Dealing With SO’s Major Career or Life Failure (2007)
💚 2007 Turtles/Gender Neutral Reader 💚
A/N: The 2007 movie line-up went through so much trauma, and I really wanted to explore how they’d use their own rock-bottom moments to pull you out of yours.
Enjoy! 😊
CWs: Discussions of failure & burnout, emotional exhaustion, crying/breakdowns, mentions of canon trauma, and mild mentions of anger & aggression. All characters are aged-up.
LEO
“I spent a year in the jungle trying to find myself because I thought I had failed my family. The hardest lesson I learned is that falling down isn’t the end of the story. We breathe, we reset, and we figure out tomorrow together.”
Because Leo carried the crushing weight of feeling like a failure during his exile in Central America—and experienced the harsh reality of returning home only to find his family fractured—he views your failure not as an end, but as a severe storm that you simply must weather.
He’s incredibly calm, but it’s a protective, deliberate calm. If you’re crying, venting, or sitting in stunned silence, he won’t force you to talk. He’ll make a pot of tea, wrap a blanket around your shoulders, and sit right next to you.
He knows the dangerous spiral of tying your entire identity to your success. He will gently remind you that this failure does not define your worth.
He becomes your tactical coordinator for life. Once the initial shock wears off, he will help you break down your next steps into small, manageable daily goals.
RAPH
“Hey. Look at me. Screw them, okay? They don’t see what you’re capable of, but I do. You’re allowed to be pissed off. Just don’t you dare start thinking you’re not enough. Let me carry the weight for a bit.”
Raph spent a long time drowning in bitterness, feeling abandoned, and channeling his disappointment into violent vigilantism. When you experience a major life failure, his immediate internal reaction is a protective, simmering rage at the world for hurting you.
He also wants to punch whatever or whoever caused this. If it’s a toxic boss, a canceled contract, or a failed exam, he’s pacing the room, cracking his knuckles, and aggressively validating your anger. He wants you to get mad instead of letting sadness consume you.
He hates seeing the people he loves feel small or helpless. He knows how easy it is to let failure turn into hatred, and he wants to shield you from that poison.
He provides a safe space for your rawest, ugliest emotions. If you need to scream, cry, or smash cheap plates in an alleyway, he’ll provide the plates. Later, he’ll pull you into a big hug, burying his face in your hair.
DONNIE
“Take all the time you need to just … exist. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. The world out there is messy, but in here? You’re safe. Let me take care of things for a while.”
Donnie once swallowed his pride and took a mundane tech-support job to pay the bills while the family drifted apart. He understands the quiet, humiliating sting of having to compromise your dreams and feeling intellectually or professionally stifled.
His heart absolutely breaks for you. He won’t try to offer aggressive motivation like Raph or philosophical advice like Leo; instead, he hyper-focuses on your comfort and creating a stress-free environment.
He knows how exhausting it is to put on a brave face when you feel like you’re failing. He wants his lab or your apartment to be a place where the expectations of the outside world completely cease to exist.
He takes over your logistics. He’ll silently handle your chores, cook your favorite meals, and set up a quiet space for you. If you want a distraction, he’ll pull up a chair next to his desk and let you watch him work, talking in a low, soothing voice about boring tech specs just to give your mind a break.
MIKEY
“I know it feels like everything is ruined right now, and it sucks. It really, really sucks. But you’re still you, and you’re the most amazing person I know. You don’t need that old job/plan, anyway. We’re gonna make a new one, okay?”
Mikey spent months wearing a suffocating Cowabunga Carl suit, being underappreciated, and hiding his loneliness behind a painted-on smile. He knows exactly what it feels like to feel stuck, overlooked, and unaccomplished.
His usual high-energy demeanor drops into something incredibly tender and earnest. He can read emotional shifts instantly. He won’t force you to cheer up, but he will be a fountain of unconditional love.
He believes that your happiness and peace of mind are infinitely more important than any career, title, or external achievement.
He’ll order your favorite comfort food, put on your fave terrible movies, or play video games with you. He’ll sit with you in the dark, letting you cry into his shoulder, and remind you with total sincerity that you are his favorite part of every day.
Warnings: Angst, mentions of death, but also comfort!, you kiss and make up surprise surprise
--
Months, it has been months since you’ve last seen Raphael.
You still see stories about the Nightwatcher in the paper and on the news— your heart shattering somehow even more every time you see them because true to his word, he didn’t stop.
Donnie and Mikey have reached out to you, your absence in the Lair immediately becoming noticed. They tell you that Raph is more on edge now, angrier than usual. You tell them that you broke up but don’t go into detail why, saying that you felt he wasn’t giving you any time anymore.
While you hated what he was doing, it wasn’t your secret to tell.
You have to stop yourself from reaching out but god does it fucking hurt whenever you think about him. Is he okay? Is he being safe? Is he being reckless?
So many questions yet not a single answer.
You can’t help but picture the worst sometimes; him lying bloody and broken on the ground with his brothers unable to help. Sometimes when your phone pings, you fear that it’s one of them calling to tell you that they found Raphael dead. You scare yourself even more by thinking of them never finding his body, that somehow scientists got a hold of him and are doing tests and experiments on him.
You can’t recall how many nights you’ve cried yourself to sleep, how you’ve hugged your pillow to your chest and inhaled his fading scent so deep that you’ve nearly made yourself lightheaded from holding your breath. How you find yourself subconsciously glancing to your bedroom window whenever you hear a noise because you think it might be him coming.
You miss him so much and there are times when you feel incredibly guilty for what you did. Maybe you should have listened to him, given him his space and waited for him to come to you and then maybe you wouldn’t be hurting as much as you were right now.
You wonder if he’s in just as much pain as you.
It’s another late night for you, sitting on your couch and watching some t.v show that’s been marathoning all day. You have half an empty bowl of popcorn sitting on your side and a few candy wrappers littering the cushions and floor. You should clean it up but you feel that you haven’t really been able to do much of that since your breakup.
Taking a glance at your phone and seeing how late it is, you decide to call it a night. You manage to pick up the mess and turn the t.v off before dropping everything off in your kitchen. After cleaning up, you head into your bathroom to do your nightly routine and then go hit the sack.
Your room is dark when you walk in and you feel along your wall for your light switch, but you stop when you see a faint gleam at your window. You freeze up, a cold chill traveling down your spine when the shine moves a bit. There’s just enough moonlight to shine down on whatever is on your fire escape, but not enough to fully illuminate.
You see whatever it is move again and then you hear light tapping against the glass. Your breath catches in your throat, flicking on the light and seeing Raph crouched on your fire escape, an unreadable expression on his face.
You nearly run over to open your window but you compose yourself, clearing your throat before slowly heading over. You can’t take your eyes off him, not with the way his amber gaze practically burns holes into your skull. The click of the latch unlocking seems to echo through your room, adding to the irregular rapid heartbeat inside your chest. You step back as Raph pushes the window and climbs inside.
The silence is deafening, your chest heaving in on itself as you fight so desperately not to break down and cry when you take in his state.
He's tired, so so so tired and you see it in his eyes and posture.
For everything that you've been through; the tears, the laughs, the fights, the memories...
It all comes flooding back to you in this moment and you know that you can't stay angry at him any longer.
"You're an idiot." You whisper.
He nods, fingers flexing against his palms.
"I know."
And for that answer a sob bubbles through your lips, tears stream down your eyes and you finally allow yourself to fall apart and bring him into your arms.
Raph wastes no time in reciprocating, holding you a bit too tight against his plastron but you don't care. Your arms scramble to find the best position to hug him but eventually they settle around his neck, your face burying itself in the same spot as you loudly cry.
His hand moves up and down your back in soothing motions while the other clasps around the back of your head. He's missed you so god damn much, every second without you felt like pure torture and the longer he went without you the more he realized how utterly stupid he was for not trusting you with his secret.
You were-- are, the love of his fucking life and he can't throw it away just like that.
"M'so fucking sorry, sweetheart."
His voice, deep and raspy, rattles your bones. You feel it against your skull and the vibrations make you shiver because it's been months since you last heard him talk.
"I'm sorry for pushing you." You sob, "I didn't want to trap you, I just--"
He shushes you gently, pulling back to tenderly cup his hands around your face. His eyes, usually so strong, now carry so much in them as he gazes upon you.
"I should'a trusted you. I was scared and I know that's no excuse but. Fuck, sweetheart m'so sorry for what I said, I didn't mean it..." Both his thumbs wipe away the fresh tears from beneath your eyes and you swear you can see faint traces of his own eyes shining but you don't say anything.
"Can I kiss you?" He murmurs quietly, allowing himself to look at your mouth for a second before coming back to your watery eyes.
You laugh, nodding enthusiastically before another whimper sounds through.
"Yeah," You whisper, sniffling and letting more tears drip down.
"Yeah?" He repeats, smiling faintly.
And then he's leaning down to press his mouth to yours, soft at first but then he's pushing deeper, hands holding onto you tight to keep you steady. Your lips move steadily against each other, refamiliarizing yourselves with the taste and feel of the kiss you've longed for.
Before you know it he's picking you up and securing his hands beneath your thighs, taking you to your bed to lay you down and crawl over. He breaks the kiss to pepper smaller ones across your cheeks, enticing soft laughter from you and it makes his heart thud heavily in his chest.
"I love you so much, sweetheart..." He whispers against your mouth.
"I love you too, Raph."
He smiles and kisses you again, no rush whatsoever in his movements but you feel the way his hands start to touch up and down your body.
"We still gotta talk about things." You mumble, despite the fact that your hands also start to roam over his shell.
He grumbles and shifts to your neck, kisses featherlight and breath fanning over your already warm skin.
"We will. Got time to make up for first though..."
You can't argue, instead letting him show you just how much he's missed you.
Can you do a 2007 Raph x collage psychology student reader
After Leo leaves, Reader just moved from Florida to New York for college to become a therapist, but still keeps in touch with her family by calling every few days. She meets Raph by accident a week moving into her dorm, and after spending some time together, they eventually start dating (her roommate knows about him, but they just don't really care, lol).
Two months into the relationship, Reader gets a call from her parents that a family member she doesn't know died, and even though she doesn't really care, she still wants to be there to support them, and when Reader tells Raph about the situation he pretends to take it well but is worried she's not going to come back even though she says she will. So when she does come back a few days later, she spends the next couple days with him to make him feel better.
A/N: This ended up a bit longer than I originally intended, but I really wanted to properly set up Raph and the reader’s relationship and display his insecurities regarding Leo leaving and how that affected him.
I hope you enjoy! 💖
I’m Not Going Anywhere (angst)
❤️ 2007 Raphael/Female Reader ❤️
CWs: Angst, some brief violence, blood and injury, hurt/comfort, and abandonment issues. All characters are aged-up.
The move from Florida to New York was jarring. The skyline swallows the stars, the cold air bites harder than you expected, and the city never stops buzzing. You traded palm trees and predictability for subway maps and a cramped dorm room. But although it’s only been a week, it already feels more like home than Florida ever did.
You moved away for college to study psychology, finally pursuing your dream of helping people untangle the knots in their heads. You miss your family, and you had promised to call at least every couple of days. Your mom always sounds a little too cheerful, your dad distracted in the background. They mean well.
They just don’t quite understand why psychology, why New York, why now. And you try not to feel the weight of their confusion pressing behind every “we’re proud of you.”
Then one night, on the way back from a late study group, it happens. You’re still memorizing the streets and directions, and you end up taking a wrong turn trying to find the quickest route back to your dorm, earbuds in and your thoughts drifting. You almost don’t notice the guy in the alley—until a sharp, desperate cry cuts through your music.
You yank your earbuds out. You hear heavy breathing, the scuff of shoes on asphalt, and a low, threatening voice: “Just give us the wallet, old man. And the watch. Don’t make this difficult.” Peeking around the dumpster that marks the alley’s entrance, your blood runs cold.
Two large, brutish men have a third, much older man pinned against the brick wall. His face is pale with terror, his hands raised in surrender. Your own hands begin to tremble. This is it. The New York horror story every out-of-towner is warned about. Your first instinct, a primal scream in your gut, is to run. To turn and sprint back to the well-lit street, dial 9-1-1, and forget you ever saw anything.
The man’s fearful eyes meet yours for a fleeting second over the shoulder of one of his assailants, a silent plea that roots you to the spot. The future therapist in you, the part that wants to help, wars with the terrified Florida girl who is way out of her depth. Before you can settle on a choice, it’s made for you.
There’s a metallic clang from above, like a dropped wrench on a fire escape. The two thugs look up, annoyed. “What the hell was that?” one of them growls.
Someone drops from the darkness above, landing in a low crouch, clad in armor. “You heard him,” a voice rumbles, low and gravelly, distorted by the helmet. “Don’t make this difficult.”
The thugs are momentarily stunned. Then one of them scoffs, pulling out a knife. “And who are you supposed to be? Some kinda bargain-bin Batman?”
The armored figure doesn’t answer with words; he moves. An elbow connects with the first thug’s jaw with a sickening crack. A metal-gauntleted fist slams into the second one’s stomach, doubling him over with a gasp. In less than ten seconds, both men are groaning on the ground, disarmed and incapacitated, the fight over before it truly began.
The armored vigilante turns to the old man, who is staring, slack-jawed. “Go. Get out of here.” The command is rough, impatient. The old man doesn’t need to be told twice. He scrambles away, disappearing into the night.
Then, the helmeted head turns to you.
You’re still frozen at the alley’s edge, your bag held to your chest like a shield. The heavy helmet tilts down, and you feel the weight of an unseen gaze sweep over you, assessing. You see your own wide-eyed, terrified reflection warped in the visor. For a heart-stopping moment, you think he’s going to come for you next, another loose end to be dealt with.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the voice rumbles. It’s not a question; it’s a statement of fact, laced with annoyance.
Your brain, which had shut down completely, reboots with a jolt. “I … I took a wrong turn,” you stammer, the words barely a whisper. Your knuckles are white where you’re clutching your bag strap.
He takes a half-step towards you, and you flinch, pressing yourself back against the grimy brick of the building behind you. “Go home,” he grunts, gesturing dismissively towards the street. “And forget you saw anything.”
He grabs the bottom rung of a fire escape ladder, preparing to haul himself up. He’s leaving. Just like that. The encounter is over. All you have to do is turn around and walk away. Go back to your dorm, lock the door, and pretend this was a nightmare brought on by too much caffeine and stress.
But you don’t move.
“Wait,” you call out, your voice steadier than you expect.
He freezes, one boot on the first rung of the ladder. He doesn’t turn around, but you can feel his entire body tense.
“You’re hurt,” you add, your observational skills kicking in despite the shock. You can see a wound on his arm, something that must have happened in the brief scuffle.
“I’m fine,” he bites out, the words clipped.
“It’s bleeding,” you insist, taking a cautious step forward. You point toward the gash on his bicep, where blood is slowly seeping through a tear in the fabric under his armor. “You can’t just leave that. It’ll get infected.”
He takes a step down from the ladder, and then another, until he’s standing in the alley again, looming over you. “What part of ‘go home’ did you not understand? Are you deaf, or just stupid?”
The insult stings, a sharp jab to your already frayed nerves, but you force yourself to stand your ground. You meet the visor of his helmet, refusing to be cowed. “Neither,” you say, your voice remarkably even. You hold up your hands in a placating gesture, letting your bag slide down one arm. “I’m a student. I … I have a first-aid kit in my bag. For emergencies. It’ll take two minutes.”
You watch as the helmet tilts down to look at the gash on his bicep, then back up at you. Through the distorted reflection, you can just make out the hard set of your own jaw. He’s weighing his options: the risk of infection versus the risk of trusting a complete stranger.
Finally, he lets out a sound that’s halfway between a sigh and a growl. “Fine,” he rasps. He points a finger upward, toward the roof. “Up there where no one can see us.”
You nod, your heart hammering against your ribs, not with fear anymore, but with a strange, jittery adrenaline. He turns and begins to climb the fire escape with a fluid, powerful grace, even with his injury. He moves with a silence that seems impossible for someone his size, his armored boots making only the softest of metallic sounds on the rungs.
You follow. Your hands are slick with nervous sweat as you grip the cold metal. The climb feels treacherous, your bag bumping awkwardly against your back. You don’t look down. You focus only on the rung in front of you and the broad, armored back of the strange vigilante above you.
When you finally heave yourself over the ledge onto the flat, gravel-strewn roof, you pause, hands on your knees as you catch your breath. He’s already standing by a low ventilation unit, his back to the sprawling cityscape. He watches you, his posture rigid. The helmet is still on, hiding everything.
“Well?” he prompts impatiently. “You wanted to play doctor. Get on with it.”
You slide your bag off your shoulders and kneel on the gritty rooftop, unzipping it with trembling fingers. You pull out the small, red nylon case of your first-aid kit. Your hands are shaking as you open it, revealing antiseptic wipes, gauze pads, and rolls of tape.
“You’re going to have to take that part of the armor off,” you state, looking at the pauldron covering his bicep. “And you’ll have to take off the helmet if—”
“No,” the voice rumbles, the single word sharp and final, cutting through the quiet. He takes a step back, putting distance between you. “The helmet stays on.”
You bite your lip, feeling a fresh wave of trepidation; you’ve pushed too far. But your logic, the student-in-training part of you, won’t let it go. “What if you have a head injury, and—”
“I don’t have a head injury,” he snaps, gesturing to his bleeding arm. “The problem’s here. Now are you gonna help or are you just gonna stand there making stupid demands?”
The insult lands, but it’s laced with something else. Like a frantic, cornered energy. He’s not just being difficult; he’s scared.
You don’t know of what.
“Okay,” you concede softly. “The helmet stays on. But the pauldron has to come off. I can’t get to the wound otherwise.”
He hesitates for another long moment. Then, with a grunt of resignation, he reaches up with his good hand. There’s a series of soft clicks and snaps as he unfastens the piece of armor covering his bicep, pulling it free before dropping it. He then works at the torn sleeve of the garment underneath, ripping it further to expose the gash properly.
And you stop breathing.
Your brain simply cannot process what you’re seeing. Under the dim glow of the distant city lights, the skin of his arm is not any of the tones you were expecting: it’s green.
For a second, you think it’s a full-body suit, some kind of advanced costume. But you see the texture of the skin itself, which has a smooth, almost leathery quality, with faint, subtle patterns like a reptile. And he’s massive, his bicep thick with a dense, powerful muscle unlike any you’ve ever seen on a human.
He notices your hesitation, your frozen posture. “What?” he growls, his voice low. “Gonna run screaming now?”
His question snaps you out of your stupor. He’s waiting for you to recoil, to confirm whatever fears he has about being seen. The part of you that wants to help—the part that is your entire reason for being in this city—overrides the part that is struggling with reality.
“No,” you say, your voice a little shaky. You clear your throat and force yourself to move. “No, I’m not.” You reach into your kit and pull out an antiseptic wipe. Your fingers tremble as you tear the packet open. “This is probably going to sting.”
He just grunts in response, watching your every move.
You take a deep breath to steady your hands and gently press the wipe to the edges of the cut. He flinches, a sharp intake of breath, but he doesn’t pull away. You work with a focused silence, cleaning the wound as best you can.
“Why?” he asks suddenly.
You pause, looking up at the helmet. “Why what?”
“Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me.”
You grab a sterile gauze pad and press it firmly against the gash to staunch the bleeding. “You saved that man. You got hurt doing it. Seems like a fair trade.”
He’s silent for a long time as you work, taping the gauze into place. Your hands are steady now, your purpose clear. When you’re done, you gently pat the bandage.
“There,” you say. “You should get that looked at by an actual doctor, but it’s clean and covered for now.”
He looks down at his bandaged arm. He seems … surprised. As if he didn’t actually expect you to go through with it.
“What’s your name?” you ask, the question popping out before you can stop it.
He tenses again. “Why?”
“Because I can’t keep calling you ‘the armored vigilante’ in my head forever,” you say, trying to lighten the mood.
A strange sound comes from the helmet; you take a second to identify it as a rough, choked-off chuckle. “Raph,” he says.
You offer a small smile and tell him your name.
“Right,” Raph says, standing up abruptly. He picks up his discarded pauldron, looking at it for a moment before deciding to just carry it. “Remember, you never saw me. Don’t come looking for trouble.”
He turns and stalks to the edge of the roof without a backward glance. With the same impossible grace as before, he swings over the side and disappears down the fire escape, his movements swift and silent.
You’re left alone on the roof, the cool night air raising goosebumps on your arms. Your mind is a whirlwind of green skin, a gravelly voice, and a single, reluctantly given name. You look down at your hands. A small smear of drying blood is on one of your fingers. His blood—the only proof that any of this was real.
After cleaning your hands, you slowly pack up your first-aid kit, moving on autopilot. Then you tuck it carefully into your bag before making your own, much slower, descent back to the world you thought you knew.
The memory of that night replays in your mind for days. You do your coursework; you attend lectures on behavioral theory; you text your family that yes, you’re eating enough vegetables. But a part of your brain is always on that rooftop.
A week later, you climb the fire escape again. It’s a foolish impulse, one that the logical part of your brain screams against. He told you to stay away. But the therapist-in-training part, the part that saw a flicker of profound loneliness behind that helmet, is stronger.
Your heart beats a nervous drum against your ribs as you reach the roof—but you find it empty. You sit for a while, watching the traffic as you work on some essays or read, and then you go home. You do this for three nights.
On the fourth, he’s there.
He’s not in his armor, just dark pants and a hoodie, the hood pulled low. He’s leaning against the same ventilation unit. As you approach, he doesn’t turn, but you know he heard you.
“Thought I told you to forget you saw anything,” he rumbles.
“You also told me your name,” you counter softly, stopping a respectful distance away. “Kind of a mixed message.”
He’s silent for a long moment. Then he turns his head just enough for you to see the strong line of his jaw in the shadows. “You’re stubborn.”
“I’m told it’s one of my defining traits,” you reply, a small smile touching your lips.
And that’s how it begins.
You meet on that rooftop, maybe once or twice a week. The conversations are stilted at first. You talk about your classes, the culture shock of moving from Florida, the pressure you feel from your family. He listens, though he rarely talks about himself.
About a month into your strange rooftop rendezvous, he finally trusts you enough. You’re talking about a frustrating professor when he reaches up and pulls his hood back. You’d prepared yourself, but it’s still a shock. His skin is green, his head bald and reptilian, his eyes a startlingly intense amber. You even see the peek of a plastron and—is that a shell?!
He’s a turtle. A giant humanoid turtle!
He’s waiting for you to scream, to run, to do anything but what you do—which is meeting his gaze and giving him a small, genuine smile. “Hi, Raph,” you say, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.
The tension drains out of his shoulders in a visible wave. He gives a short, disbelieving huff of air through his nostrils. From that night on, the hood and armor stay off when you’re together.
Your late-night disappearances don’t go unnoticed. Your roommate, Chloe, a born-and-bred New Yorker with zero patience for nonsense, corners you one evening as you’re trying to sneak out.
“Alright, spill,” she says, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You’re not in a cult, are you? Because my mom’s cousin joined a cult and the first sign was him sneaking out at all hours to ‘commune with the moon goddess’ in Central Park. So if you’re doing that, just tell me.”
You laugh, the sound a little shaky. “No, definitely not communing with any goddesses.” You hesitate, chewing on your lower lip. You’ve kept this part of your life entirely separate, a secret world on the rooftops. But Chloe is your friend, and the lying is getting exhausting. “Look,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair. “It’s a guy. But it’s … complicated.”
“Complicated how?” she asks, her gaze sharpening. “Is he married? In a gang? Both?”
“No! God, no.” You lean against the wall, trying to find the words. “He’s just really shy. And he prefers … nighttime.”
As if summoned by your words, a soft, distinct tap-tap-tap sounds on your dorm room window. Chloe’s eyes widen and she swivels her head towards the sound. You close your eyes, a groan escaping your lips. Of course.
She stalks over to the window, yanking back the curtain. On the fire escape, illuminated by the glow of a nearby streetlamp, is Raph. He’s in his hoodie, but there’s no hiding the massive, three-fingered hand resting on the windowpane, or the sheer bulk of his frame. He sees Chloe, his eyes going wide, and he immediately pulls back, ready to bolt.
You rush to the window, sliding it open a crack. “Raph, it’s okay! It’s okay, this is Chloe. My roommate.”
She just stares. She takes in the green skin, the edge of the shell visible under his hoodie, the general impossibility of him. Her expression is utterly blank. You brace yourself for the screaming, the fainting.
Instead, she lets the curtain fall, turns back to you, and crosses her arms again. She’s silent for a long, drawn-out moment. Then, she asks, in a perfectly level tone, “So, is he why we’re suddenly out of frozen pizzas?”
The sheer, anticlimactic normalcy of the question sends a wave of hysterical relief through you. “Um. Yes?”
She nods once, as if this explains everything. “Fine. Whatever. Just tell your giant turtle boyfriend to use the front door from now on.” She uncrosses her arms and walks back to her desk, picking up her textbook as if nothing has happened.
And just like that, the biggest secret of your life is out, met not with panic but the resigned sigh of a city girl who’s apparently seen too much to be fazed by mutant reptiles.
New York, you decide, is even weirder than you thought.
You glance back out the window, where Raph still lingers on the fire escape, clearly caught between fight, flight, and full-on identity crisis. “You good?” you whisper.
His eyes flick between you and the curtain Chloe just dropped, and he mutters, “Didn’t think I’d be meetin’ your roommate like that.”
You stifle a laugh. “Yeah, well, she’s more chill than she looks.”
“She just called me your boyfriend,” he says, and there’s something new in his voice—half teasing, half stunned. His gaze locks with yours, and for a second, all the noise of the city fades.
Your stomach does a little flip. The way he says boyfriend, like it’s foreign on his tongue, like he doesn’t quite know if he’s joking or serious, makes your heart thud hard against your ribs.
You meet his gaze, searching his expression. “Well,” you murmur, “you do keep showing up at my window like a lovesick raccoon.”
That gets a low chuckle out of him, gravelly and amused. “I’m way cooler than a raccoon.”
“Debatable,” you say, smiling now. “You eat all my food, lurk in the dark, and have mysterious night habits. Sounds pretty raccoon to me.”
His head dips slightly, maybe in defeat, maybe to hide a grin. “Fine. But a buff raccoon.”
You lean on the window frame, looking at him. “A terrifying, buff raccoon who apparently gets flustered when Chloe calls him her roommate’s boyfriend.”
That earns a dramatic groan as he lifts a hand to his face. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
That hangs in the air between you for a beat. Then Raph shifts his weight, shoulders squaring, eyes warmer now. “So … still up for a run across the rooftops?”
You grin and reach for your jacket. “Always.”
Now, you’re two months into a relationship with Raph.
And over these past months, the pieces of his life have slowly slotted into place for you. You’ve met his family: Splinter, his father, calm and commanding, with a quiet strength that fills every room. Donnie, his tech-genius brother, whose mind moves at lightning speed. And Mikey, the youngest, a whirlwind of bright energy who immediately declared you his new favorite human.
And then there’s the missing piece, the ghost that haunts their home: his older brother, Leo.
You’ve learned about him in fragments, pieced together from Raph’s late-night rants. Leo had left months ago for a training mission in Central America. His departure left a gaping wound in the family, a fracture in their dynamic. And for Raph, it’s a wound that festers with a unique blend of resentment, grief, and a profound sense of abandonment.
Raph feels the weight of leadership now and the sting of his brother—his rival, the family’s rock—choosing to leave them behind. You understand now that much of his anger is just a shield for that deep, aching hurt.
You’re curled up on the couch in the lair, a psychology textbook open in your lap. But your attention is fixed on the old sci-fi movie playing on the TV. Raph is on the floor, his head resting against your knees, completely relaxed for once. This is your new normal, and you love it.
Then your phone buzzes on the cushion beside you. You glance at the screen; it’s your mom.
“Hey, Mom,” you say, keeping your voice low as Raph’s gaze flits to you.
Her voice on the other end is strained, artificially bright in that way she gets when she’s delivering bad news. “Hi, sweetheart. So, um, I’m calling because … well, your Great-Aunt Carol passed away last night.”
You blink. Great-Aunt Carol? You vaguely remember a stooped, stern-faced woman from a family reunion when you were six, one who smelled like mothballs and gave you a piece of hard candy that tasted like soap. You haven’t seen or thought of her since.
“Oh,” you say, unsure of what else to offer. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“The funeral is on Friday,” your mom continues, her voice cracking slightly. “I know it’s a long way, honey, and with your studies … but your father and I would really love it if you could be here. For support.”
You don’t care about the funeral, not really. But you hear the wobble in your mom’s voice, the plea behind the words. She wants her daughter. “Of course, Mom,” you say without hesitation. “I’ll book a flight. I’ll be there.”
After you hang up, Raph pushes himself up into a sitting position, turning to face you. His relaxed posture is gone, replaced by a subtle tension in his shoulders. “Everything okay?”
You close your textbook and set it aside. “A great-aunt of mine died. The funeral’s in a few days back in Florida. My parents want me to come home.”
“Oh,” he says, the word flat. “Right. Family’s important. You should go.”
His response is perfect. It’s exactly what a supportive boyfriend should say. But you’re fluent in Raph, and you see the flicker of something else in his eyes. It’s the same look whenever the conversation turns to Leo.
“I’ll only be gone for a few days,” you say, reaching out to touch his arm. “Just for the weekend, really. I’ll be back Sunday night.”
“Yeah, I know,” he grunts, not quite meeting your eyes. He stands up, a sudden, restless energy about him. “It’s fine. Go. Do your thing.” He turns away from you and pretends to be interested in a rack of weapons against the wall.
You know he’s not fine—because you know that ‘leaving’ is a loaded word with him. You get up and walk over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck from behind and pressing your cheek against his shell. “Raph,” you say softly. “I promise I’m coming back.”
He lets out a shaky breath, placing one of his hands over yours. “I know,” he says again, his voice a low rumble. But he doesn’t sound convinced; he sounds like a little boy trying to be brave.
The next few days are a blur of travel and stilted social obligations.
The funeral is as awkward as you imagined. You stand beside your grieving parents, holding their hands, offering tissues, and accepting condolences from relatives whose names you can’t remember for a woman you barely knew. You feel like an actor in a play you haven’t rehearsed.
You text Raph sporadically. ‘Landed safely.’ ‘Funeral was today.’ ‘How are you?’
He gives clipped, monosyllabic replies. ‘Good.’ ‘K.’ ‘Fine.’
It’s like talking to a brick wall, and it makes your heart ache. He’s closing himself off, retreating behind his anger because it’s safer than admitting he’s scared.
On Sunday evening, true to your word, you’re back in New York. The cab ride from the airport feels impossibly long. You don’t even bother going back to your dorm. You pay the driver and head straight for the lair.
You slip inside, your overnight bag still slung over your shoulder. It’s quiet. The main living area is empty, save for Mikey’s scattered comic books. You find Raph in the dojo, sitting on the floor, his back to the door. He’s not meditating. He’s just … sitting. The stillness from him is more worrying than any of his rages.
“I told you I’d be back,” you say gently.
His head whips around. His eyes widen, a storm of disbelief, relief, and something incredibly vulnerable washing over his face. He’s on his feet in a second, closing the distance between you in three long strides. He doesn’t say a word, just cups your face in his hands, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones as if to confirm you’re real.
“You’re back,” he breathes, the words full of emotion.
“I’m back,” you confirm, leaning into his touch. “I promised, didn’t I?”
He finally lets himself pull you against his plastron, his arms wrapping around you securely, protectively. You can feel the tension bleed out of his shoulders as he rests his head against yours. “I was worried,” he admits, the confession a low, gravelly whisper. His eyes finally drop from yours to the floor. “Stupid, I know.”
“It’s not stupid,” you say, sliding your arms around his neck. “Not when you’ve lost people before. Not when you’re still scared it could happen again.”
His arms tighten just a little, holding you like you might still disappear if he lets go. “I kept thinking you’d get down there, see how simple things used to be, and realize you don’t need all this,” he mutters. “All the crap that comes with bein’ with me.”
Your heart aches at the rawness in his voice. You pull back just enough to look him in the eyes. “I don’t want ‘easy,’ Raph. I want you. This. All of it.”
His expression falters, the fierce mask slipping for a moment. There’s something wide and uncertain in his gaze, something wounded and desperate for reassurance. You cradle his jaw in your hand, thumb brushing over the curve of his cheek.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper. “You don’t scare me. This life doesn’t scare me. But the idea of not being here with you? That does.”
He leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring the words, letting them sink in deep. When he opens them again, the storm has settled a little. Still there, but quieter.
“I missed you,” he finally says.
You smile softly. “I missed you too.”
He steps back and grabs your bag with one hand like it weighs nothing, gesturing toward the common room. “C’mon. You look dead on your feet. Let’s get you settled.”
“I’m not going to bed yet,” you reply, following him. “You’ve been sulking for three days. I think you owe me some quality time.”
That gets a grunt, but the corner of his mouth lifts just a little. “What, like a movie night?”
“You pick the cheesiest, most ridiculous movie you own,” you say, “and I get to use your shoulder as a pillow.”
“Deal,” he says, and the word is so immediate, so relieved, that you know you made the right choice.
You don’t go back to your dorm that night.
The next morning, you wake to the distant sounds of clattering and energetic yelling from the kitchen. You find Raph already there, leaning against a counter with a mug in his hands, watching Mikey attempt to flip a pancake the size of a manhole cover. Donnie is at the table, tinkering with some gadget and pointedly ignoring the culinary chaos.
“Morning,” Raph says, his eyes lighting up when he sees you.
Mikey, mid-flip, spots you and beams. “She’s alive! Dude, I thought you were gonna sleep forever. Want a pizza-sized pancake?” He gestures with his spatula to the monstrosity in the pan, which looks suspiciously lumpy.
“I think I’ll stick to coffee for now,” you say with a laugh, accepting the mug Raph offers you, and you lean against the counter next to him.
Later, you find him in the dojo, working out his remaining frustrations on a heavily worn punching bag. He moves with a brutal grace, every muscle in his powerful arms and shoulders coiled and released with explosive force. You don’t interrupt, just lean against the doorframe and watch until he finally stops, panting, his skin slick with a light sweat.
He turns, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, and finally says what’s been sitting between you. “Hey. I, uh … I was a jerk when you were gone.”
You push off the frame and walk over, picking up a water bottle from a nearby bench before holding it out to him. “You were scared,” you counter gently. “It’s okay to be scared, you know.”
He takes the bottle, his fingers brushing yours. He avoids your gaze, looking down at the scuffed floor mats. “Yeah, but I took it out on you. It wasn’t fair.”
“No, it wasn’t,” you agree softly. “But I understand why.” You reach up and place a hand on his cheek, turning his face toward you. “So I forgive you. On one condition.”
A hint of a smile touches his lips. “What’s that?”
“You let me win our next game of air hockey.”
He lets out a genuine laugh. “Not a chance.” He leans down and captures your lips. He pulls you flush against him, and you can feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your own.
The next day feels lighter.
You spend the afternoon on the couch, your legs thrown over his lap as you try to explain the fundamentals of cognitive-behavioral therapy to him using his favorite movie characters as examples. By evening, you feel the last of Raph’s anxious energy finally dissipate. So you tell him you have to go back to your dorm for clean clothes and textbooks.
He doesn’t retreat or tense up. “I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t have to,” you say, but he’s already grabbing his hoodie.
“I know. I want to.”
When you reach your dorm, you pause and look at the glittering expanse of the city out of your kitchen window. “It’s weird,” you muse. “When I first moved here, this all felt so big and scary. It felt … lonely.”
Raph comes to stand beside you, following your gaze out to the city lights. “And now?” he asks, his voice low.
You turn your head to look at him. You think of the weight of his arm around you on the couch, the steady beat of his heart. The feel of his lips on yours. You smile and take his hand. “Now,” you say, lacing your fingers with his, “because of you, it feels like home.”
Now for my second request: I don't know if you're comfortable writing love triangles (the first one was kinda a triangle too but well…) but this time I would like a 2007 Raph x Reader x Leo where they both fall in love with her at the same time and she has to choose who to be with in the end (let's make their relationship in that movie even messier and with another thing to argue about! I love drama!😈). This triangle started before Leo went to South America but back then no one ever knew about anyone's feelings and they were all just acting like normal friends. Then Reader was just as disappointed and angry as Raph when Leo didn't want to come back and stopped sending them letters (the reader received also secret personal letters addressed only to her and Raph realizes from this that Leo might be interested in the Reader romantically just like him), and Raph and her got really close and bonded because of that. Reader was also the first one to find out that Raph is the Nightwatcher and offered her apartment as a second shelter when he wanted a place to sleep, be away from his brothers or just hang out with her. During this time Raph also thought about confessing his feelings to her but here comes Leo back from South America to complicate things again! (I love 2007 Leo just as much as 2007 Raph I promise, that’s why this is a love triangle. I genuinely can’t choose between them). I’ll let you choose how you want the story to end again (who will the Reader choose? Will Raph and Leo kill each other? Find out next episode lmao) and I apologize again if my English is not the best!
A/N: Oh-ho-ho *rubs hands together* I love myself a juicy, tense love triangle 😈 But ya’ll are getting both versions of the ending.
CWs: Angst, love triangle, themes of abandonment, sibling conflict, jealousy, brief descriptions of fighting and injuries, multiple endings (you choose!). All characters are aged-up.
Before Splinter sends Leo to Central America, back when the four brothers were still a fractured—but whole—unit under the city. You’re there, woven into the fabric of their strange, hidden lives.
You train with them, spar sometimes (mostly with Mikey, who doesn’t mind losing), patch up scrapes after patrols, and share greasy pizza on movie nights in the lair. Even then, there’s an invisible current pulling you towards two specific points in this constellation of brothers.
Leo. His gaze often finds yours across the room—intense, analytical, yet softened with something unreadable when it lands on you. A shared glance during Splinter’s lessons, a quiet question about your day that feels weightier than it should. Looks that linger just a few beats too long. Not that you minded.
Then there’s Raph. A tumultuous, rough sea of energy. But around you, there’s a specific turbulence—a protective warmth that flares unexpectedly when someone gets too close. Even one of his brothers. He’s the one who walks a little closer when you navigate the darker tunnels, the one whose shoulder bumps feel more deliberate than accidental.
But you’re still friends. Allies. Confidantes. That’s the story you all stick to, the safe label taped over a box of much more complicated feelings.
Then Splinter made the call. Leo must go to a foreign country for a year of leadership training. The thought of his steady presence vanishing left an immediate, aching void. You saw the conflict in Leo’s eyes, duty warring with reluctance. He promised to write, his gaze pausing on you for a fraction longer than on his brothers.
He kept his word, at first. Letters arrived addressed to the lair. You gathered with Donnie and Mikey to read them aloud. Leo’s careful script detailed grueling training regimens, encounters with unfamiliar wildlife, and the strange beauty of the jungle. Donnie and Mikey would talk about the letters, but Raph—he only listened. Jaw tight.
Especially after you started getting letters only for you.
In these, Leo was different. More personal. He shed the leader persona. Asked about your life, your classes, even the most mundane details. Shared doubts, frustration, moments of quiet contemplation he’d never voice to his brothers. He recalled a joke you made months ago, mentioned dreaming of sparring with you, specific conversations you had late at night.
It all sent a confusing jolt through you, making your heart beat faster, chased by a prickle of guilt. You still keep the letters hidden, tucked away in a shoebox under your bed. But you had a feeling Raph already knew about them, even without him having to resort to snooping around.
Then the letters stopped. All of them. Silence stretched from weeks into months. Worry festered, then soured into a shared bitterness, particularly between you and Raph. He often paces, slams his fists into the punching bag harder than necessary, his already short fuse burning down to nothing.
“Guess Fearless Leader’s too good for us now,” he snarled one evening, smacking the bag hard enough to break it. “Suppose he found better things to do than write to his family.”
You nodded, the shared sense of abandonment a bitter taste in your mouth. “He could at least tell us he’s alive,” you murmured, picking at a loose thread on your shirt. “Or that he’s okay, or … something.”
The disappointment became a strange, potent glue. You and Raph gravitated towards each other. You trained together more often, pushing each other, the physical exertion a release for the pent-up anger. For hours, you would talk. Sometimes in the lair, other times huddled on your fire escape, sharing frustrations about Leo, about the team falling apart. Everything.
You see past Raph’s rage, glimpse the aching vulnerability beneath the shell, the deep-seated fear of not being enough. He sees your disappointment, your confusion, your own quiet hurt.
One night, when you were walking home, you heard the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle. Not the usual mugging, but something more brutal. You peeked cautiously around a dumpster—and there he was. A figure clad in armor taking down a group of thugs with terrifying efficiency.
The Nightwatcher.
Your breath caught. But there was something familiar about the way he moved. After he disarmed the last thug, he turned, glimpsing you in the shadows before vaulting onto a nearby roof. And you knew who it was.
Raph had started sleeping all day, becoming distant—almost as if he was hiding something from everyone. But you didn’t confront him immediately. The next time he appeared near your neighborhood, though, you didn’t hesitate and called out his name. He froze on the fire escape opposite yours, silhouetted against the moon.
Then he pulled off his helmet, his eyes locking onto yours, full of defiance and exhaustion.
You simply gestured towards your open window. “Come in. Before someone sees you.”
Your apartment became his haven, his second shelter. A place disconnected from the lair. He crashes on your couch sometimes after rough evenings of vigilantism and you tend to his wounds. Other nights, he just shows up, shedding the armor—but not the weight on his shoulders, needing a place to just be, away from his family’s expectations.
You listen. You don’t judge.
Over time, your bond deepened. You see the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching, a mixture of longing and frustration. A comfortable silence often settles between you now, charged with unspoken desires that flicker in the periphery of your awareness. Becoming stronger by the day.
By the time Leo’s been gone a year, you and Raph are practically inseparable, a constant presence in each other’s lives that has evolved beyond mere companionship.
Tonight, Raph sits on your closed toilet, his armor piled haphazardly in the tub. He still breathes raggedly, the adrenaline from his patrol slowly leaving him. You sit on the edge of the tub, dabbing carefully at a gash above his brow ridge with a cotton pad.
“Hold still,” you murmur as he flinches from the sting of the antiseptic.
A low grunt escapes him, but he obeys, his gaze fixed somewhere on the linoleum floor. You’re used to caring for his wounds, but something feels different this evening. There are more cuts, deeper bruises blooming on his knuckles. And he’s quieter than usual, the typical simmering anger replaced by a raw exhaustion that seems to seep into the very air around him.
You reach for a butterfly bandage, peeling off the backing. Your fingers brush against his rough, green skin as you position it over the cut on his forehead. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his head tilts slightly, his gaze lifting from the floor to meet yours.
The proximity is suddenly overwhelming. You can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands resting on his knees, the way his throat works as he swallows. That look is there again. Your breath hitches.
The silence stretches, filled only by the distant hum of city traffic and the frantic thumping of your own heart. It feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, the ground shifting beneath your feet. Years of friendship, shared grief over Leo’s silence—it all swirls between you, threatening to tip you over the cliffside.
He leans forward almost imperceptibly, his rough knuckles brushing against your knee. The contact sends a jolt, sharp and warm, straight through you. His eyes search yours, questioning, demanding something you aren’t sure you can give. Images flash through your mind: Leo’s steady gaze, the careful script on his hidden letters, the confusing warmth they’d sparked. Guilt pricks at you, sharp and unwelcome.
Raph must see the flicker of conflict in your eyes. The intensity in his gaze wavers, replaced by a familiar frustration, which is quickly masked. He pulls back slightly, breaking the spell. The air rushes back into your lungs, leaving you feeling shaky.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, finally breaking the silence. His voice is rougher than usual.
“Anytime, Raph,” you reply, your voice steadier than you feel. You stand up, gathering the used cotton pads and wrappers. The moment has passed, the fragile connection severed. But the echo of it remains, hanging heavy in the air.
He finishes wiping the lingering grime from his face and arms, avoiding your eyes now. “Donnie’s been askin’ questions,” he says abruptly. “Where I go. Why I’m so beat up all the time.”
You nod, busying yourself with tidying the small bathroom counter. “What have you been telling him?”
“Same old crap. Extra training. Fell down some stairs.” He snorts, a humorless sound. “Mikey just thinks I’m sleepin’ all day ‘cause I’m lazy.” He pauses, then adds, quieter, “Easier that way.”
He stands up, stretching gingerly. The movement pulls the muscles taut across his shoulders and back. He’s still Raph—volatile, protective, a storm contained within a powerful frame. But here, in the relative safety of your apartment, the cracks in his armor show. You see the vulnerability he fights so hard to conceal, the fear of abandonment that fuels his anger.
He goes to collect his stuff. As he passes, his hand brushes yours again, lingering for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Then he gathers the rest of his gear, gives you a nod, and slips back out the window, melting into the pre-dawn gloom.
You stand there for a long moment, listening to the fading sounds of his departure, the silence of your apartment feeling both emptier and more complicated than ever before. You go over to the couch, sinking into the cushions. Exhaustion finally begins to claim you. The emotional whiplash of the evening, coupled with the late hour, makes your eyelids feel like lead weights.
You don’t bother changing; you curl up, pulling a throw blanket over yourself. Your thoughts drift, a jumbled mess of green skin and intense eyes—
—then the sudden, shrill ring of your phone jolts you awake. You blink, disoriented; you must have dozed off. Who would be calling at this hour, anyway? You fumble for the phone on the coffee table, checking the caller ID: Donnie. Anxiety spikes. He rarely calls, unless it was urgent.
Had something happened to Raph on his way back?
“Donnie?” you answer, your voice thick with sleep and apprehension. “Is everything okay? Is Raph—”
“He’s back,” Donnie’s voice comes through the line, cutting you off. He sounds breathless, wired, a mixture of disbelief and frantic energy buzzing through his words. “He’s back. Leo’s back!”
The world tilts. You bolt upright, the blanket pooling around your waist. “What? He is?” The words are barely a whisper. Leo. Here? Now?!
“Yeah,” Donnie confirms. “Splinter’s with him now. It’s really him!”
You feel as if someone punched the air out of your lungs. The nearly year of silence, worry, frustration, anger. And the comfort you’d found in his absence with Raph—all of it crashes down at once.
Leo was back.
You grip the phone tighter. “I … okay,” you manage, the words feeling inadequate, hollow. “Okay, Donnie. Thanks for … telling me.”
You hang up, the phone slipping from your suddenly nerveless fingers and falling to the floor. The silence in the apartment roars back, louder than before, saturated with the impossible news.
Leo. Back.
The two words echo in your skull, bouncing off the walls of your mind. Back from the jungle, back from the silence. Back from the place he’d occupied in your memory, like a photograph tinged with resentment and a persistent ache. He was supposed to be a ghost, a problem deferred, a complication locked away with those hidden letters.
Not anymore.
Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic rhythm completely at odds with the numbness spreading through your limbs. You stare at the opposite wall, unseeing, the pattern swimming before your eyes. Just minutes ago, the world had felt compressed, focused down to the charged space between you and Raph in your bathroom.
That moment now feels like a scene from someone else’s life, blurred and distant.
Raph.
A wave of something akin to panic washes over you. Raph, who had just slipped out your window. Raph, who had listened to you rail against Leo’s abandonment. Who had shared his vulnerability with you. Whose frustration and longing had been so palpable. How would he react?
Donnie’s call meant the news was already spreading through the lair. Would Raph feel blindsided? Betrayed, even, by the universe suddenly dropping his long-lost brother back into the mix just as something fragile and tentative was solidifying between you?
Guilt twists in your gut. Not just for the hidden letters anymore, but for the intimacy you’d shared with Raph, forged in the crucible of Leo’s absence. Did you build it all on a foundation of shared resentment? Was the comfort you found in his presence just a reaction, a way to fill the void Leo left? Or was it something real, something separate, something that now felt impossibly complicated?
You push yourself off the couch, pacing the confines of your living room. Your thoughts race, colliding like billiard balls. Leo’s return changes everything.
You wonder what Leo is like now; a year is a long time. Would he still be the same thoughtful leader? Or would the jungle have changed him, hardened him? Why come back now, without a word? So many questions, and the thought of facing him, of navigating the tangled web of unspoken feelings, makes your head spin.
Two brothers. Two intense, complicated connections.
Before, the choice felt hypothetical, distant. Leo was gone, a memory wrapped in unanswered questions. Raph was here, solid, intense, a growing certainty in the chaos. But now, Leo is back—and the choice is suddenly very real. You close your eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath. You have to choose your next move.
And you have no idea which way to turn.
Just like that, the fragile bubble bursts.
The reunion in the lair is strained, fraught with tension. The arguments start almost immediately, old wounds ripped open, new ones inflicted. Leo tries to step back into his role as leader. But Raph bristles under his command, the resentment now fueled by more than just brotherly rivalry.
Those old wounds aren’t just reopened; they’re ripped wider, doused in the salt of the past year’s bitterness. And you? You’re caught squarely in the middle.
Leo seeks you out, his gaze earnest, apologetic. He tries to explain the silence, the overwhelming nature of his training, the isolation. “I messed up,” he admits, “not writing. And not writing to you, especially, is unforgivable. Being away, being alone … it made me realize things. What I’d left behind. Who I’d left behind.”
His eyes plead for understanding, for a return to the tentative connection forged through those hidden letters. He’s the prodigal son, the steady leader trying to find his footing, reminding you of the intellectual spark, the shared ideals you once admired.
Simultaneously, Raph’s presence becomes fiercely territorial. His jealousy is no longer a subtle undercurrent; it’s a tangible force field. A possessive hand landing on the small of your back when Leo approaches. Standing deliberately between you and his brother. His voice drops to a low growl when Leo addresses you directly. His glares are daggers.
He reminds you, wordlessly and sometimes explicitly, that he stayed. He endured the silence with you. And more than ever, he seeks refuge in your apartment; being in the lair is physically unbearable for him now. “Can’t breathe down there with him acting like nothing happened,” he mutters, collapsing onto your couch.
The arguments between the brothers escalate, and you know, with a sickening certainty, that you are part of the fuel for their fire.
You hear snippets: “Stay away from her, Leo!” “You think I didn’t notice how close you two got while I was gone?” It tears you apart, watching them fight, knowing your feelings are a wedge driving them further apart. The pressure builds, an unbearable weight on your chest.
They both corner you at different times, the words tumbling out.
Leo finds you on the rooftop, the city spread out below. “I know this is complicated. But what I felt then, what I tried to tell you in those letters—it wasn’t just about missing a friend. It was more. It is more. Coming back, seeing you … it confirmed everything the jungle taught me about what truly matters. I want a chance to prove I can be the man you deserve, the partner I should have been all along. I messed up big time, and I’m so, so sorry.” His eyes search yours, full of hope and regret.
Raph confronts you in your apartment after another explosive fight with Leo. He paces your small living room like a caged tiger before stopping right in front of you, his eyes blazing.
“I can’t do this anymore. Watching him look at you, talk to you and pretend like he didn’t just abandon everyone, abandon you. You know me. All of me.” He takes a ragged breath, the vulnerability stark on his face. “Is this real? What’s been growing between us? Tell me. I need to know if I have a shot, or if I’ve just been fooling myself.”
Your heart feels like it’s being ripped in two different directions. But you must choose. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath …
Do you invite Leo over?
Or Raph?
💙 LEO ENDING 💙
The faces of both brothers flash behind your eyelids.
Raph—the raw, protective energy, the shared struggle through the lonely year, the fierce vulnerability he showed only you. The palpable connection forged in late-night talks and frustrations, the almost-kiss in the bathroom. Choosing him felt like picking the present, the tangible, the fire that burned bright and hot right beside you.
But then there is Leo. The quiet intensity, the exchanged glances that spoke volumes before he ever left. The thoughtful leader who, even in his absence, reached out through letters, revealing a depth of feeling that had resonated long before Raph became a constant presence. His apology felt genuine, steeped in the weight of his realization.
Choosing Leo feels like picking a path started long ago, interrupted but not erased. Like choosing the steady mountain, the man who saw you clearly even from afar. The guilt over the shared intimacy with Raph while Leo was gone gnaws at you. But the foundation with Leo felt older, deeper, somehow more right for you, despite the hurt his silence caused.
Maybe the bond with Raph, as intense as it was, had been born more of circumstance and shared abandonment than a true meeting of souls. It’s a painful thought, disloyal even, but it felt true. Your heart aches for Raph, for the pain this would inevitably cause him. You know his reaction wouldn’t be quiet or easily managed.
But you couldn’t base your future on preventing his anger, nor could you deny the pull towards Leo that had existed long before the complications arose.
With trembling fingers, you retrieve your phone.
It rings twice before he picks up, his voice cautious. “Hello?”
“Leo,” you begin, your own voice barely a whisper. You clear your throat, trying to sound stronger. “Can … can you come over? To my place. Now.”
There’s a pause on the other end. Then, quietly, “Yeah, I’ll be right there.”
Hanging up feels like sealing a door shut.
You stand in the middle of your living room, wrapping your arms around yourself, bracing for the conversation to come, and the inevitable fallout that would follow. The weight of the decision settles heavily in your gut, a mix of terrifying clarity and profound sadness for the friend you were about to wound deeply.
Later, a soft knock echoes through the apartment. Not the impatient rapping Raph sometimes used, but a hesitant, measured sound. You slide open the window, seeing Leo looking uncertain, his wary but hopeful eyes searching yours.
“Hey,” he says softly, stepping inside when you gesture him in.
The air crackles with the history between you, the year of silence. You lead him to the couch, but neither of you sits immediately.
You turn to face him, needing to get this out. “Leo, I …”
He holds up a hand gently. “Let me,” he says, his voice earnest. “Before you say anything. I need you to understand. Going away—it wasn’t just training. It was … breaking myself down. Splinter knew I needed it. I was becoming rigid, losing sight of what mattered. The isolation was brutal. At first, writing helped. Writing to you especially helped. It was the only time I felt … normal. Connected.”
He takes a breath, his gaze unwavering. “Then it got harder. The training intensified, the self-doubt … it became overwhelming. I convinced myself I wasn’t worthy of leading. That silence was easier than admitting failure, even in a letter. Especially to you. I thought I needed to come back whole, fixed. So I shut you out. It was cowardly and selfish, and I regret it more than anything.”
He looks around the small apartment, his eyes lingering on the couch. “I know things changed while I was gone. I see how close you and Raph got. And I don’t blame either of you.”
Tears prick at your eyes, a mixture of relief at his honesty and residual pain. “It hurt, Leo. The silence. We thought … everyone thought something had happened. Or that you just didn’t care anymore.”
“I always cared,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Being away, especially being silent, only made me realize how much I cared. About my family. About …” He pauses, his gaze locking with yours. “About you. Those letters—they weren’t just letters, not for me. They were me trying to hold on to the most important thing I’d left behind.”
You finally meet his gaze fully, seeing the sincerity, the regret, but also the steady conviction that had always drawn you to him. “Raph …” you start, the name tasting like guilt on your tongue.
“I know,” Leo nods, his expression pained but resolute. “This is going to be hard. For all of us. Especially for him. But I needed to tell you how I feel. And I needed to know …” He trails off, waiting.
Taking another deep breath, you finally make the choice concrete, speaking the words aloud. “I needed you to come back, Leo.” It’s not a perfect declaration, but it’s the truth. “What I felt before you left, and when I read your letters … it’s still here. Underneath everything else that happened this year.” You step closer, the space between you shrinking. “It’s complicated. And I’m scared. But … it’s you. Always has been.”
A wave of relief washes over Leo’s face, so profound it seems to physically lighten him. He reaches out, his hand hovering for a moment before gently taking yours. His touch is warm, steady. It feels different from Raph’s rougher, more demanding touch. It feels like coming home, albeit to a home that needs serious rebuilding.
“Okay,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand gently. “We can figure out complicated. Together.”
Understanding passes between you. This is not the end of the struggle, but the beginning of a different one. There will be shouting matches in the lair, hurt feelings, tough conversations. Raph’s reaction looms large and ominous. But in this moment, standing in your apartment, hand-in-hand with the brother you chose, there’s a fragile sense of hope, a quiet determination to face whatever comes next, side-by-side.
The path ahead is uncertain, likely painful, but for the first time since Leo’s return, you feel like you’re finally facing the right direction.
You stand there for a long moment. His thumb brushes gently over your knuckles, a small, grounding gesture. You watch the movement, then lift your gaze back to his eyes, which are filled with the look of someone who had almost lost something precious and was only now allowing himself to truly believe it might still be within reach.
He hasn’t let go of your hand, and you find you don’t want him to. He takes a step closer, the space between you shrinking until you can feel the subtle warmth radiating from him. The air feels electric, just like it had in those stolen glances years ago. But amplified now by everything that has happened since. His gaze drops briefly to your lips, then flickers back up to meet your eyes, a silent question asked.
Your breath hitches. This is it—the culmination of those letters, the late-night thoughts, the ache of his absence, the confusing swirl of emotions upon his return. The guilt over Raph still lingers, a dull ache in the background, but it’s overshadowed now by the undeniable pull towards the man standing before you. This feels … inevitable. Right.
He lifts his free hand, slowly, and cups your cheek. His touch is comforting, though slightly calloused from his training, but infinitely tender. You lean into the contact, your eyes fluttering closed for just a second. And when you open them again, his face is closer, his expression soft.
He doesn’t rush. He simply tilts his head, his gaze holding yours until the last possible moment, before closing the remaining distance. The first touch of his lips is soft, hesitant almost. Tentative as if testing a fragile ground after an earthquake. But then, as you respond, pressing back gently, the kiss deepens.
It isn’t explosive; it’s a slow burn, infused with a year’s worth of longing and regret. Tasting of relief, of apologies accepted. There’s a quiet strength in it, a steadiness that mirrors Leo’s very core. It’s like finding shelter after being lost in a storm, a sense of clicking back into place. Months of worried silence melt away, leaving only this.
Him.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only slightly, resting his forehead against yours. His eyes remain closed for a beat, his breathing a little unsteady now. You keep your eyes closed now too, savoring the closeness.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion, “how long I’ve thought about …” He doesn’t finish the sentence, didn’t need to.
You open your eyes to find him watching you. You reach up, tracing the line of his jaw. “Me too, Leo,” you whisper, the admission feeling momentous.
He smiles then—a genuine one that reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners. It holds the weight of your past.
And the hope for the future.
❤️ RAPH ENDING ❤️
The faces of both brothers flash behind your eyelids.
Leo—the steady gaze, the potential promised in those hidden letters, the man you thought you were waiting for. His apology felt sincere, his explanation plausible. Choosing Leo feels like picking up a thread from the past, acknowledging a connection that had deep roots. Like choosing the calm harbor, the thoughtful partner.
But then there is Raph, who stayed. Weathered the storm of Leo’s absence with you. The one whose rough edges soften only for you, revealing a fierce loyalty and a depth of feeling that resonates in the here and now. The almost-kiss in the bathroom wasn’t just a fleeting moment; it felt like the culmination of a year spent leaning on each other, seeing each other’s true selves laid bare by frustration and vulnerability.
Choosing Raph feels like picking the present. Leo’s return feels like an echo from another time, while Raph is the solid, breathing reality right beside you. The bond with him isn’t just a placeholder; it has grown into something strong and vital on its own merit. Choosing Leo now would be betraying not just Raph, but the truth of the past year.
Your heart aches with a different pain—the sadness of letting go of the ‘what if’ with Leo. The knowledge that you are choosing a path potentially filled with more immediate conflict, given Raph’s nature and existing tensions. But the thought of turning him away after everything feels wrong, a denial of the connection that has become your anchor.
With trembling fingers, you retrieve your phone.
He answers on the first ring, his voice tight, guarded. “Yeah?” Like he was expecting bad news.
“Raph,” you begin, your voice steadier than you expected, fueled by a sudden certainty. “Can … can you come over? To my place. Now.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a loaded silence. Then, rougher than usual, “You sure?”
“Yeah, Raph,” you say, the conviction solidifying in your chest. “I’m sure.”
“On my way,” he grunts, and the line clicks dead.
Hanging up feels like sealing a door shut.
You stand in the middle of your living room, wrapping your arms around yourself, bracing not just for the conversation. But for the intensity Raph would bring back with him. The weight of the decision settles, heavy but clear, a choice made for the present. For the man who had stood by you, fire and all.
Later, there’s a familiar, slightly impatient thudding sound at your window—his usual way of announcing himself. You slide it open, and Raph vaults inside. He stands there, filling the space, his eyes narrowed, searching yours, braced for impact.
“So?” he asks, his voice low, challenging. Ready for a fight, or maybe just protection against getting hurt again.
You don’t hesitate. You walk right up to him, stopping just inches away. “So,” you echo softly, meeting his intense gaze. “Leo came looking for me. He apologized. Explained things.”
Raph’s jaw tightens, a muscle flexing. He doesn’t look surprised, more resigned. “Figured.” He looks away, before muttering, “Good for him.”
You reach out, placing a hand gently on his arm. He flinches slightly but doesn’t pull away. “Raph, look at me.” He drags his gaze back to yours, his eyes guarded but showing a flicker of the vulnerability you know so well. “What happened this past year. Between us. It wasn’t just because Leo was gone. And it wasn’t just filling a space. It was real. Is real.”
His breath hitches. The guarded look cracks, showing the desperate hope beneath. “Don’t mess with me,” he growls, but there’s no heat in it, only a raw plea.
“I’m not,” you insist. “Yes, Leo’s back, and it’s … complicated. I won’t lie. I had feelings for him before he left. Those letters—they confused things. But you were here. You saw me through it. We saw each other. What grew between us …” You inhale a shaky breath. “It’s you, Raph. You’re who I want.”
For a moment, he just stares, processing. Before he lets out a ragged breath, a sound heavy with a year’s worth of tension, frustration, and longing finally being released. He closes the small distance between you, his hand coming up to stroke your cheek. “You mean it?” he whispers, his voice thick, searching your eyes for any hint of doubt.
“I mean it,” you whisper back, leaning into his touch.
He exhales. “Thought I lost you…” he murmurs. Relief washes off him in palpable waves as he pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you tightly as he buries his face in your hair. It’s a desperate hold, almost as if he needs to physically feel the reality of your choice.
You hold him back just as tightly, feeling the rapid beat of his heart against yours. This is it. The choice made. The path chosen.
And it won’t be easy. Leo’s return has already guaranteed conflict. The brothers are fractured, and this may deepen the cracks before any healing can begin. Raph’s possessiveness and temper will be tested, as will your patience. But here, wrapped in his arms, feeling the undeniable strength of the bond you forged in the loneliness, it feels right. It feels real. You chose the fire, the storm, the beating heart that stayed.
And together, you’ll face the fallout.
The two of you remain in an embrace. You can feel the tension slowly ebbing out of his shoulders, replaced by the sheer force of his relief. He holds you like a lifejacket, like you’re the only solid thing in a world that has just tilted violently off its axis and is only now beginning to settle.
Finally, he loosens his hold just enough to pull back slightly. His hands move from your back to frame your face, his thumbs brushing rough calluses against your cheekbones. A touch that is both possessive and tender. His eyes search yours with an intensity that robs your breath.
“You sure?” he asks again, his voice low and gravelly, needing the reassurance one last time. Because it isn’t a question of your feelings anymore, but of your understanding of what this meant—what choosing him entailed.
“I’m sure, Raph,” you breathe, meeting his gaze without flinching. You raise a hand, covering one of his, pressing his palm more firmly against your skin. “This. Us. It’s real.”
That’s all it takes, the last shred of restraint in him snapping. With a low growl deep in his chest, he claims your mouth. The kiss isn’t gentle or hesitant. It’s demanding, a raw outpouring of a year’s worth of pent-up longing and frustration. It’s the heat of the forge, the pressure of the dam finally breaking.
His lips are firm, insistent against yours, moving with an urgency that borders on overwhelming. But it feels undeniably right.
You kiss him back with equal fervor, winding your arms around his neck, pulling him closer still. This isn’t about forgetting about Leo or erasing the past; it’s about embracing the present. The tangible, fiery reality of Raphael. The kiss deepens, tasting of relief. And beneath it all, the undeniable taste of him. It’s grounding and exhilarating all at once, a confirmation that the intense bond you’ve built is exactly where you belong.
When he finally breaks away, you are both breathless, foreheads pressed together. The air is thick and charged between you. His breaths come ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He doesn’t pull away completely, instead keeping you caged gently in his arms.
“Mine,” he rasps, the words possessive but stripped of its usual anger, spoken like a statement of fact. A prayer answered.
You don’t argue, don’t make a move to escape. You just nod, a smile touching your lips. “Yours,” you agree, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek.
A rough chuckle escapes him. “Good,” he grunts, pulling you back into a secure hug, burying his face in the curve of your neck.
The storm isn’t over. Leo is back, and the fights are inevitable. But here, secure in Raph’s arms, feeling the unwavering beat of his heart—you know you’ve chosen the eye of your storm.
Hey there. I absurdly love your blog and your writing style, it’s amazing. I wanted to ask I I could perhaps request a Raphael x reader where it’s kind of an enemies to lovers. Reader and Raphael don’t get along at first because of their similar personalities but after a while they realize that they overplayed their feelings for each other with hate.
I’m not sure if this made any sense at all ;-;
ABSOLUTELY MADE SENSE ANON!!!!
You didn’t request a spef Raph, so I’m going with 07 I hope that’s okay ❤️
Stupid idiot.
Annoying prick.
Hotheaded jerk.
You had a few more insults for the red clad turtle but you’re sure if you kept thinking about it, you’d accidentally say them out loud.
Not that it would matter, it’s not like your distaste for him was a secret. Just like his wasn’t hidden from you.
It’s like two bulls in a China shop whenever you two are together, always butting heads and arguing opinions over the simplest things that can be easily discussed over a cup of tea. But not you two, you two would rather point fingers and get into petty arguments like 5 year olds.
You’re not sure what exactly caused you dislike Raphael, but you’re more than certain that it was him who started it. Probably countered an opinion you had about something so minuscule that you honestly would have let it go if it weren’t for the smug and cocky attitude he was displaying.
Thus, your rivalry with the turtle started.
Raph feels the exact same way about you; complaining that your temper is too short, you can’t take or follow direction and all he gets are snorts and fake shock from his brothers and Splinter.
“Really?”
“You don’t say?”
“That is so funny that you feel that way.”
And all Raphael can do is scoff and roll his eyes because he’s not stupid, he knows you’re similar to him. Maybe that’s why you clash, because he’s never had someone to combat his bonehead personality besides Leo and Casey but even then he was used to it, he’s known them forever.
Now you, having just met you a few months ago because April insisted that you, her friend, and he would get along splendidly.
Clearly she was wrong.
Currently you were over for a game night, sitting in between Don and Mikey while he and Leo sat across. April and Casey temporarily stepped out to grab food for everyone, leaving you with the mutant turtles. But you were having a wonderful time; good games, good vibes, good company…
Almost.
You roll your eyes when you catch Raph scoffing to himself after your turn, crossing his arms and grumbling to himself.
“Problem, Raph?” You ask, painting an innocent vibe as you lean back in your seat to glare at him. He looks at you with a bored expression, shrugging and then gesturing towards the game board with his chin.
“Dumb move, should’ve gone left instead of right.”
You can see from your peripheral how Don shakes his head and how Mikey tenses in the slightest. Leo rubs at his forehead, knowing what was coming.
“Yeah that’s why you got sent back to the start of the board right?”
“Maybe so, but I’m winning with the most money.”
“Doesn’t matter numb nuts, now you have to go past the scammer and pay the debt—“
“Oh I got more than enough, sweetheart—“
“Okay you know what—“
“Enough!” Leo shouts, standing up and looking back and forth between the two of you. “You two, get out. You’re banned from the rest of the game.”
Your mouth drops open in shock and Raph and scoffs again but harder, slapping his palms on his lap.
“She started it!”
“You should’ve just shut the fuck up!”
“Out!” He says again, pointing his finger towards the entrance of the Lair.
You suck your teeth and stand up, walking past Don in sheer annoyance. Raphael isn’t far behind you, muttering under his breath and kicking at Mikey’s skateboard which earns him an irritated ‘hey!’.
You step outside the Lair, wishing you could slam the door in Raph’s face but the entrance unfortunately didn’t work like that. With a heavy sigh you lean against the wall, digging into your pocket to grab your phone only to realize you left it inside. You suck your teeth, ready to head back in when Raph suddenly tosses you something. You catch it, clutching it close to your chest and when you look down you realize it’s your phone.
“…Thanks.”
He only grunts in response, leaning on the opposite wall and crossing his arms over his plastron. You look down at your phone to check the time and any notifications, about to just waste time on social media before deciding otherwise. You shove it into your pocket, pursing your lips a bit and look at Raph.
“…So you think I should’ve gone left?” You mumble, feeling oddly anxious to see if he’d respond.
He raises an eye ridge at you, an insult ready on his tongue before he drops it and decides it’s not worth it, especially considering you two just got kicked out of game night.
“Woulda been better. Cuz now you gotta go the long way to get to the end.”
“Yeah but this route has better chances of getting a treasure chest.” You try to keep your voice calm, surprised at how… quiet, your conversation was so far.
He shrugs and straightens his posture a bit. “Jus’ tryin to help.”
You can’t help but laugh, bewildered that he just say that.
“By calling it a dumb move?” You huff and roll your eyes, feeling that faint flicker of anger start in your chest.
“Well. It was.” He retorts but there’s no hint of hatred whatsoever.
There’s a silence between the two of you now, Raph avoiding your gaze but you looking at him straight on.
“You know, you’re somewhat pleasant to talk to when you aren’t being a dick.”
Now he laughs, shaking his head a bit and finally making eye contact with you.
“Yeah well, you ain’t so half bad when you’re not being crazy.”
“I am not—“ You catch yourself, taking a moment to breathe in. “I am not crazy. You bring out my crazy.”
“Only because you bring out mine!”
You bite your tongue, trying really hard to not fight because it’ll always end in the same way; the both of you repeating yourselves, throwing insults, and then ruining everyone else’s good time. Well, that last part seemed to have already happened.
“You don’t hate me as much as you make it out to be, right?” You couldn’t help but ask, seizing the opportunity to test if there was something more that just this supposed hatred.
He sighs heavily, reaching to scratch the back of his neck and awkwardly shift around. He sucks his teeth and lets out a huff before finally answering you.
“Nah, I don’t. Jus’ hate that there’s someone who’s too much like me.”
You squint at him, a confused smile crossing your lips.
“You mean hotheaded, short tempered, argumentative—“
He waves you off with an exasperated groan but nods.
“Now I see why my brothers are always gettin’ pissed at me.” He chuckles quietly.
You smile, finding his laughter a bit endearing and with the way it warms your chest, you know you want to hear it more. Especially if you can be the one to cause it.
Another silence follows. Raph fidgets with one of his arm bands as a sort of distraction.
“Hope that means you don’t actually hate me that much either…” He murmurs under his breath.
“Well, you get on my nerves and sometimes I wanna pop your head off but, no, I don’t actually hate you…that much.”
He smirks at you and extends his hand out.
“Start over?”
You smile back and clasp his hand, giving a gentle squeeze.
Was going through a massive doc I have of prompts and came across one that gave me a brain blast.
Set after Leo leaves to Central America, a year or so when Raph becomes the NW.
Warnings: Angst, hurt, little to no comfort, Raph yelling at you and vice versa, no happy ending
PT 2
You had an inkling that your boyfriend was the Nightwatcher, you don’t know exactly when or what it was that gave you that unsettling feeling in your stomach but you just knew.
His sleep schedule was all kinds of messed up, more so than usual. He seemed angrier and more on edge, patience seeming to run thin for everyone.
Including you.
Never mind the fact that he always seemed to be sporting a fresh bruise somewhere on his body. It’s not like he can hide them from you either since he only wears protective pads and his mask. He tells you that it’s from patrolling with his brothers or from sparring with Splinter. If that were the case then why didn’t Mikey or Don have the same bruises? Why did Raph seem to divert your attention away from the topic whenever you tried to pry more?
But then again, who are you to not believe him, your boyfriend has never lied to you before so why would he now?
Still, it’s just another piece to the mysterious puzzle, one that seems to be never ending the more you try and put it together.
Deep down you knew. Knew that he was out there alone and putting himself in these dangerous situations without any help. Whenever you saw a story on the news about how ‘The Nightwatcher Struck Again’, you’d immediately turn to look at Raphael to gauge his reaction, hoping that maybe you can pick up any subtle sign on his face.
But he kept himself stoic, expression blank as he listened to the coverage.
You had asked Donnie, Mikey and even Splinter if they’ve noticed anything off with him but all they told you was that he was struggling with Leo’s absence. It’s believable, because that’s what they believe.
Casey didn’t know any better, saying that Raph was just having a hard time adjusting with the lack of crime fighting and order between him and his brothers. Just because Shredder was dead, didn’t mean that crime stopped. In fact it was at an all time high; especially with the Purple Dragons now trying to take over every inch of city they could.
Then the late night appearances started happening.
It wasn’t out of the ordinary for him to show up at your apartment unannounced prior to Leo leaving. Nowadays he only showed up when he was battered and bruised, looking as if he just got out of a dogfight. And at first you didn’t ask, having tended to some of his injuries before. You presumed that he had a scuffle or two with one of his brothers or maybe he and Casey just got a bit too rough with one another.
That’s when you vaguely recalled hearing Mikey talk about how Splinter forbade them from doing any patrols until Leo returned.
You nearly asked him one night right then and there when he showed up on your fire escape at 3 a.m, splattered in bruises and cuts, nearly halfway unconscious. You had hauled him in and laid him on your bed, on the verge of tears as he bled onto your sheets. You begged and begged for him to tell you what happened but he refused, just wanting you to clean him up and go to sleep holding you in his arms.
And you listened of course, not wanting to push and risk having him shut you out completely. But that night replayed constantly in your head and it’s what drove you for your next course of action.
It was driving you crazy not knowing, and it made you plan to deliberately put yourself in danger just to see if he would come and save you.
Luckily for you, you only had to put yourself at risk just once.
It’s over before it even really began, a long chain weapon zipped right in front of you and into the skull of the thug who attempted to rob you at gun point. You gasped and shielded your face, turning away from the man who was cradling his bleeding head and trying to get up off the floor. You heard a loud metallic thud somewhere in the alley, the footsteps getting closer to you.
You looked up right into the eyes of the infamous Nightwatcher.
It felt like time stood still as he looked at you, alarms ringing in Raphael’s head as he tried to figure out why the hell you were out so late at night.
You practically screamed at yourself to look at him entirely, take in his whole form before he left. Your eyes roamed haphazardly over him; from his metal helmet, down his right arm, all the way to his gloves—
“Hold your breath.”
You hardly had anytime to register his words before he snapped something to the ground, a cloud of gray smoke enveloping your vision. You covered your nose and mouth with your hand, shutting your eyes and waving away the smoke. He ran past you to snatch up the goon, not even sparing you another glance as he hurried out the alley. You went after him blindly, seeing the guy tied up to a light pole and just barely catching the Nightwatcher pull off on his all too familiar motorcycle and drive away.
You went back into the alley, searching the ground until you found it; the capsule. You’d seen these before, not many people, let alone any crime fighters use this type.
And you remember exactly who the mutant was that showed them to you.
As soon as you got home you texted Raph that you needed to see him, hardly giving him any time to respond before you called. You were urgent in your message, pleading for him to come over and explaining that you almost got robbed but were saved by the Nightwatcher.
You felt awful because it felt like you were lying to him, luring him into a trap.
In a way you almost were, because you practically had solid evidence that he is the Nightwatcher. It’s like you acquired the last piece of the puzzle and all you had to do was put it into place.
Raphael knew what you were doing and he hated it. Hated that he allowed himself to be so careless, hated that he got himself into this predicament in the first place, hated that he knew that if he didn’t go to you then it would make him seem like the worlds most horrible boyfriend.
There’s a part of him that hopes you haven’t put two and two together, that you were just in dire need of some comfort after a nearly traumatic event. But when he takes that first step on your fire escape and looks into your window, seeing you standing there like a nervous wreck…
He knows you know.
The silence is uncomfortable, like a thick heavy blanket that makes it nearly impossible to breathe. You feel like there’s something wrapped around your lungs the longer Raph goes without saying anything. He can see one of your hands clenched into a fist, your shaking barely visible and he wants nothing more than to close the distance between you two, scoop you into his arms and kiss you breathless to distract you.
Eventually you can’t take the silence anymore, opening your hand and tossing the smoke capsule onto the carpet between you two.
It’s like the blanket doubles in thickness when his eyes land on it.
“Where—“
“Don’t. Do not fucking lie to me, Raphael.” You keep your voice steady, forcing yourself to maintain your composure and to not completely lose it at your boyfriend.
He takes a deep breath and lets it out harshly, fingers flexing against his palms as he looks between you and the empty smoke pellet.
“I can explain.”
“Why don’t you say it first.”
Another deep inhale, followed by his hand coming to run down his face.
“You’re the Nightwatcher.” Your tone gets softer but it doesn’t lessen the impact of your words nor the tears that start to line your eyes.
You hate how Raph is able to keep up his poker face, like you didn’t just reveal his longtime secret of the past year.
He only gives you a simple nod and that seems to finally break the dam.
“Why? Why are you doing this?”
“Can we please talk about this tomorrow?” He asks, straining as he tries to keep calm.
“No,” You say, actually appalled that he would have the audacity to say that. “You need to explain yourself—“
“What the hell is there to explain!” His voice raises in volume, hands going up in the air in exasperation. “I’m protectin’ the city, I’m keepin’ people safe, I’m doin what I’ve always done!”
“But by yourself, Raph? Are you crazy!?” You fight back, holding back your anger and tears as your emotions start to overflow.
“Listen, I’ve been doin’ just fine, okay? I don’t need you breathin’ down my back now that you know.” He rolls his eyes when you scoff, folding his arms over his plastron and shaking his head.
“You don’t want me to be concerned? News flash, Hothead— that’s what loved ones do!” You couldn’t believe this, that he’s somehow turning this around on you when he’s the one who’s been lying about his late night activities for so long.
“Whatever,” He sneers, waving you off with a flick of his hand and turning towards the fire escape.
“Don’t you dare leave. We’re not done talking about this.” You step closer to him, your slipper crunching over the empty capsule.
“What the fuck else is there to talk about? Hm? Because I’m sure as hell ain’t gonna stop bein’ the Nightwatcher.” He growls over his shoulder, not even giving you the respect of saying it to your face completely,
This isn’t Raph, not really. This isn’t the turtle you’ve come to fall in love with, the one who used to take you for rides around the city on his bike at random intervals of the night or the one who surprised you with a big bouquet of your favorite flowers waiting on your fire escape with a card that said ‘happy birthday, sweetheart’ right at midnight.
Not the same Raph who held you close and kissed your tears away the first time you made love because you were so overwhelmed by everything. He held you close and whispered nothing but praise and adoration for you, waiting until you showed him that beautiful smile before he took you to a pleasurable new height.
The same Raph who definitely had his faults whether it was by accidentally hitting you a bit too hard during training or the one who’d shut you out but immediately open up once he was ready.
You know that Raph is still somewhere in there, hidden within the castle of walls and laying beneath all that anger and hatred he’s built up over time due to Leo being gone.
There’s a brief fleeting moment that passes in your brain that maybe you should’ve been more patient with him, that if you had just waited out a little longer then maybe he would’ve told you instead of you having to confront him like this.
“You know what, no, how bout we talk bout the fact that you put yourself in danger! Just to prove something that you already knew! Are you fuckin’ thick in the head?” Now he whirls around to face you, his brow set so deep that all you want to do is reach up and smooth it out with your fingers.
“It’s not like you would’ve told me if I asked you! You could hardly admit it just now—“
“My business is my fuckin’ business, okay?” He gestures towards himself, tapping at his plastron and glaring down at you. “And you need to learn when to stop stickin’ your nose into shit that ain’t yours!”
He hates how he’s letting his anger consume him, letting it take over and manipulate his body like a puppet. He feels himself start to get out of control and he knows he’s got to get out there before he says something he’ll regret.
“Fine,” You croak out, the quiver in your tone not going unnoticed by him.
But it seems it’s already too late.
“You want me to stop getting in your business?”
Shit shit shit, don’t say it.
Please don’t say it.
“Wish granted. I’m done.”
You turn away so you don’t have to see the way Raphael’s face fall at your words, how his brow immediately smooths out and how his lips part in shock.
“Wha— no, sweetheart. You can’t—“ he reaches out towards you and just faintly grazes your arm. His heart falls to his stomach when you pull away, like his touch burned your skin and you had to get away before it spread like wildfire.
“I will not stand by and watch you throw yourself in danger, night after night, with absolutely no backup. I will not be waiting by my window every night, wondering if you’re going to show up with one foot on deaths door. I respected your privacy but only asked that you be careful and be mindful about what you’re doing.”
Raphael stares hard at you, fingers clenching into fists as he chooses his next few words wisely.
“So that’s it then? It’s over?”
You can tell he’s doing all he can to not break down and beg for your forgiveness. Even the next sentence being on the tip of your tongue has you shedding tears, wiping them away quickly and willing yourself to finish speaking.
“You pushed me away, refused to even give me the grace to tell me what you were doing, instead having me back you up into a corner and practically force it out of you.” You inhale shakily, saying it before you can fully stop yourself.
“It’s over.” You whisper, crying more freely now.
He looks at you crestfallen, shaking his head in disbelief as your words rings over and over in his head. He doesn’t say anything as he turns away from you and back out the window. He looks over his shoulder one last time, hating that his last memory of you is going to be you standing there heartbroken with a tear streaked face.
He wants to scream and shout; at you and himself. He wants to grab you by the shoulders and shake you while he pleads for you to forgive him and that he’ll do better, that he’ll work on his vulnerability more. He tells himself that all you need is space, that with time you’ll take him back and you can go back to the way things were. That you can adjust to him being the Nightwatcher.
“I’m sorry.” He leaves you with that, jumping off the fire escape and disappearing into the bleak night.
You believe him and that thought makes you cry even harder.
