. "I could jus tell ya had a shit day, figured ya'd want to let off some steam or some shit."
Your head cocked to the side as a confused look crawled over your face, and you pulled your phone back out of your pocket to look at your text to him.
I'm fine.
Ah.
Yeah.
He knew you better than that.
His deep voice brought your attention back to his smug face, seemingly satisfied with himself as he took a long swig from the bottle while he watched you.
"So- what's goin on, slugger?"
You sat down on the couch and laid your head onto his lap, sighing loudly.
"It was just work, man. It sucks. I-..I just fucking hate it."
Raphael nodded behind you, and you feel a tridactyl hand lightly settle onto your shoulder, rubbing gentle circles in the comforting way that only he can do.
"Yeah, that's gotta blow."
Your hands comes to rest on his thigh, fingers feeling the scaled surface of his pebbled skin underneath your fingertips as you continue.
"I just...I just wish that I could just hide here, you know? Like never deal with people ever again."
He laughs above you, and you turn over your shoulder to lie on your back, gazing up at him with an amused look on your face.
"What, Raphie?"
He rolls his eyes, but the smirk doesn't leave.
"Was just thinkin you'd be lonely, that's all."
A quiet laugh slips out of your throat, smile playing at your lips.
"I wouldn't be lonely- you're all I need, really."
He huffs under his breath. "Yeh, ok. Whatever."
"I mean it, Raph. You're all I need."
Raphael's smile slowly fades from his face, the bottle slipping out of his grip as it falls to the floor with a soft thunk; his hands reaching down to grab your face as he stares at you, eyes wide.
Paralyzed.
"Raph...? Are you-"
"What- whaddya mean-"
His eyes search yours as he cuts off your words, his heartbeat picking up and pounding so loudly you can feel it through his plastron as you lay in his lap.
You can feel the warmth spread over your cheeks, traveling down your chest. "I...what do you mean..?"
The tempo of your heart matches his as your gazes remain locked; neither of you wanting to admit, to move forward.
Not wanting to admit to something that you've danced around for for years.
Or wanting to ruin a friendship that's kept you both above water.
You can't imagine a life without Raphael.
And this might ruin everything.
You hear the low growl in his throat as his hands tense against your face.
"Fuck it."
Your breath catches in your throat as his head dips down, lips descending upon yours, urgent and demanding, as if he's been starving. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his mask tails, gripping and pulling him closer as your lips crash and part like waves against the shore.
Everything is vibrating, ringing.
This is happening.
Holy shit, this is happening.
You groan softly into the kiss, your hand coming up to hold his against your face as you kiss him back, fiercely.
In a blink of stiffened muscles and chests heaving, Raph tenses and pulls back slightly, his breath hot and uneven against your skin as you both pant in the small space between you; neither of you sure-
Of anything.
For a moment his gaze searches yours, something swirling in the depths of his eyes.
You've seen that look before.
You trail your fingers up, tracing the curves of his face, feeling the tension there as he watches you; apprehension clear on both of your faces for a brief second before you take a deep breath.
The wall can come down.
Raphael is safe.
He won't hurt you; he'll always be here for you.
Pulling him back down by his mask tails, you brush your lips against his once more, a gentle promise there as he releases a ragged sigh, melting into the kiss; the world around you spinning at the sensation.
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.
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.
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.
