CWs: Possessive/territorial behavior, scent marking, the guys acting a bit feral. Considering the subject matter, it’s not a stretch to say that these may be somewhat NSFW, but not super explicit. All characters are aged-up.
LEO
Leo is lounging on the edge of the skate ramp, tossing one of his katanas in the air with practiced, bored ease. When he sees you enter, he flashes you that classic cocky grin. But the sword fumbles in his grip the second the wind shifts.
The silence that follows is deafening.
He drops from the ramp, landing silently, moving with the fluid grace of a red-eared slider. But the water is turbulent today. His eyes narrow, scanning you, zeroing in on the collar of your shirt. He smells his twin.
“Donnie?” he asks, though it’s not really a question. His voice is light, but there’s a razor blade hidden in the tone.
He circles you like a shark in open water. He stops behind you, and you feel his hand clamp on your shoulder, trapping you in place. Then, he slides both hands under your jacket, pulling you back against his chest. He noses at your hairline, inhaling the scent of his twin, and gives a mocking scoff.
“Boring,” he whispers, his lips grazing your earlobe.
He spins you around, pinning you with a look of intense, possessive heat. He drags his nose along your jawline, rubbing his cheek against yours, effectively wiping away the other scent. His hands wander lower, cupping you, pulling your hips against his to make you feel exactly how jealous he is.
“I’m going to ruin you for him,” Leo promises, his voice a sultry purr. “By the time I’m done with you, the only name you’ll be screaming is mine.”
He kisses you then, demanding and deep, intent on marking every inch of you until the scent of his brother is nothing but a distant memory.
RAPH
The moment you step into the lair, the air in the main atrium grows heavy.
Raph emerges from the projector room. He doesn’t greet you with his usual teddy bear warmth and snaggle-toothed grin. Instead, his nostrils flare, and a low rumble starts deep in his plastron. He stops inches from you, his shadow swallowing you whole.
“Leo,” he grunts. He doesn’t ask; he knows. The scent of his brother is a stain on your neck, a neon sign of a challenge.
Before you can explain, his large hand encases your shoulder. He crowds you against the nearest wall, his size effectively caging you in. Raph is an alligator snapping turtle—a creature of instinct and force. And right now, his pupils are blown wide, eclipsing his normally kind irises.
He leans down, burying his snout into the junction of your neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply before letting out a sharp, angry hiss. “He thinks he’s slick,” he growls against your skin. “Leaving his mark on you like he owns you.”
He nuzzles you, the texture of his skin scraping deliciously against your pulse point, replacing the lingering trace of Leo with his own scent. He bites down gently on your neck, just enough to make you gasp, his tongue swiping hot and wet over the spot immediately after.
“I’m gonna cover you in so much of me that you’ll forget he even exists.”
He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze dark and hungry. Raph intends to stake his claim so deep inside you that no amount of scrubbing will ever wash him away.
DONNIE
The lab is loud with the sound of welding and music, but the moment the sensors at the door recognize your biometrics, the noise cuts out instantly.
Donnie spins in his chair, a rare, genuine smile forming—until he smells it. His smile flatlines. He stands up slowly, the mechanical spider limbs of his battle shell unfurling from his back, betraying the agitation he’s trying to suppress.
He smells the chaotic, vibrant scent of his younger brother all over you. It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s incorrect.
“Calculated probability of you visiting Michael before me was low,” Donnie states, his voice monotone, masking a brewing storm of possessive rage. He walks toward you, his movements stiff. “And yet, here you are. Contaminated.”
His hands clamp onto your waist and shoulder, pulling you closer. He examines you, leaning in and sniffing the air around your neck with clinical precision, his face twisting in distaste. Then he cups your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.
“I don’t like sharing,” he murmurs, his eyes dark and dilated, “and I certainly don’t like sharing you.”
As he presses his forehead against yours, his battle shell disengages and retreats back to storage, revealing the soft shell underneath. He begins to kiss down your throat, methodical and wet, placing suction bites in a perfect geometric pattern over the areas where Mikey’s scent is strongest.
“I’m going to conduct a thorough recalibration,” Donnie breathes against your skin, his arm sliding down to tease the hem of your pants. “We aren’t leaving this lab until your biometric readings are exclusively synchronized with mine.”
MIKEY
You expect a flying tackle-hug and a loud “Omigosh!” Instead, when you walk into the kitchen where Mikey is cooking, he freezes mid-chop. The knife lowers slowly to the cutting board.
The playful box turtle vibe evaporates, replaced by an uncharacteristically terrifying stillness.
Mikey turns around. He’s not smiling. His face is blank, eerily calm, which is infinitely scarier than him yelling. He smells Raph on you, and it triggers a primal, bratty defiance in him. He walks over to you, wiping his hands on his apron.
“You smell like Raph,” he states. His voice is soft, but it lacks its usual bounce. It’s deep, flat, and laced with possessiveness. “Why do you smell like Raph, angel?”
He wraps his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck, inhaling deeply. Then, he tightens his grip. He looks at you, his eyes wide and pitiful, but underneath that puppy-dog look is a feral gleam.
“Did he touch you?” he asks, his hands wandering, gripping your rear firmly, pulling you into his hips. “Did he think he could just take you? Because he’s the biggest?”
He lets out a low growl. He hates it. Hates that his brother’s scent is clinging to his person.
Suddenly, he spins you around and hoists you up onto the kitchen island. He steps between your legs instantly, prying your knees apart with his thighs to settle himself firmly against your center.
“I hate it,” he hisses, again burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling sharply before dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin there. He rubs his cheek aggressively against your chest, your neck, your jaw, acting like a cat that’s terrified of losing its territory.
“We aren’t leaving this kitchen,” he vows, “not until I know that the next time Raph walks by you, all he smells is me.”
Woke up and saw a new bayverse writer and got super excited! Welcome, we sit in the dark corner with snacks, pillows, and the occasional person that passes by and looks at us crazy 😬🤏
Thought I'd come by and just say hello! And also ask if you'd be willing to give some relationship headcanons for Mikey and/or Raph? If that hasn't been requested yet. Thanks!
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ BAYVERSE!RAPHAEL DATING HCS
ᯓ★ lots of fluff, jealousy things (angst maybe), reader goes by she/her pronouns! (This is so late— im sorry—)
Is the definition of mean to the world but sweetest to his girl
The most common scenario is this: He could be talking to Casey and just be saying a bunch of mean shit to him but the moment you approach him to ask him something, he softens his tone and looks at you, narrowed brows with a concerned look as if you're the most fragile thing in the world.
He actually thinks you'll break if he raises his voice at you.
Casey has made fun of him many times for this but drops it each time Raph threatens to hit him.
He calls you babe. That's it.
Sometimes baby girl if he's feeling brave.
You happen to picked up the habit of stealing his things. Or in your words 'borrowing'.
"Uhhh babe... Where's my glasses?"
He's not complaining since it's been the norm for you to wear his glasses out in the open when you go to work or such.
He likes to think its a way of you having a part of him everytime you're away.
But theres no denying that the two of you guys argue every now and then.
Its not that you want to but he just jumps to conclusions very fast. He does try to control it but sometimes his heart speculates faster than his mind thinks.
Like the time he dropped you off at your place and because of how exhausted you were, you failed to notice him leaning in to give you a goodbye kiss when you walked off.
That ruined his self-esteem for sure.
He really thought you didn't love him anymore and he was too afraid to ask you about it.
It was when you noticed him sulking that you finally confronted him.
He's definitely a physical touch kind of man.
He CANNOT keep his hands off of you. NO. NA-DA.
You need the whole world to pry his hands off of you.
His favourite thing to do is to have you in bed where he just wraps his arms around your waist while he rests his head on your stomach. It makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
He has jealousy problems.
He doesn't mind if you're close with his brothers because technically you're part of the family but with Casey or Vern?
Yeah no.
I mean there are boundaries to things.
Casey is smart enough to know not to try anything (in front of Raph) but Vern never gets the hint.
Has tried to get you to go on 'exclusive dinners' but you always said no because you knew how weird the guy was.
Nearly got beaten to shits by Raph if Leo wasn't there to stop him.
Has definitely done the bicep ribbon trend with you. How you were in awe from the way the ribbon elegantly untied itself around his bicep when he flexed his muscles made him feel all prideful of himself.
Never slacks off when working out.
He does enjoy kisses but he gets all awfully shy when you do it in public.
Like if you ever do kiss him in front of his brothers, even a simple peck on the cheek, he would not be able to face them for a moment.
He blushes hard and needs time to calm down.
He loves it soooooooo much when you dress up.
It doesn't matter what your style is because everytime you put in the effort to get all dressed up for date nights. He goes absolutely berserk.
Compliments your looks on a daily basis.
Doesn't matter if its your lazy day where you look a mess.
You're still irresistible to him.
Loves to keep the little things you leave in his room.
Either its your lip gloss or hair tie. He keeps it safe in his drawers just so it doesn't go missing or that you may need it later.
Yes he does sniff your hair tie.
It's only instinct since your hair smells so good.
Yes, the foot clan has kidnapped you a few times and it's ridiculous how many times it has happened. You fell for the homeless person trick AND the stray cat strategy.
All this effort just to ask you to spill any inside information to them.
Like just imagine you tied to a chair as Karai threatens to kill you but you're just wondering how long is it gonna take this time for the brothers to track you down.
Being thrown into this lifestyle is not for the weak.
But eventually you get saved all the time. Just imagine Raph removing the restraints around your arms with a regretful look.
"Sorry baby, I should've protected you better. I promise to keep you safe"
Pairing: Raphael Hamato x Reader
Summary: Your date ended horribly. You walked home alone in the rain, sobbing, with a red mark on your arm and a story to keep from your green best friends (because they brutalize bad people, plus you were just embarrassed of your judgment.) Big Red, however, was tired of being your best friend -- and was waiting to tell you that.
Themes & Warnings: protective!Raph, emotional love confessions in the rain, mentions of violence and possible carrying out of violence, swearing, slight fluff, comfort, Raph being angry bc he's always angry.
Having mutant turtle best friends was not how you thought your twenties would go. Not that you weren't thankful.
You just thought you'd be hanging out with your girls, going to bars, meeting dudes and finding your calling while studying in college. You thought it would be full of mini skirts, glitter, vodka and dreams. You were wrong. Completely wrong. Instead, you were walking home drunk from a bar alone, fell down an open manhole cover, and were caught by strong, green arms.
You screamed for a second. Passed out. When you woke up, you were on an old tattered couch with a giant rat staring at you, then looking at the four hulking turtle-human men in disdain.
That was how you met your boys.
It didn't take you long to love them. You loved Leo's courage, his leadership, his perfect advice every time you asked for it. He was more mature than most people you knew, though he hadn't experienced a full life that was similar to yours. You loved Donnie's intelligence, his excitement about his hobbies, how gentle he was, and how eager he was to teach you about things you'd never heard about. You loved Mikey's carefree spirit, the way he could always lift you up when you were feeling down, and his spectacular sense of humor. And most of all, you loved Raph.
You always attracted a bad boy. Always, always. Though it wasn't romantic, it was natural for you to spend the most time with the most rough-around-the-edges motherfucker there was. It was just how your life went. When you met Raph, he was tough to crack at first. He was a little grumpy about a new human joining their lives, adding to the chaos that April O'Neil originally brought -- but he warmed up to you until he was ultimately the closest to you out of the four.
At first, he didn’t speak to you much. Just kind of grunted when you came by. Didn’t laugh at your jokes. Barely made eye contact.
But you noticed the small things. Like how he always checked the tunnels before you left. How he stood between you and the sketchier parts of the lair. How he walked you out even when you said you didn’t need an escort.
You started staying longer when he was around. He started lingering in the doorway when you visited.
Eventually, that turned into regular late-night talks, usually on the couch, or while he bench pressed literal cars in the corner of the dojo. You’d sit with your legs crisscrossed, talking about dumb things: your classes, your horrible job, your wild roommates. He’d grunt or smirk, occasionally tossing in a sarcastic comment that made you snort into your soda. Sometimes he’d say something unexpectedly thoughtful, and it’d stick with you for days.
What no one told you about Raph was that he listened. He remembered everything -- the names of your old pets, the fact that your mom was sick, your weird favorite candy that no one else liked. He noticed when you wore makeup to hide stress, or when your laugh didn’t sound quite right.
When you got sick, he brought you soup and didn’t make eye contact the entire time. When you got dumped, he punched the punching bag until his knuckles bled and didn’t say why. When you succeeded, a passing grade, a new job, a clean day, he acted like it was your world championship.
And you?
You kept him soft.
You gave him space to breathe. Let him be quiet when he needed to be. Made him laugh when he didn’t want to. You saw past the temper and the walls and the scowl and found the stubbornly loyal, deeply sensitive, fiercely protective man underneath.
You made him feel safe.
It was always you and Raph -- shoulder to shoulder, sarcasm for armor, both pretending it wasn’t more.
Even if everyone else already knew it was.
The day you came into the lair talking about some date, Raph surprisingly held his tornado of anger, disgust, and jealousy inward. You never even noticed it. He wasn't sure how he'd managed to hide everything he was feeling -- maybe through the "keep calm" tactics that you'd taught him one day -- but he did it successfully. It wasn't like you'd never gone on a date before. You'd even gone on multiple dates with one chump, calling him your boyfriend before you eventually got tired of him questioning where you went every Friday night (movie night with the boys.)
“He's actually really nice,” you said, sucking the last few drops of a smoothie Mikey had made through a straw noisily. “He does concrete construction or whatever. He helped with the new sidewalk outside my university.”
The boys listened. Donnie sat on a stool, staring down at some little gadget he was working on, making noises of acknowledgement to show he was listening. Mikey did dishes, occasionally stopping to look at you. Leo sat politely, eyes on you.
And Raph? Raph stood next to you, arms crossed solidly, wishing he could run away and beat the shit out of something.
“Well, angelcakes, he sounds like a nice one.” Mikey commented, grinning. “But remember Mikey's rules for date safety! Never--”
You rolled your eyes.
“Never leave your drink uncovered, never--” You attempted to finish.
“--go anywhere alone, and if he orders milk on a first date, run,” Mikey finished, snapping a soapy finger toward you like a coach on game day.
You snorted. “He ordered beer last time, so I think we’re in the clear.”
“Still kinda weird,” Donnie mumbled, not looking up from his work.
“Beer’s weird?” you asked, lifting a brow.
“No,” Donnie said, adjusting a dial, “him.”
That earned a laugh from Mikey and even the smallest twitch of a smile from Leo.
But Raph? Raph didn’t smile. He didn’t speak.
He just stood there beside you, hulking and silent, jaw tight, arms crossed so hard his biceps flexed like steel cables under his skin.
You never noticed the tension, not really. You never noticed how his eyes flicked to your exposed collarbone, still dotted with the leftover shimmer of whatever perfume you wore. You never noticed how he inhaled, just once, like he could smell him on you. How he fought the urge to throw that smoothie cup across the room.
You never noticed because Raph didn’t let it show.
It wasn’t the first time you’d mentioned some dude. You’d brought up a few before. Guys who left you unsatisfied, frustrated, confused. He’d always been there after. Quietly listening. Driving you home. Standing behind you in line at the bodega, just in case the ex showed up and needed reminding. He made a public appearance a lot now, since Donnie had invented the projection watches -- they gave the boys human bodies, human personas for when they had to go up top and not raise hell. For when they needed to be up there for regular, human business.
This time was different.
This guy was new. He was “nice.” He had a job that involved strength. You smiled when you talked about him.
You stopped by again before you went on tonight's date. Your outfit would've made Raph blush if he wasn't so fucking pissed. You had a short, black dress on, just long enough to keep it classy but with enough leg showing to make you look sexy. Your hair was curled and tucked into a bun, ringlets falling in front of your face. Your makeup wasn't dramatic, it accentuated your naturally beautiful face. You wore heels, but they still didn't touch Raphael's height at all. After all, the man was like six foot seven.
You twirled in front of the boys, smiling brightly.
“How do I look? Is there something I'm missing?”
You were standing in front of him, spinning like some perfect little fever dream, the soft lighting of the lair catching the shimmer on your legs and the curve of your smile, asking him -- the guy currently gripping the edge of the counter so hard it might crack -- if you were missing something.
Yeah. You were missing something.
Him.
He didn't say it. He couldn’t say it. Not with Leo watching you like a protective big brother. Not with Donnie adjusting his glasses and muttering something about “statistical likelihood of safety.” Not with Mikey wolf-whistling in the background like he was front row at a runway show.
“Daaaamn, baddie,” Mikey grinned, dramatically fanning himself with a pizza box. “You look like heartbreak in heels. Don’t kill the guy. Unless he deserves it.”
“I won’t,” you giggled, smoothing the sides of your dress. “He’s just taking me to dinner. Somewhere nice.”
“Nice how?” Leo asked cautiously.
You shrugged. “Little Italian place near the East River. It’s casual. Wine, candles… pasta, hopefully.”
Donnie didn’t look up. “Call me if anything seems off.”
“You’ll know before I do,” you said, tapping your phone. “I’m sharing my location with you already.”
“Smart girl,” Leo said with a nod.
Then your eyes flicked to Raph, still standing frozen by the fridge, knuckles white where they wrapped around the counter. You smiled at him -- warm and sweet, like you always did -- and tilted your head.
“Well? You didn’t say anything. I look okay?”
His throat was dry. His jaw clenched. He couldn’t look at your legs again, not when you were dressed like that for someone who wasn’t him.
You looked like temptation itself. You looked like his worst mistake waiting to happen. You looked like everything he couldn’t have.
So he gave a grunt. “Yeah. S’fine.”
“Just fine?” you teased.
He forced himself to look at your face. Just your face.
“You look great,” he muttered.
You beamed, completely unaware of the furnace behind his eyes. “Thank you, Raphie.”
Then you stepped close, too close, and reached up to fix the collar of his tank top with that same tenderness you always had. Your perfume hit him like a punch to the gut.
“You’re always honest with me,” you said softly. “That’s what I like about you.”
His jaw ticked. “Don’t like lyin’.”
You smiled. “I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.”
Then you turned, heels tapping across the cement floor, and disappeared into the tunnels with a quick wave goodbye.
And Raphael?
Raphael stood there silently, watching the spot where you’d been, breathing slow through his nose like if he didn’t, something in him might snap.
Because it should’ve been him.
Taking you to dinner. Making you laugh over wine and pasta. Driving you home with your heels dangling from your hand, your lips gloss-smeared and smiling just for him.
Instead, he was stuck underground. Fuming. Wishing he'd just said it.
Wishing he’d told you the truth the moment you walked in, all sparkling eyes and lip gloss:
You didn’t look perfect.
You looked like his.
He groaned, wiping his huge hand across his forehead in frustration. Leo watched him carefully, pursing his lips. Donnie said nothing, as usual, and Mikey sensed the tension, tucking himself back into his corner where he was eating his pizza and playing his video games.
“She's your best friend. You should have just been honest,” Leo hummed carefully, as if not to set off the beast. “The truth'll come out one way or another.”
Raphael didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, still leaning against the counter, still seething under the surface like a volcano that had been too quiet for too long.
His hand dropped from his forehead, falling heavy against the edge of the counter with a dull thud. His jaw flexed. Once. Twice.
“Yeah,” he muttered finally, voice low and full of gravel. “Well. Too late now, ain’t it?”
Leo tilted his head, arms crossed, giving him that look. The big brother one. The patient, steady stare that somehow made Raph feel like he was still twelve and throwing punches in the dojo.
“It’s not too late unless you decide it is,” Leo said, voice calm, but firm.
Donnie didn't glance up from the device in his hand, but his voice carried from behind his glasses.
“She trusts you more than anyone. Statistically, emotional vulnerability paired with long-standing companionship has a higher chance of success than new--”
“Donnie, if you don't--” Raph snarled.
Donnie blinked. “Right. Not helping.”
Raph turned away from all of them. Walked a few paces across the lair like he might burn the energy off if he just moved enough. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, and his shell shifted with the tightness of his shoulders.
“She looked happy,” he said finally, bitter. “Talkin’ about him. Smilin’. Gettin’ all dressed up. Like he’s doin’ somethin’ for her that I can’t.”
Leo raised a brow. “Or maybe she was just excited someone finally asked. Doesn’t mean she picked him over you, Raph.”
“She did.”
“No,” Mikey chimed in from his corner without looking up. “She just doesn’t know you’re an option.”
That stopped Raph cold.
He stared across the lair, frozen in place, the words echoing in his skull.
She just doesn’t know you’re an option.
Because he’d never said it. Never given her the chance to choose him. Just stood beside her like a shadow while she cried over losers, complained about red flags, rolled her eyes at controlling texts and kissed cheeks that weren’t his.
He groaned again, dragging a hand down his face.
“What am I s’posed to do, huh? Run outta the shadows and confess like some kinda Hallmark hero? ‘Hey, surprise, I’ve been in love with you for years. Wanna ditch the dude who has fuckin' concrete all over his clothes and smells like Axe body spray?’”
Leo snorted. “Better than sulking in the sewers and letting someone else make her miserable.”
Mikey finally paused his game and looked over, eyes more serious than usual. “She’s not the kind of girl you can replace, bro. You know that.”
And Raphael did know that.
He knew it every time she laughed so hard she wheezed. Every time she fell asleep on the couch beside him, legs draped over his lap. Every time she saw him, really saw him, through the walls and the anger and the scars. She was his best friend. His anchor. The only soft place in a world that never gave him one. And he was gonna lose her to some prick in a hard hat who didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as her.
Hours passed. No calls, no texts. But Raph had decided. No matter what happened, he had to tell the truth. He had to come out and say it before he fuckin' exploded.
You finally sent a text, telling them you were going home, the date had gone "fine."
He was going to tell you. Tonight. When you got home from your date. Then, you could tell him whether you wanted the concrete brained little shit -- or whether you wanted someone who'd actually love you. Who loved you. Now. Always. Since he'd let you break into his walls, touch the parts of him that had never had a hand on them.
He threw a hoodie on, grabbing his phone, and moved to leave. Twisting his watch, he became a vision of himself, not quite Raph, but Raph enough.
Still tall. Still hulking with muscle. A buzz cut with a red bandana covering it, tattoos all over his skin, the same intimidating green eyes. He was hot actually, which you'd admitted when you first saw the projection. All of them were. Raph, though.. It truly did him justice.
Although secretly, you'd always thought Raph was hot. Projection or not. It was what originally drew you into him.
Raph heard Leo's voice from the corner of the lair, the dojo.
“Good luck.”
The rain was the first thing he noticed. He welcomed it, letting it pour down onto him in calming waves. He walked to your house, opting not to take the shell-raiser. After all, if things went badly, he'd probably find some dirty criminal to pummel.
He reached your apartment, sitting on your front steps under the overhanging roof. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it, puffing on it slowly as he waited for you to approach.
What would he even say? What would he do if you told him to fuck off? He didn't let the nerves dissuade him. It needed to be said, bad results or not.
It was about five more minutes before he saw your silhouette in the rain. You were small, far smaller than him, of course. He knew it was you by the way you walked. You were walking, walking, walking, he was waiting to see your face through the waves of water. When he finally did, his eyebrows furrowed.
Mascara stained your cheeks. Crying. You were crying.
You walked awkwardly, the closer you got. Your hand clutched your arm.
Then, your e/c eyes lifted. You saw him.
Quickly, you wiped your face with one arm, acting like nothing had ever happened. Then, the hand quickly came back down to cover your arm -- Raph wasn't close enough to see what you were covering. You reached Raph, looking at him in confusion.
“Raph? What are you doing here in the rain--”
He didn’t answer at first.
His eyes were locked on you, all of you. The ruined makeup. The limp in your walk. The tight grip you had on your arm, like you were trying to hold yourself together.
You were hurting. That much was obvious. And trying to hide it from him.
From him.
He stepped forward without thinking, eyes narrowing. His jaw clenched, and his voice dropped low, rough.
“What happened.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the edge in his tone.
“Nothing,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “I’m fine. Really.”
“You’re not fine,” he said, stepping in closer. His eyes dropped to your arm, the one you were still guarding like a shield. “What’s under your hand?”
“Raph, it’s nothing, I swear--”
He was in front of you now, towering over you, not in a way that scared you, never in a way that scared you, but in a way that said he knew. That he wouldn’t let it slide.
“Move your hand.”
You hesitated. Looked up at him.
He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t huffing and puffing, or pacing, or growling with his fists balled up like he usually did when something pissed him off.
No. He was quiet.
And that was worse.
“No. Raph, please, I am perfectly--”
“Move your fuckin' hand, shorty, now.”
“Raph.”
His voice cracked through the rain like thunder.
“You want me to move it?”
It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t violence. It was a promise, for your own good. A promise that you'd heard before. He'd make shit happen.
You flinched, not because you were scared, but because you knew what was coming. You knew once he saw it, really saw it, there’d be no stuffing the rage back into the bottle. You hesitated just a second longer.
And then you moved your hand.
Raph’s eyes dropped immediately.
Silence.
The bruise was ugly. Purple and red, already deepening, shaped like thick fingers curled into the soft skin of your arm. It told a story you hadn’t even finished living yet.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
Just stared.
Then his chest rose -- slow, steady, dangerous.
His jaw flexed, his nostrils flared, and his eyes, those sharp green eyes, burned.
“Motherfucker,” he muttered, voice low and venomous.
You reached for him. “Raphael--”
You couldn't quite get him in your grip, just the fabric of his sweatshirt in a small hand. It was wet, soaked with rain, but you managed to keep your grip. He turned towards you, lip almost curled into a snarl. Anger heated the air up -- could've boiled the rain.
“You said the date was fine. Fuckin' fine. Look at your--” he cut himself off, taking a breath and looking up at the sky. “You lied to me. Why would you lie to save that waste of space?” He hissed, turning completely towards you.
You flinched, not from fear, never from him, but from the sheer weight of his rage.
The rain kept falling, soaking through your clothes, matting your hair to your face, but none of it mattered. Not with Raphael standing in front of you like a storm barely restrained, fists clenched, shoulders squared, breathing like he’d just fought ten men and still wasn’t done.
“I wasn’t protecting him,” you said quickly, gripping tighter to his hoodie. “I was protecting you.”
That stopped him.
His jaw twitched. His eyes snapped to yours, sharp as glass and just as fragile beneath the surface.
“I knew what you’d do, Raph,” you whispered, voice trembling. “And I didn’t want to lose you to a cell or a manhunt or -- or something worse. I didn’t want to see you destroy yourself for me.”
He looked at you for a moment.. Then laughed. Bitterly.
“Don't worry about it. Ain't no motherfucker on this earth that's gonna touch you and walk away fine. Whether you feel bad or not,” he said. He towered over you, trying to force his green eyes away from the nasty injury on your arm. “I'd burn this city down for you if ya asked me to. I'm gonna kill this fuckin' guy.”
Your breath caught in your throat. Not because you didn’t believe him, no, you absolutely believed him, but because you could feel it. You could feel the truth in his voice, in every clenched muscle, in the way his words shook with restraint.
“Raph--”
“I mean it,” he snapped, stepping closer, close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off his chest. His projection shimmered faintly in the rain, struggling to keep up with the fury boiling just beneath his skin. “I don’t care if I gotta rip the fuckin’ streets up brick by brick, he’s gonna learn.”
You reached for him again, laying your hand gently against the front of his soaked hoodie. His heart was hammering underneath, furious, panicked, wild.
“I’m okay now,” you whispered. “I’m with you.”
He shook his head.
“Not good enough,” he growled. “You should never have to feel scared. Not when you got me. Not when you been right here in front of me this whole time and I’ve been too chickenshit to say what I really feel.”
You swallowed hard. “And what’s that?”
His jaw flexed again, rain trailing down his face like it was trying to cool him off. He took a breath, deep and shaky, and looked down at you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth.
“Shoulda been me.”
“W-What?”
He looked down at you still, his hand traveling down to pull your wet strap back up over your shoulder.
“Shoulda been me. Takin' you out, now that we can go up top,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Shoulda been me walkin' you home. Kissin' you at your front door step. Shoulda been me you were gettin' all pretty for.”
You stared, eyes wide and glassy.
“You were walkin’ around in that dress, hair done up all nice…smilin’ about some guy who didn’t even deserve a hello from you,” he muttered, eyes locked on yours, voice just shy of breaking. “And I stood there like a fuckin’ idiot, pretendin’ it didn’t kill me.”
His hand slid up, gently brushing your cheek with his thumb, rainwater tracing the movement.
“I ain’t ever felt more useless than watchin’ you leave tonight, knowin’ I wasn’t the one takin’ you out. Knowin’ I let someone else touch you ‘cause I was too much of a coward to say somethin’. And now,” he hissed, “I gotta kill the stupid fucker. Cuz he laid his hands on the girl I love.”
You didn’t even flinch at the words, the girl I love, but your breath caught like a rope had cinched around your chest and pulled tight.
The rain still fell in steady sheets, soaking you both to the bone, but neither of you noticed. Not really. Not with the confession hanging in the air between you, burning hotter than the storm around you.
“Raph…” your voice was soft. Barely a whisper. “Please.”
His gaze flickered, wild for a second, like he’d just realized he’d said it out loud. Like the truth had broken out of him without permission. But once it was out, he didn’t backpedal. He didn’t retreat.
He stepped in even closer, your bodies almost touching, his massive frame shielding you from the worst of the wind.
“I love you,” he said, voice low and rough, thick with emotion. “I love you. You think I’ve been watchin’ you all this time just to be your backup plan? Some guy you crash on when the rest of the world sucks?”
“No,” you breathed, shaking your head quickly. “No, I never thought that.”
“I been in love with you since the second you looked at me like I wasn’t just a monster. Since you laughed at my dumb jokes, shared your food, yelled at me when I got too hot-headed. You see me, and it scared the shit outta me.”
A warm tear ran down your face. His thumb caught that too.
“You're too good for this world. Too good for me. Too good for him. And even though you ain't mine, I'll happily shit-stomp any man that crosses you.”
You let out a soft, broken sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, as your hand reached up to cup his face, rough jaw and all.
“But I am yours,” you whispered. “I’ve been yours, Raph. This whole time. Was just too stupid to see it.”
His breath hitched, just for a second, and his hands flexed on your waist, like he couldn’t believe he was actually hearing the words. Like maybe the rain had messed with his head, or the universe was playing some cruel joke.
But your eyes were honest. Open. No walls, no filters, no fear. Just you, standing there in the storm, bruised and soaked and choosing him.
“You’re-- you wanna be?” he asked, voice cracking, like a kid afraid to hope.
You nodded, fingers curling at the back of his neck, drawing him closer. “Yes. I was just too scared to ruin us by saying it. I didn't want to lose you, Raphael. You're all I have. The only thing worth it.”
A beat of silence passed, thick, electric, before he pressed his forehead to yours with a low, aching groan.
He kissed you like he’d been holding back for years, because he had. His hands tangled in your hair, one arm wrapping around your lower back, lifting you off the pavement like your feet didn’t deserve to be on the same ground as the man who hurt you. His lips were warm despite the cold, pressed firm and sure to yours like he had no plans of letting you forget how long he’d loved you from the sidelines.
When he pulled back, you were both breathless. His voice was low and shaky when he said:
“If you’re mine… then you don’t ever gotta deal with this shit again. No more cheap dates, no more fake shit, no more bruises you try to hide.”
You swallowed, tears welling fresh again.
“Okay.”
“I mean it,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you loved. Proper. The way you always shoulda been.”
You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady, thundering beat of his heart under soaked fabric.
“I know,” you whispered.
And he just held you tighter.
Because you were his.
And now, finally, he was yours too.
BONUS:
However, your date, though you thought Raph forgot about him.. did not escape retribution.
A couple nights after the incident, your date, Todd, stood alone. He was sweeping the new concrete, cleaning up after a week of work, headphones dangling from his ears. He hummed a tune, staring down at the pavement, admiring his work.
Didn't even notice the two hulking shadows approaching from behind him -- 'til his headphones were ripped right out.
“What the--”
He turned, startled, just in time to see something big and orange spin toward him. Todd took a full-on roundhouse kick to the chest from Michelangelo and went flying into a pile of sandbags like a cartoon.
“Yikes, bro,” Mikey said, cracking his knuckles. “You can put your hands on women but you can't take a hit yourself? Bummer.”
Raph stepped forward, massive arms crossed, that black hoodie of his soaked from rain and rage. “So you’re Todd, huh?”
Todd wheezed, struggling to sit up. “W-What the hell?! Who the hell are you?!”
Mikey grinned wide. “Let’s just say we’re the after-party to that date you fumbled so bad.”
Todd blinked, confused, then scowled. “This is about that chick? She said it was fine. What, you two her brothers or somethin’?”
Raph’s jaw ticked. “Somethin’.”
Then he grabbed Todd by the collar and lifted him off the ground like a rag doll. “She said it was fine,” he repeated mockingly, eyes narrowing. “Right after she came home cryin’ with a bruise in the exact shape of your grubby little hand. Sound fuckin’ familiar?”
Todd squirmed. “I-I didn’t mean--she was getting mouthy, I just--”
That was all he got out before Raph slammed him into a cement pillar, holding him there like a schoolyard bully from hell.
“I should break every bone in your slimy little body,” Raph growled. “But I promised her I wouldn’t kill you.”
Todd whimpered. “Then what--what are you gonna do?!”
Mikey stepped up beside Raph with a sweet, sunny grin… and a bright pink backpack.
“Oh, we’re gonna teach you, bro.”
Cut to:
Todd, thirty minutes later, is tied up Spider-Man style with neon pink jump rope, suspended upside down from the scaffolding. Mikey had drawn flowers and hearts all over his face in washable marker. His pants were missing (they were now duct-taped to the top of a flagpole nearby), and his shirt had been swapped with a hot-pink crop top that read: “I Cry When Girls Yell.”
A chalk sign was propped up beneath him. It read:
“Hi, I’m Todd. I’m a big, dumb, concrete-throwing jerk who hits girls. My biceps are fake. Don’t be like me. This could happen to you.”
“Next time,” Raph said, crouching down beside him, voice calm but terrifying, “you keep your hands to yourself. Or I’ll let Mikey use the glitter glue.”
Todd whimpered, nodding frantically, tears dripping down his inverted face.
“Glitter. Never comes out,” Mikey added with a wink.
With that, the brothers disappeared into the night, high-fiving as they vanished into the shadows.
Lesson taught. Message delivered.
And Todd? He never went near another woman without a very polite tone -- and two feet of personal space.
You, however, saw it in the news the next day.
The headline read:
“Masked Vigilantes Hijack Construction Site to Publicly Shame Harasser -- Chalk Sign Warns: ‘Don’t Be Like Me. This Could Happen to You.’”
You groaned, rolling your eyes.
“Raphael Hamato! Come here! Now!”
You heard the unmistakable sound of his boots thudding down the stairs before Raph appeared at the entrance to your room, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah, baby?” Raph said, leaning against the doorframe, all casual confidence. His smirk widened as he took in your unimpressed expression. “You, uh… saw the news, huh?”
You held up the newspaper, shaking it at him. “This was your idea of ‘handling it quietly’?!”
Raph shrugged, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering into the room. “Eh, we didn’t kill him. That counts as quiet for me.”
You groaned again, tossing the paper onto the bed. “Raph, you literally left a chalk sign. And Mikey drew on his face.”
“Yeah, and?” Raph flopped onto the bed beside you, stretching out like a smug cat. “Dude’s lucky that’s all we did. You shoulda seen the other ideas Mikey had-- we didn't even use the glitter.”
You shot him a glare, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “You’re impossible.”
Raph grinned, reaching out to tug you closer. “Nah, just thorough.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, voice dropping into that low, dangerous tone that still sent shivers down your spine. “And now everyone knows what happens when some punk puts his hands on you. He ever comes near you again, they ain't gonna find his body.”
You huffed, but you couldn’t fight the warmth spreading in your chest. “...You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” Raph agreed, unrepentant. “But I gotta make sure my girl's taken care of.”
You sighed, finally letting yourself smile as you leaned into him. “...Thanks, Raph.”
He squeezed you tighter, pressing another kiss to your bare shoulder, just above the strap of your tanktop. “Anytime, shorty.”
(And if, later that night, you may have doodled a little heart next to the newspaper clipping before tucking it into your desk drawer? Well. That was your business.)
AN: Is Bay Raph constantly on my mind? Yes. Should you be on his mind constantly? DAMN STRAIGHT! I need not say more 😘
(NOTE: I had to delete the last post and reupload because for some reason it wasn't coming up on Tumblr under any of the tags. If the world doesn't need my smut just tell me now 😭)
Raphael x Reader
All characters are aged up
Warnings: NSFW, smutty content, 18+, MDNI, swears (though that's probably the least of your concerns in a fic like this), dirty thoughts, bordering on obsessive, masturbation, angsty because, damn it, I can't help myself, this got weirdly biblical for some reason, idk how to tag nsfw content, an insomniac trying to grammar, my first official smut so apologies if it stinks :'D
You’re a damned distraction, and Raphael doesn’t know what to do about it. He isn’t without his distractions. In fact, he’s classically known to get torn up in his head over things, especially when there’s an injustice thickly rooted in whatever nameless problem ails him. You, on the other hand, agitate him in ways he wishes not to be true. You’re everywhere he goes, just not physically, like a phantom limb - a subjugator who has conquered his very being.
Many times, over and over, he has tried to categorise you, label you, so he can file you away and forget; anything in an attempt to get you out of his mind, as abnormally pragmatic as it is for him to go such a route. Are you a friend? Best friend? Something more? He bristles at the thought. ‘More’ is dangerous. ‘More’ is a bridge he’s not sure he wants to cross because of how deep this goes, how dark it is.
He catches himself thinking about you at the most inopportune moments. When he’s supposed to be strategising with his brothers, he’s replaying a conversation with you in his head, dissecting your words, searching for hidden meanings. He sees you in the flickering neon lights of the city, a fleeting silhouette blending into the urban tapestry of this concrete jungle. When he’s meant to be watching a game, he’s picturing your hands intertwined with his, your voice fluttering out his name, your body…
You’re not just a distraction, you’re a disruption, and the universe is hellbent on finding ways to toy with his teetering lucidity.
Grumbled curses and wet footsteps can be heard long before you’re seen, but silent curiosities would have been better left when you eventually appear in the lair. Three of the four brothers find themselves around you, each snickering at the pressed spring that is your body. Your crossed arms only tighten further into themselves, lips pulling in between your teeth at their lack of sympathy, but then you remember, they are boys.
Leo is the first to compose himself, matching your exaggerated stance with a raised grin. “You’re not looking very weather-appropriate.”
“I was up until about five minutes ago.” Your hands wipe away at your scrunched-up face. “One moment, sun.” You fling them down, the water hitting the ground with an offensive slap. “The next, a bunch of angry clouds piss on me.”
Laughing semi-heartedly, you loosely gesture at yourself, but dilated pupils behind red cloth have been trained on you the moment you walked in. Head-to-toe, you’re soaked: your clothes stick to you in a way that feels intrusive, accentuating every curve and contour he's learned to admire from a distance, only daring to steal glimpses when you’re not looking. The damp fabric clings to you like a lifeline, his of which is fleeting, and it just highlights your shape, each detail so clear, too clear. It shatters the fragile walls he’s fought to keep intact, a crude violation of the mental boundaries he's desperately trying to maintain. Raphael can’t stand it, and he loathes how the rain has matted your baby hairs to your forehead, a small, insignificant feature compared to the rest, and yet it leaves you looking the most exposed.
In the hazy realm of conversation woven between you and his brothers, he drifts, utterly unaware now. He thinks he catches a flash of Donnie hurrying away, yet the essence of it all slips through his fingers like mist. His form is anchored to this corner, while his thoughts wander far beyond the grasp of the present moment. He wants to lick the rain off your cheek and whisper unspoken secrets he never knew he could keep, what he’s been aching to do to you for so long. He can almost picture how you would taste against his tongue, how soft your skin would be compared to his calloused touch.
As his gaze drops out of focus, you inch closer, lowering to a crawl. Staring up through your lashes, you stop on your knees in front of him, eyes glazed with his deliverance and his destruction all at the same time. He can practically see everything from this angle, each wet crease of material grasping closely onto your body, impersonating one of those marble statues that seem impossible to make by hand. Your damp palms press into his thighs to hoist yourself up, the cold doing little to cool him, doing the opposite, in fact - warm puffs of air feathering against his starved face. His breath shortens, but he does nothing. This should stop; he can’t find it in himself to press that big red button, but this needs to stop. As you close in on him, lips ghost over his own with expectant sighs mixing between each other, and then-
The towel draped over your shoulders is the fire blanket to his perverse absorption; he’s pulled back into reality, where he is, but it doesn’t completely snuff out the embers. His eyes have had a taste of you now, a sample of the meal that he hungers so hopelessly for. You glance around, your gaze lingering on Raph for a fraction of a second before panning away, and he jolts, like a live wire has been threaded through his veins. In that second, he thinks you know, he thinks you’ve caught a glimpse into his vulgar mind, and he expects you to run off, but you don’t. Instead, you pull the towel closer and laugh at something Mikey says, the short spit of eye contact already falling from your awareness whilst it nails into his with a hammer.
Raphael’s fists clench under the table, knuckles paling beneath the wraps. You have no idea. He's thankful for that but it almost pisses him off that you have no clue just how much you invade his everything. He doesn’t quite know when this all started, but he hopes to God it has an end because he’s not sure how much longer he can handle it.
There's a deep shame that comes with these daydreams, an itch that burns within the lowest parts of his belly every time his mind so much as wanders. Unfortunately, the image of you, any image of you, scorches him worse than that guilt, which is why he can't resist those long nights of rutting against his pillow, endless scenarios flicking behind his eyes like a roll of film that goes on forever. There were many reasons that he was thankful for finally getting his own room, more so now than ever. It doesn’t matter what you do, he finds himself in the same place by the end of each day. There’d be the occasional brush of arms, a weightless touch that would burden his skin with gooseflesh, or moments when he’d manage to make you laugh, and the sound itself would drive a tremble through his shell. He thought this was an innocuous crush to begin with, all signs pointed that way, and then it happened.
Shit.
He remembers how this all started now.
It was one of those instances when you didn’t want to go home, too tired after a particularly harrowing shift at work. You had gotten a decent amount of TLC at the lair, but arguably too good, as you found yourself drooping on the couch. The boys would have happily escorted you back home, even volunteering to carry your sluggish form if that’s what it meant, to which you threw out some languidly-humoured remark about them trying to kick you out. Not even. Not ever.
“Take my bed,” Raph had offered without a second thought.
The proposition felt harmless at the time, and his intentions were so. There was no way he was going to let you sleep on the worn mound of springs and pillows that had endured the weight of four mutant behemoths for so many years. He could take it for the night, no big deal. It wouldn’t have been the first time, and truthfully, he was more than willing to sacrifice his comfort for yours. He hadn't even considered the implications of you sleeping in his bed, nor did he think of the consequences: this seed of yearning that would be planted that night to bloom and blossom into the twisted, prickly vine that now chokes his thoughts.
You, bless your oblivious heart, had accepted readily, a tired smile gracing your lips. "As long as you’re sure, Raph. I don't want to put you out."
"Positive," he'd confirmed, a little too quickly perhaps, and then retreated to grab a blanket and pillow.
That night, he barely slept. The couch was uncomfortable, sure, but there was something else: something that nagged at him. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it. His first thought was the lack of activity from the day, barely any thugs had tried their hand at disturbing the peace, or whatever peaceful looks like for the streets of New York. Chances are, he was just restless from how many skulls he didn’t crack. Maybe not. At the time, he was stumped for an explanation, and that only secured his inability to suspend consciousness.
Before long, the early morning had arisen, and you along with it. Raphael’s failure to nod off meant he caught your freshly woken self tiptoeing out of his room. He made no effort to greet you, playing into the idea that he was genuinely asleep as you thought him to be, some parts convinced that he might have been. You slid through the lair with a swan-like equanimity he didn’t want to disturb; each clip of your shoes against the floor calculated and measured to soften the blow of your steps. He probably would have woken up were he soundly snoozing, but the attempt was still appreciated. Raphael never regarded himself as the type to silently observe, to pick up on the little details with such ease, but he had found that he was a little more introspective about these things since you’d been around.
Once you had disappeared completely, he rose from his “slumber” and slipped into his room. He figured he’d be able to get at least a couple of hours' sleep under his belt. He was very wrong about this, however. Upon entering his room, he quickly realised that sleep would be much harder to come by now. The lacklustre day had left him restless, that’s what he kept telling himself at the time, but that wasn’t the real reason. The real reason was the apparitional warmth of your presence on his bed, and if he tried really hard, he’d almost be able to perfectly emulate your body lying in his company. Moreover, it was the lingering scent, faint as it was, that had truly undone him - sweet, undeniably yours, intoxicating. Slowly, he had descended atop the mattress on his side, his cheek brushing against the pillow that you had previously lain on. He could picture you in his place, as you had just been minutes before, curled up in his blankets, comfortable in his space.
He inhaled deeply, committing the fragrance to memory. Succumbing to this was crossing a precarious line. He thinks he knew that, but he couldn’t help himself. A thick rope had taken hold of him without his knowledge, narrowing its taught breach the more he let himself surrender. As he took another heavy breath in, his hand crept down to the beating, almost painful throb that had somehow alluded him until that moment.
This was wrong. Perverted. He was taking advantage, in a way, of your trust, of the virtuous act of offering you comfort when you needed it. You wouldn’t want this. You wouldn’t want him thinking of you this way. And yet, he just could not stop. The essence of you clung to his sheets, whispering promises he had no right to entertain.
A groan escaped his throat, muffled by the pillow he was now pushing into his face, practically suffocating himself in the hints of you that were lingering deep within it. He imagined you hearing him, recoiling in disgust, the trust in your eyes replaced with disappointment, with something akin to fear. The thought was a sharp, painful stab, but still, it wasn't enough to halt his sudden fit of impure mania. He was too far gone, caught in the undertow of his appetite.
He came quickly, shame immediately washing over him in a freezing wave. The pleasure was fleeting, unsatisfying, tainted by the knowledge of his transgression. He lay there, panting, the scent of you now heavy and cloying, no longer intoxicating but strangling. He wanted to scrub himself clean, to erase the moment, to rewind and never offer his bed in the first place.
In his post-nut clarity, it hits him, the disgrace of it all: how badly he wants you, how desperate he is to feel the weight of your body on his, how much he needs every plush piece of skin to become tainted under his hands.
The days that followed were torture; worse than torture if there’s a word for it. He knew he had to avoid you, at least for a while. There was no way he could bear to face you, to see the innocent trust in your eyes. He needed time to process, figure out how to reconcile the image he had of himself with the reality of his actions, but any moment of closure would be met with opposition. Annoyingly, small things: a hair clip in the dojo, a book on the kitchen counter, a faint smudge of lip gloss on a discarded coffee cup. In your absence, these tiny objects served as landmines to his crime, a reminder of what he had done and what he couldn’t have.
Instances in which you were present to share the same air as him, however, were worse, and they still are. If you’re reading, he’s watching the curve of your neck. When he hears you laugh, he hears a calling that simply doesn’t exist. He may catch you licking your lips when they dry, an inattentive habit that makes him envious of your tongue. Each one of these details slots into a catalogue, stored away in the private chambers of his mind to be revised during those lonely nights.
Even his epiphany about stepping back and admiring from afar has been contaminated. Productive revelations have been spoiled and replaced with this thing he doesn’t know how to name. That act of defiling a space you occupied had undeniably tarnished any interaction with you, and in doing so, he had tarnished himself.
He’s a terrible person. People don’t have thoughts like this about their friends. Or, if they do, they’d at least stand a better chance of enacting these thoughts. He should just exonerate himself from you entirely, retreat to the shadows as he has always been taught to. The temptation itself almost makes him laugh. That would imply he has the will strong enough to remove himself from your life, a will he no longer possesses now that you’re in his.
Why can’t it be so easy?
That morning that started this all, something inside him had irrevocably broken. A dam had burst, unleashing a torrential wave of depravity he never knew existed within him. Before that, he’d just thought of you as someone who occasionally wracked his nerves in confusing ways if the circumstances were right. Now? You are everything: his obsession, his undoing, his most profound and concealed secret.
If only this were a simple crush, he could settle for that. It would come with its own problems, he knows, but he could at least sustain it with more prudence; deal with it.
He remembers a time, before you, when his nights were his own, when he could lay his head down after a job well done and bid the day farewell. His skin twitches if he tries to keep any urge at bay, fever lurches behind his eyes any time they close, and if by some miracle he can find his way to sleep without giving in, you all but manage to torment his dreams, too. Vivid, explicit, and utterly mortifying. He’ll wake up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, and worst of all, with morning wood just to add more to this mess for atrocities' sake. He really shouldn’t be thinking about you in this way. You’re a friend, that’s the operative word he strains to keep in mind, but his body, his innate calling, doesn’t care about propriety.
It’s especially bad when he wishes he could practise his older brother’s restraint and condition himself to keep you out of his head. Leonardo’s calm, almost serene detachment is a lifestyle away from his turbulent fixations. Leo, the picture of divine patience, can seemingly shut off any unwanted thought with the flick of a wrist, whilst Raphael is a wildfire, and you the kindling. It’s not as though the routine tactics of his brother would serve him aid in this situation, anyway. Meditation has never done him any good, and it’d only give you the space to tangle yourself up in his imagination again. Instead, he buries himself in his workouts. He tries to sweat it out, tire himself to the point of mindless exhaustion, but the sweat itself stings, and the ache in his muscles is a feeble attempt to dull the sharper ache in his shell.
When he isn’t riddled with pliable what-ifs and maybes, when there is a moment that these lascivious infections decide to leave him be, he has the camera peering down at himself. How long can he actually keep this up? How long will it be before he cracks, before he says or does something he’ll live to regret, regret more than what he’s already done in the dark corners no one dares tread? He’s a ticking time bomb, and you, naively unaware, are holding the detonator.
One way or another, you’re in everything he does, absentminded things like fiddling with his sai; the touch of cool steel against his palms imitates the delicate curve of what he imagines your jawline to feel like. Even the harsh rasp of his father’s voice during sparring matches can't silence the whisper of your name, a prohibited prayer that lingers in his ears. He can't keep you out of his head. He hates it, this constant, burning awareness of you – a forbidden fruit he longs to taste but knows he can't. The self-disgust, the guilt, the painful longing; all of it is a cruel torment, a self-inflicted wound he can't seem to staunch.
He wants to scream, especially on these restless nights, to shatter the silence and break free from the invisible bonds that chain him to this impossible, unbearable infatuation. Yet, all he can do is lie there, a prisoner of his desires, and you visit him once again, not as the friend he knows, the one who laughs easily and quips back with no effort, but as a vision of his indecency. Your smile is a siren's call, eyes a bottomless reservoir of promise. You say things he can only ever dream of hearing from your lips.
This is a fantasy he’s played out innumerable times, but each rerun feels like the first.
You lie back, sprawled across his bed like a fallen angel. Is he your rescuer, or the bastard who shot you down just so he could have you? He can fool himself into thinking this is a mutual salvation, but his jealousy of the stars will have you dragged into the pit with him, where he can savour your divine spirit all to himself. You would never willingly step away from heaven’s light to meet him, of course you wouldn’t, but at least he can pretend, even for a short while, that he has somehow convinced you to fall into this madness with him. He can delude himself that he isn’t quite so alone, and so he follows the illusion of you and takes, moving like a man possessed, lacking dignity, lacking regard.
He stops fighting these premonitions now. He thinks that if he wholeheartedly appeases this greed, abandons all virtue to the fever dream that paints you as his willing partner, that he’ll be set free. He lets the imagined warmth of your skin banish the cold reality of his isolation. He allows the phantom scent of your hair to fill his airless room, drowning voluntarily so that he can fall to the ocean’s depths where he may finally find peace.
This dance with delirium, sometimes culminating for hours, eventually has to conclude, however. Your mirage blurs into nothing the closer he gets to the end, hoping with a crossed jaw that this will be the last time he sullies your good name inside his fist.
It never is.
No matter how many times he relieves himself to your notion, it never alleviates the want, the need, the dependency that’s been conceived on this idea of having you. It only makes it worse. His stomach empties more each time, and his head bloats with new possibilities just to mock him. Every instance in which he falls victim to his imagination, he staggers closer to Hell, and Earth’s core will burn him alive long before he ever admits to the degeneracy of his vestige’s mind. This false impression of reality is much sweeter, bitter in its aftertastes, but easier, a dark bubble without complication, without an outward looking in to tell him how wrong this is.
You’re a damned distraction, and at the cost of his sanity, Raphael can’t find it in himself to do anything about it.
This is kind of an idea I coined off of @moxfirefly (called Obsesión on AO3) when I realised the similarities halfway into writing, so go read that!! It's a good one yo 🙏
okay so this wasn’t a request but i’ve been MIA for a while and i haven’t really had the opportunity to write much over the past few months so this is really just writing practice (forgive me if it's subpar, i'm rusty)
also, if you've requested something, i promise that i'm working on it so please be patient!
made with bayverse in mind!!
warnings: NSFW, first thing i’ve properly written in months so be kind people, swearing, afab reader — mentions of pussy etc., oral sex (f!receiving), raph is a little feral and mean i feel… everyone is 18+!!, not proofread so lemme know if you notice any glaring errors
summary: raph eats your pussy; he’s greedy and sloppy (it’s perfect)
word count: 651 (short and not sweet)
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
raph eats pussy like a man possessed. he’s sloppy and loud about it, spit and slick all over his face as he spreads your legs as wide as possible and then even wider. your hips ache from the stretch, and you can already tell you’ll be sore tomorrow, but all you can do is whine and moan, hands covering your heated face in a futile effort to silence yourself.
you can’t even grind down against him like this because the bastard has one arm casually slung over your stomach, his huge palm pressing down just so, enough to make you whimper. you can feel him grinning meanly against your thigh with each failed arch of your spine, nipping your flesh in cruel, teasing bites that are sure to leave purple marks, before he continues to lap at your cunt like he hasn’t eaten in a week.
“raph,” you wheeze desperately, whimpers getting stuck in your throat as he practically growls against you. the sound is dark and agonised, and you can’t help but gasp as he pushes a thick digit inside you. “raph, raph, raph—”
he tongues your clit and crooks his finger, and you can no longer breathe, hands now clenched into bedsheets and thighs shaking with every sloppy touch. “that’s it,” he rumbles, the vibrations only making you tremble more. “that’s it, give it to me.”
your moans fill the room in perfect harmony with the filthy squelch of your pussy as raph fucks you with his calloused finger. it’s already too much, but you think you might pass out when he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks like he’s trying to reap your soul. “oh my god—”
you’re whining so loud, choked, and so, so needy, but you can’t find it within you to feel shame even as a distant part of your brain acknowledges that you won’t be able to look his brothers in the eye for a good week after this.
white eclipses your vision when you come, falling headfirst over that precipice that you’ve been teetering on for god knows how long. you fall silent when you do, mouth parted and back finally arching as raph lets your body take exactly what it needs; he lets you grind your hips down, mouth still fixed over your clit as your thighs clamp down around his skull.
he’s mumbling something dirty and full of sacrilege when you finish, his words a wicked churr that tips you into oversensitivity, and you whine weakly when he keeps moving his finger inside you, letting it drag against your slick walls with a slightly sadistic delight.
he chuckles when you slap his forearm weakly, but he acquiesces and slowly pulls back, groaning to himself when he sees just how soaked his hand is. “such a good girl,” he murmurs, looking right at you when he tastes you on his finger. he groans again at the flavour as if he hasn’t been buried in your pussy for the best part of the last hour.
“you’re terrible,” you tell him, voice wrecked, when he finally releases his finger from his mouth.
his smirk is shameless and greedy. “oh, i know.” his warm palms rest against your wet thighs, parting them again with ease. your hipbones twinge, and you gasp as he drags you closer to him, nestling between your legs like he belongs there (he does). “and we’re nowhere near done.”
his eyes are dark and leering, gluttonous and greedy, never full of you but always full of sin, and you swallow thickly as his lips twist into a ravenous snarl, nostrils flaring as you somehow grow even wetter, slick trickling down your already soaked thigh at the unadulterated lechery above you.
by the time you're done, several hours and several orgasms later, you know you won’t be able to look his brothers in the eye for at least a month.
Hello, sae, this is the first time I make a request and, having in mind a fluff! and hurt/comfort rise turt x reader, I'm (coincidentally) hearing your plea. I had in mind raph x reader or donnie x reader when reader is having period cramps, but if period is too yucky and uncomfortable for you, scratch that 🫣 Hope this request is not too demanding/arrogant for you ☺️
That Time of the Month: Rise! Raph & Donnie Headcanons
💌 hello hello!!! thank you so much for making a request, i always love when people do 💕 i did both of the turtles you requested, hope you don’t mind. these will be pretty short. just some headcanons for each! happy spring, friend!
requests are open! <3 getting to them slowly. tried out a new little format for headcanons. let me know if yall hate it and i'll fix it haha
tags: rottmnt, x reader, raph, donnie, headcanons, pre-established relationship, request, fluff, comfort, fem reader/reader who has a period
synopsis: it's that time of the month again. your cramps are worse than ever, and you want nothing more than to curl up in a hole and to just stay there forever. your lovely turtle boyfriend helps you through it 🍓
Raph 🍓
You came home one day, stomach aching like it never had before. You knew you dealt with intense cramps when this time of the month would roll around. But, this bad? These cramps were quite literally the equivalent of tiny little needles stabbing their way around your guts, aiming again and again and again as if they’d missed.
Raph was supposed to come over that day. Instead of finding a typically happy, enthusiastic you, who was supposed to be cheerily waiting for him to arrive; he found an unusually depressed you, hunched over in half on your bed, your fetal position a clear indicator that something was very very very wrong.
He has no idea what’s going on at first– he was in no way whatsoever attentive to the hot water bottle you had laying on your stomach, not to the chocolate, not to the old and tattered towel under you, not to the running shower water you had on in the background...
Raph immediately ran up to you as he noticed stains of… was that… blood on the towel? What in the world?!
“You're bleeding?! Who did this?! Does Raph need to hurt somebody?!”
Well, that cheered you up a little bit. Oh, how he’s so willing to fight for you– but has such little idea about how the female body works. It made sense, a little bit. They were trained for war. Literally. If the biggest, most war-torn turtle saw blood on his partner– he was bound to give in to his protective instincts.
You manage a weak, pained sound. Something of a laugh and groan, and you grab his wrist before he can move.
“Raph—no—no, it’s not—” you wince. “It’s just cramps.”
Well, now, why would you be folded in half for cramps this bad if you haven’t been, I don’t know, stabbed beforehand? The red-clad turtle was confused. Empathetic, but confused.
It took a minute for you to register that your beloved mutant seriously, whole-heartedly, hadn’t the slightest clue what a period was. Oh, heavens.
“…Raph,” you start, already tired. “Do you know what a period is?”
“Duh. Yeah, they go at the end of a sentence? Ain’t that obvious?” He puts his three fingered hand under his chin.
It pained you to sit up, but you pat the spot next to you in hopes he comes to sit. Or, best case scenario, he gets behind you and puts those warm hands of his on your stomach. Yeah, that’s what you want. He initially sits next to you, but you flip over and push him down with a finger to get your way.
You spend the next fifteen minutes explaining to him one of the most excruciating experiences of girlhood– how women spend around a week out of every month bleeding and aching whilst having no other option but to put up with the world around them.
He did admit-- when you told him that bleeding every month was a normal thing, it made slight sense to him why there was a more metallic scent around the lair. He didn’t dare admit he could sense that to your face.
Raph physically shakes his head to snap out of it. His giant feet swing around you, standing up– you nearly cry from disappointment that his oh-so-warm hands have left your abdomen.
“Okay—okay, what helps? Meds? Water? Talk to me.” The snapping turtle leaves, making an absolute mess out in your kitchen from rummaging through your cabinets, and returns with wayyy too many items! A reheated water bottle, chocolate, blankets, pain meds, your favorite snacks. Big guy thought of it all. 💕
“Alright, I got stuff. I don’t know if it’s the right stuff, but Raph's got stuff.”
He looks way too proud of himself for someone who just tore through your kitchen like a hurricane. That mood settles when he sees your face peeking out from your blankets, sleepily. Cozily. More exhausted than he likes to see you be. He can fix that.
He sets everything down a little too fast, then immediately slows himself, remembering you’re not exactly in the condition to deal with his usual energy.
Raph sets everything down on the nightstand next to you, ready to handle you like a fragile little baby. He places the reheated water bottle down on your stomach gently. Of course, it was gentle. He immediately notices a tiny little shift in your face. You liked that. Heat seemed to be a source of comfort for you. He can work with that, right?
The turtle stands there for a few seconds… unsure of what he was supposed to do. Offer you words of comfort? Physical comfort? All of it? He’s down to do anything, obviously! He’s a snuggly reptile. He’ll cuddle you any chance he gets.
Raphael sits down beside you, the bed sinking as he does so. He winces, but continues his route downwards to you. You shift closer into him, seeking nothing but warmth. His arm hovers awkwardly above you; but he eventually settles his hand around your waist, allowing the heat from his body to encase your own.
Oh. That helps, you thought.
You let out a slow breath, your forehead pressing lightly, backwards, against his plastron. It was silent for a little bit. Comfortably. You two could stay silent for hours in each others presence.
“…You deal with this every month?” He mumbled. You nod against him; Raph sighs into your neck. His thumb starts circling around your waist.
“Tell me if I’m makin’ it worse,” he adds. You nod again.
That was the first time you’ve been able to fall asleep with no pain, in the last week.
Donnie 🍇
Unlike Raph, Donnie has taken the liberty of teaching himself quite literally everything about the human body ever since he met April.
Periods are nothing new to him. Nothing scary, either. They’ve faced way worse. Kraang invasions, The Shredder, the Foot Clan. Blood is not a new concept. He is not scared of a little monthly hormonal dysfunction.
What Donnie was scared of was your emotional influx. Not April's. Not Cassandra's. He highly cared about the two, obviously, but you came first. Whether it be an increase in your sadness, anger, irritability, fatigue– he hated seeing you anything other than a perfectly happy state! So when you came into his lab, tears breaking through the corners of your eyes, begging for some sort of medicine— ibuprofen, tylenol, god, did he have any of it? Donnie was up and out of his chair immediately.
Verbally, what was he supposed to say? His hands kind of wave around for a minute, confused as to what he was supposed to do. He was struggling. What did you need it for? Maybe he could find something more effective to help you? Talk to him? Please?!
“I—yes—obviously, I have pain relievers, that’s—hold on, give me two seconds, I have a system for this? Oh, Sweet Galileo, this is a lot, what are your current symp-”
You take matters into your own hands, god forbid. You huff a breath of air and snatch a bottle of medicine out of his desk drawer, counting out your dosage like you’d done a million times before.
In the midst of shoving the drawer shut with your foot, Donnie turns back around from his little ramble session. Oh, how you loved him, but those got tiring sometimes. Especially when all you wanted from him right now was his comfort. You softly take a step forward and place a hand over his mouth. “Sweetheart, please be quiet. I love you. And your rambles. But just for a second.”
His drawn-on eyebrows furrow, confused. What? You didn’t want to hear him yap about whatever your symptoms could possibly mean? Ah, well. There was always next time. Donnie’s hands came down to fold above his plastron. What was going on with you?
After a minute of digesting the situation, observing you solely based on your physical appearance, he made a guess; simply just a shot in the dark. You had a comfy blanket tossed over your shoulder, dark circles under your eyes that weren’t usually this prominent, and a giant red indented marking above your abdomen from where your shirt lifted up? Likely from a heat source, the softshell had thought. Ah. She’s on her period.
Donnie pulls his workbench chair over to you with his foot, the rolling piece of furniture settling right under your legs. “Okay. You have Ibuprofen. Here’s some water. Sit. Please sit.” His voice is softer. Still analytically commanding, as he usually is, when he’s in this setting. His lab. You barely make it onto the edge of his chair before he’s pushing it closer to his workbench so you don’t have to move again. It didn’t take long for Donnie to go doctor mode on you.
“Okie-dokes. Scale of one to ten,” he says quickly, crouching in front of you now, goggles pushed up onto his head. “Can you tell me your pain level?”
You chuckle, the pain ultimately causing you to wince a bit. “Nine.” You say, voice firm.
Donnie does not like that number.
He quickly grabs a pre-made heat pack from a drawer—the softshell always keeps extras in his lab for April, and occasionally, some of his brothers, when they get sick, or inevitably hurt themselves doing something stupid. He gently lifts your shirt up an inch to place the warmth directly over your cramping abdomen. You sink back into the chair, letting out a small sigh of relief. The material was softer, you noticed! Softer than the harsh, scratchy material your personal heating pad was made of. This felt like it was made from old fabrics. Encased in it, at least.
"Good. Warmth. Now, tell me about other symptoms. Nausea? Headache? Fatigue?" He rattles off the list, already grabbing a small notebook and pen from his largest desk to document everything.
Old habits die hard, even when he’s tending to his beloved.
You answer him in short, tired bursts. Headache, yes. Fatigue, absolutely. The pain was easing by the second with the makeshift heating pad. Maybe it was just talking to him that helped.
You give him the benefit of the doubt, allowing him to help you like this. It was a win-win situation. You felt better. He got to nerd out about… menstruation. And helping his partner, of course.
"Based on my immediate observational data and your self-reported symptoms," he announces, turning back to you, "the ibuprofen should take effect in approximately 20 to 30 minutes. In the interim, maintaining hydration is paramount, as is continued thermal regulation." In simpler terms, he wanted you to continue drinking water and applying heat to your body where you needed it. On your stomach.
He hands you a bottle of water he pulled from a mini-fridge he keeps hidden in a panel.
You were far too busy slumping down in the chair and dozing off in comfort before you realized that Donnie has done something… unexpected, considering his typical behavior regarding having to aid with human emotions. Donnie does not go back to work. Donnie does not hide away in a deeper corner of his lab. Donnie does not ignore you entirely. (He would never do that in general. Not to you, at least. Maybe to Leo.)
He pulls up a smaller, more ergonomic stool next to his workbench chair. He takes off his goggles and gloves, setting them aside. He turns his full attention to you, placing a gentle three-fingered hand on your forehead to check your temperature.
"I’ll put all of my current projects on hold," he says, his voice losing its clinical edge and gaining a soft, comforting tone. "You need to rest. Can’t say I’m a fan of how out of it you look right now, love."
Donnie starts to explain the whole shebang behind menstruation and reproductive processes in women. He knew distractions worked for you. If annoying the hell out of you with his ramblings is what worked, so be it. He would have done it anyway.
Once he's satisfied you're sufficiently distracted and informed, he shifts his position slightly, leaning his plastron against your covered legs as he crouches down from his chair. He reaches out a hand, finding yours, and laces your fingers together.
"Just rest, darling," he murmurs, gently stroking your hand with his thumb. "Let the medication work. I’ll be right here.”
Your eyes drift off to sleep. It’s comforting, knowing that he treated you like this; with such care for something that happens so painfully every month. His fingers stroked your hair as your breathing steadied, one hand massaging your scalp and one hand typing away at his computer; coding something, who knows. You didn’t care.
Hm. He was really good at this.
╰♥︎ ╮
someone tell me if the tiny subscript font is unreadable or if it sucks. i will change it if so hahaha. only plan on using that for headcanons, not actual fics, if y'all prefer it!
// Hii yall I hope yall like it I’m trying a new pov style but I think I’ll go back to what I usually do ///
The lair is always filled with life.
That was one of the first things Y/N had learned about it when they started hanging around with the turtles.
The funny thing about them is that even when nothing was happening, something was always happening. Mikey was usually yelling over a video game, Donnie was muttering to himself while something sparked on his workspot, Leo was giving some kind of instruction that at least two of his brothers were ignoring, and Raphael was somewhere in the middle of it all pretending like he didn’t care while somehow caring the most.
But tonight, the noise felt far away.
Y/N sat on the lived makeshift couch near the edge of the main room, hands folded tightly in their lap, staring at the floor like it had done something interesting. The movie playing on the TV flickered across their face, but they weren’t watching it. They had barely laughed at Mikey’s jokes. They hadn’t teased Donnie when one of his gadgets made a sad little popping sound. They hadn’t even smiled when Raph grumbled at the screen and called one of the characters an idiot.
And Raph noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He always noticed more than people gave him credit for.
He was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, red bandana tails resting over one shoulder, his sharp green eyes fixed on Y/N instead of the movie. To anyone else, he probably looked annoyed. That was his natural setting, honestly. Big, brooding, built like a brick wall, jaw set like he was ready to argue with the whole world.
But there was something different in his stare.
Concern.
Worried.
He watched the way Y/N’s shoulders stayed pulled inward, like they were trying to make themself smaller. He watched the way their smile came too late and disappeared too fast. He watched the way they kept tugging at the sleeves of their hoodie, fidgeting with the fabric like they needed something to hold onto.
That wasn’t them.
Not really.
Y/N usually brought a little warmth into the lair. Not loud like Mikey, not bossy like Leo, not restless like Donnie, and definitely not explosive like Raph. But steady. Soft. Familiar. The kind of presence that made the whole place feel less like a hidden sewer hideout and more like somewhere people could actually breathe.
Tonight, though, that warmth looked dimmed.
Raph didn’t like it.
Not one bit.
Across the room, Mikey tossed popcorn into the air and missed his mouth completely.
“Aw, c’mon!” Mikey groaned as the popcorn bounced off his plastron and onto the floor. “I had that.”
“You did not,” Donnie said without looking up.
“I spiritually had that.”
Leo sighed from his seat. “Please don’t start.”
Normally, Y/N would have laughed.
They didn’t.
Raph’s expression hardened.
A few minutes later, Y/N stood quietly from the couch.
“I’m gonna get some air,” they said, voice soft.
“In the sewer?” Mikey asked, turning around. “Bold choice, but I respect it.”
Y/N gave a small smile. “Just… a walk.”
Leo’s eyes flicked over them with quiet concern. “Want someone to go with you?”
“I’m okay.”
They said it too quickly.
Raph pushed off the wall before anyone else could answer.
“I’ll go.”
Y/N looked at him, surprised. “You don’t have to.”
“Didn’t ask if I had to.”
His tone was rough, but not unkind. That was Raph. He sounded like a threat even when he was trying to be gentle.
Y/N hesitated, then nodded.
They walked together through the tunnel leading away from the main room. For a while, neither of them said anything. The distant sounds of the movie and Mikey’s commentary faded behind them until all that remained was the soft drip of water somewhere in the pipes and the echo of their footsteps.
Raph walked beside Y/N, close enough to be there, far enough not to crowd them.
That was something he had learned with them.
Sometimes comfort wasn’t grabbing someone and forcing them to talk. Sometimes comfort was just walking beside them until the silence stopped feeling lonely.
They reached a quieter part of the lair, where old subway tiles lined the walls and a busted station sign hung crookedly above an abandoned platform. Raph slowed first, stopping near a pillar marked with faded paint.
Y/N stopped too.
For a moment, they just stared at the tracks.
Then Raph spoke.
“Alright.”
Y/N glanced at him.
His arms were crossed again, but his voice had dropped lower. Softer. “what’s bothering you.” He say it like a question. He wanted to know what is currently troubling you.
Y/N blinked. “What?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like I don’t know what’s going on.”
That almost got a laugh out of them.
You tried to say something. Nothing came out.
Almost.
Raph’s face shifted. His frown deepened, but not with anger at them. Never at them.
“You been quiet all night,” he said. “Not regular quiet. Weird quiet.”
Not knowing what to say Y/N looked away trying to not look at turtle’s gaze. It hurt them. The look of puffy lips while biting their cheek and eyes starting to water.
Raph’s chest tightened.
He hated that look.
He hated seeing them fold into themselves like that. Like something had convinced them they were too much, or not enough, or somehow wrong just for existing.
“I’m fine,” Y/N whispered. Sounded convincing you thought. But Raph can see right through you.
Raph huffed through his nose. “Yeah. And Mikey’s got a mature relationship with pizza.”
A tiny breath escaped Y/N, almost a laugh.
Raph’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t push it.
He waited.
Y/N leaned back against the tiled wall and rubbed their hands together. “It’s dumb.”
“Try me.”
“It’s just…” They swallowed. “Some people were making saying some things earlier.”
Raph’s eyes sharpened.
“Comments.”
Y/N nodded.
His jaw clenched. “About what?”
“Me.”
That one word was enough.
Raph went still. He didn’t want to believe it.
Y/N kept their eyes on the floor. “It wasn’t even that big of a deal. They probably didn’t mean it like that. Maybe I’m being too sensitive.”
“Stop.”
Y/N looked up.
Raph’s voice was firm, but not loud. “Don’t start defendin’ people who hurt your feelings.”
Raph exclaimed. Your face softens more like putty. Raphael looks at your soft face,wishing that out of all people, this shouldn’t have happened to you.
“They treat you like you’re a punching bag.”
“But I know them. I promise you Raph they mean well.” You said. Raph not being surprised that you are defending them.
“Yea well they only do this to you from what I know.” Raph said, he knows this particular group of people. Doesn’t think that they are worth of being around you.
“you are so much more valuable than them. They see something in you that they want o take away.”
They stared at him for a second, and the words seemed to hit harder than expected.
Raph saw it happen. Saw the little crack in their expression. The way their eyes grew shiny before they blinked too fast and looked away again.
He uncrossed his arms slowly.
“Y/N.”
“I know I shouldn’t care,” they said quickly, like they had been holding the words back all night and now couldn’t stop them. “I know it shouldn’t matter what people say. I know I’m supposed to just ignore it and be confident and not let stupid stuff get to me, but it does. It got to me. And now I feel embarrassed because it keeps replaying in my head and I hate that I’m letting it bother me.”
Their voice cracked on the last word.
Raph’s entire body tensed, not because he was angry at them, but because he wanted to put his fist through the idea that they had to feel embarrassed for being hurt.
He knew that feeling.
He knew what it was like to carry words around after everyone else had forgotten saying them. He knew how people could throw something careless into the air and never think about it again, while the person it hit was left holding the bruise.
Raph had been called plenty of things in his life.
Monster.
Freak.
Dangerous.
Ugly.
Too angry.
Too much.
He acted like those words bounced off him. Most days, he made sure everyone believed they did.
But Y/N knew better.
That was probably why his voice came out rougher than he meant it to.
“Hey.”
They didn’t look at him.
“Sweet thing.”
That got them.
Y/N’s eyes lifted, soft and wounded.
Raph took a step closer, careful and slow. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ hurt when somebody says somethin’ cruel. That don’t make you weak. That makes you normal.”
Y/N blinked, and a tear slipped down their cheek.
Raph’s expression softened instantly.
“Oh, hey,” he murmured, awkward but gentle. “Don’t— I mean, you can cry. Just… don’t think you gotta hide it from me.”
Y/N let out a shaky breath. “I feel stupid.”
“You’re not stupid.”
“I feel like I should be tougher.”
“You are tough.”
They gave him a doubtful look.
Raph pointed at them, serious. “You think tough means not feelin’ anything? Nah. That’s not tough. That’s just pretendin’. Tough is feelin’ it and still showin’ up. Tough is sittin’ with it instead of lettin’ it turn you mean. Tough is not lettin’ people turn your heart into somethin’ hard.”
Y/N stared at him.
Raph suddenly looked away, like he had said too much.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t make that face.”
“What face?”
“That face.”
“I’m not making a face.”
“Yeah, you are. The one where you look at me like I accidentally said somethin’ smart.”
This time, they did laugh.
It was small. Wet around the edges. But real.
Raph looked relieved for half a second before covering it with a grumble.
“There it is,” he muttered.
Y/N wiped their cheek with their sleeve. “Sorry.”
Raph frowned again. “What’d I just say about apologizin’ for hurt feelings?”
“I know.”
“Then quit it.”
They nodded, though their eyes dropped again.
Raph watched them for a second, then shifted his weight.
“You wanna tell me what they said?”
Y/N’s shoulders tightened.
Raph immediately shook his head. “You don’t gotta. I ain’t askin’ so I can make you repeat it. Just askin’ so I know what kind of damage I’m workin’ with.”
Y/N folded their arms loosely over their middle. “It was just stuff about how I look. How I act. Little jokes, I guess. Like… little comments that sounded funny to everyone else.”
Raph’s hands curled.
“Wasn’t funny to you,” he said.
“No.”
“Then it wasn’t funny.”
The simplicity of it made Y/N’s throat tighten.
They had spent the whole day trying to explain the comments away. Maybe they were too sensitive. Maybe the jokes weren’t that bad. Maybe they were overthinking it. Maybe everyone had moved on and they were the only one still stuck.
But Raph didn’t make them prove why it hurt.
He believed them.
Just like that.
Y/N pressed their lips together, trying not to cry again.
Raph saw it and sighed quietly, like his own heart had just been shoved around in his chest.
“C’mere.”
Y/N hesitated.
Raph opened one arm slightly, looking almost embarrassed by the gesture. “Only if you want.”
That made their face soften.
They stepped toward him, and he wrapped them in the gentlest hug someone his size could possibly manage. It was almost funny how careful he was. This giant, battle-worn turtle who could lift a truck looked like he was afraid one wrong move would break them.
But the hug didn’t feel fragile.
It felt safe.
Raph’s arm settled around their back, broad and steady, while his other hand rested lightly near their shoulder. He didn’t squeeze too hard. He didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there and let them breathe.
Y/N slowly relaxed against him.
For a while, the tunnel was quiet.
Then Raph spoke, voice low near the top of their head.
“I hate that somebody made you look at yourself different.”
Y/N closed their eyes.
“Because the way I see you?” he continued, quieter now. “Ain’t got nothin’ to do with whatever garbage came outta them.”
Y/N’s fingers curled lightly against him.
Raph swallowed, clearly fighting with the words. Feelings were not his favorite battlefield.
But for them, he tried.
“You’re kind,” he said. “And funny, even when you don’t mean to be. You listen when people talk, like it actually matters. You make this place feel less like a hole in the ground.”
Y/N gave a watery laugh against him. “That’s romantic.”
Raph scoffed, but there was warmth in it. “You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
“And for the record,” he added, “there’s nothin’ about you that needs to be fixed just because somebody couldn’t keep their mouth shut.”
Y/N went quiet.
That one landed deep.
Raph felt it in the way they held onto him a little tighter.
He let them.
After a minute, Y/N whispered, “It’s hard not to believe it sometimes.”
Raph’s face changed.
The anger drained out, leaving something more honest behind.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
Y/N pulled back just enough to look at him.
He didn’t meet their eyes right away. His gaze moved to the cracked tiles on the wall.
“People say stuff,” he muttered. “They stare. They judge. They think because they don’t understand somethin’, they get to name it. Like if they call it ugly or wrong or scary, that makes it true.”
Y/N’s expression softened painfully.
Raph’s mouth twisted. “Took me a long time to figure out people can be loud and still be wrong.”
The words settled between them.
Y/N looked up at him, heart aching a little.
“Raph…”
He shook his head like he didn’t want pity. “I ain’t sayin’ it for that. I’m sayin’… I get it. That voice that sticks around after the person leaves? I get it.”
Y/N nodded slowly.
Raph finally looked at them.
“But I’m tellin’ you right now,” he said, voice deep and steady, “that voice don’t get to be louder than mine. Not tonight.”
Y/N’s eyes watered again, but this time, their smile came with it.
“What’s your voice saying?”
Raph looked caught off guard.
“What?”
“You said that voice doesn’t get to be louder than yours,” Y/N said softly. “So what is yours saying?”
Raph stared at them.
Then he looked away with a grumble. “You’re really gonna make me say it?”
A tiny smile tugged at their mouth. “Maybe.”
He huffed, but there was no real irritation in it.
“Fine.”
He shifted, suddenly very interested in the wall beside them.
“My voice is sayin’…” He paused, jaw working as if the sentence was physically fighting him. “You’re worth lookin’ at kindly. You’re worth talkin’ to gently. You’re worth bein’ around even on the days you don’t feel like you are.”
Y/N’s smile faded into something much more tender.
Raph continued, quieter.
“And you’re not hard to care about.”
That was the one.
Y/N’s breath caught.
Raph looked down at them then, his tough expression softening in a way he rarely let anyone see.
“You hear me, Y/N?”
Y/N nodded, but their voice was barely there. “Yeah.”
“Nah.” His brow lifted. “I need words.”
They breathed out shakily. “I hear you.”
“Good.”
For a moment, they just stood there, close in the quiet. Raph’s hand stayed near their shoulder, grounding and warm. He looked like he still wanted to find whoever had hurt them and scare some manners into them, but he kept himself there. With Y/N. Where he was needed more.
Eventually, Y/N wiped their face again. “Sorry I ruined movie night.”
Raph gave them a flat look.
They paused. “Right. No apologizing.”
“Look at you learnin’.”
That earned him another small laugh.
He nodded toward the main lair. “You wanna go back?”
Y/N hesitated.
Raph noticed. “Or we don’t.”
“But everyone’s gonna ask.”
“I’ll handle ‘em.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “By lookin’ mean.”
“You always look mean.”
“Exactly. I’m qualified.”
Y/N smiled a little wider this time.
Raph felt something in his chest ease.
Not completely. He knew hurt didn’t vanish just because someone said the right thing. Words could comfort, but they couldn’t erase everything. He knew that too.
But Y/N looked a little less folded in on themself.
That was enough for now.
Instead of heading back right away, Raph led them to a quieter corner of the station where an old bench sat against the wall. He dusted it off with one large hand before motioning for them to sit.
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Did you just clean a bench for me?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“That was kind of sweet.”
“Don’t make that weird either.”
They sat down, and Raph sat beside them after a moment, the bench creaking under his weight.
Y/N glanced over. “Is this bench safe?”
Raph looked offended. “I ain’t that heavy.”
The bench creaked again.
Y/N pressed their lips together.
Raph pointed at them. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinkin’ it.”
“I was thinking many things.”
“Think quieter.”
A laugh escaped them, more real this time, and Raph’s gaze softened when they looked away.
There they were.
Not fixed. Not magically okay.
But there.
He rested his elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely, and stared out at the old tracks.
“You know,” he said, “when people got nothin’ better to do than pick at somebody else, that usually says more about them than the person they’re talkin’ about.”
Y/N leaned back against the wall. “I know that in my head.”
“Yeah,” Raph said. “Heart takes longer.”
They looked at him.
He shrugged. “What? I got wisdom sometimes.”
“You do.”
“Donnie would pass out hearin’ that.”
“Leo would make it a lesson.”
“Mikey would put it on a shirt.”
Y/N laughed again.
Raph smiled to himself, small and crooked.
For a few minutes, they sat side by side, letting the heaviness loosen little by little.
You said looking down, “ I hate that I kept thinking about it. Like, I kept wondering if they were right.”
Raph’s smile disappeared.
He turned his head toward them.
“They weren’t.”
“You don’t even know exactly what they said.”
“Don’t need to.”
Y/N studied him. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because people who wanna make you feel small don’t get to define you.”
His answer came immediately. No hesitation. No doubt.
Y/N’s expression softened.
Raph looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers once. “Look, I ain’t good at all the… feelings stuff.”
“You’re doing pretty good.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He glanced at them, caught off guard again, then looked away before they could see too much of the fondness on his face.
“I just mean,” he continued, “I can’t climb inside your head and throw out every bad thought. Wish I could. Would make things easier.”
“That sounds terrifying.”
“Yeah, well, I’d be polite.”
“You? Polite?”
He smirked. “For you? Maybe.”
Y/N’s face warmed slightly, and they looked down.
Raph noticed, but didn’t tease. Not tonight.
Instead, he nudged their shoe lightly with his own.
“But I can remind you,” he said. “As many times as you need. I can sit here when it gets loud in your head. I can walk with you when you don’t wanna go back alone. I can tell Mikey to stop askin’ questions if he gets nosy.”
“That last one might be impossible.”
“I’ve handled worse.”
Y/N smiled, then grew quiet again.
After a moment, they whispered, “Thank you.”
Raph didn’t brush it off.
He wanted to. It was instinct. Say “yeah, whatever,” pretend his chest didn’t feel too full, pretend this didn’t matter as much as it did.
But Y/N deserved better than that.
So he nodded.
“Anytime.”
They looked over at him.
The word hung there.
Anytime.
Not only when it was convenient. Not only when the lair was calm. Not only when they could explain perfectly why they were upset.
Anytime.
Raph meant it.
Eventually, the distant sound of Mikey yelling drifted through the tunnels.
“Raph! Y/N! If you guys are having a dramatic emotional moment, I respect it, but Leo says the pizza’s getting cold!”
Y/N blinked.
Raph closed his eyes and inhaled slowly through his nose.
“I’m gonna put him in a trash can.”
Y/N laughed, really laughed this time, and Raph’s annoyance softened almost instantly.
From somewhere farther away, Leo’s voice echoed, “Do not put Mikey in a trash can.”
Mikey yelled, “Thank you, fearless leader!”
Donnie added, “Statistically, he would fit.”
“Donnie!”
Y/N covered their mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter.
Raph watched them with quiet satisfaction, like their laugh had patched something inside him too.
He stood first, then offered his hand.
Y/N looked at it.
His fingers were huge compared to theirs, rough from training and fighting and holding the world back from the people he loved.
They took his hand.
Raph helped them stand with careful ease, like it was nothing at all.
Before they headed back, Y/N paused. “Raph?”
“Yeah?”
“Again, thank you for that. Talking to me, knocking some sense into me.”
“Anytime. If you want to get rid of them I can do that too.” He said with a wicked smirk.
“Yeah let’s not do that, we have to be the bigger person.” You said to tone down his somewhat offer.
He groaned, slightly annoyed that you jokingly didn’t agree to him.
“I’ll always be here.” He said going back to what you said. “I will always be here for moments like this.”
You looked at him, locking eyes with him.
You didn’t say anything but your face said it all.
Y/N’s smile was small, but it stayed.
Raph noticed, happy that your sweet smile is back.
“Did you really mean that I make this place feel less like a hole in the ground?”
Raph choked on his air-
“Y-Yeah.” He said forward because he did not lie. He wouldn’t lie to you.
“I meant it, sweet thing.” Raph said like it was nothing, but a little dark tint of green glazed his face.
What he didn’t see is that your face already went pink.
When they returned to the main room, Mikey immediately opened his mouth.
Raph pointed at him without looking. “Don’t.”
Mikey slowly closed his mouth.
Donnie raised his brows. Leo gave Raph one brief, knowing look, then turned back to the TV without saying a word.
Y/N sat back on the couch. This time, they didn’t sit at the edge like they were ready to leave. They tucked themself into the corner, and after a second, Raph sat near them, close enough that his shoulder almost touched theirs.
Mikey, apparently deciding to be helpful, tossed a blanket in their direction.
It landed on Raph’s face.
The room went silent.
Y/N froze.
Raph slowly pulled the blanket off his head and stared at Mikey.
Mikey winced. “In my defense—”
“You got three seconds.”
Mikey bolted.
Y/N burst out laughing.
Raph watched Mikey run, then looked at Y/N, grumbling under his breath as he handed them the blanket properly.
“Here.”
Y/N accepted it, still smiling. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
They wrapped the blanket around themself and settled back into the couch. The movie kept playing. Mikey eventually returned, wisely sitting on the opposite side of the room. Donnie resumed tinkering. Leo pretended not to notice the way Raph stayed close.
But Raph did.
He noticed everything.
He noticed when Y/N’s smile faded a little during a quiet moment. He noticed when their fingers tightened around the blanket. He noticed when that faraway look tried to creep back in.
And each time, he nudged them gently. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to remind them he was there.
A brush of his knuckles against the blanket.
A low comment about the terrible movie.
A quiet, “You good?”
And every time, Y/N came back a little easier.
Later, when the movie ended and the others started arguing about what to watch next, Y/N leaned slightly toward Raph.
“Hey,” they whispered.
He looked down. “Hm?”
“Your voice is louder.”
Raph didn’t answer right away.
Then his mouth curved into the smallest, softest smile.
“Good.”
Y/N looked back at the TV, still wrapped in the blanket, still a little tender from the day, but not alone in it anymore.
Idk abt anyone else but I adore the turtle’s markings… and I’m wondering like.. if they’d feel the same way abt birthmarks/freckles/scars/etc…
Thinking about Leo who kisses up your arm as part of one of his silly jokes.. but somehow manages to land on each random freckle that dots your skin.
Leo who loves to analyze the design of your eyes, the way the colors of your iris twist and turn and the dilation of your pupils as he says something funny…
Leo who asks why on earth you would need braces when he adores your smile so much already— not that you aren’t cute with braces, too…
Thinking about Mikey who makes sure he draws every small mark every time he illustrates you— which he does a lot— he’s just making sure he captures your beauty correctly! You without your marks is like him without his!
Mikey who notices EVERY time you paint your nails, stopping dead in his tracks to admire them and let you know INSTANTLY his opinion of how beautiful you— ahem, how beautiful THEY look ON you
Mikey who gently rubs a birthmark on your back you didn’t even know you had as he cuddles on the couch with you, enchanted by it.
Thinkin about Donnie who kisses your hand in the same spot every time, because he knows you have a scar there from a random incident as a kid.
Donnie who makes up a reason for his tech to scan you, saying it’s for some research or another, when in reality he’s so, SO fascinated by humans— by YOU— by the way you’re so specifically you. He’d seen a single birthmark on you, such an odd anomaly (to him) that any human could experience, and now he HAD to know if there were any others.
Donnie who would get irritated if you ever tried to photoshop any of your so called flaws away— and INSTANTLY picks up on if you showed him a photoshopped photo. To him? Those things make the you he knows and loves. He claims you’re unrecognizable without it.
Thinking about Raph who loves seeing the freckles on your face move when you smile, or frown, or speak.. how the creases line just perfectly in ways that make him swoon to even picture in his head.
Raph who admires any scars you may have— he was made for war, and doesn’t scar easily, but you? You’re so tender-skinned, and yet you’re so tough. You’ve gone through horrible things and you’re still standing. He sees your scars as proof of that.
Raph who gets confused when you mention buying acne scar cream— why would you need that? He likes your face how it is? If it’s an insecurity thing he backs off only to the point of making sure you know how much HE thinks you’re attractive as-is, regardless of your opinion.
