honestly, I think we need some more Bayverse Raph smut, why? First, it’s Raph. And we love some Raph. Second? So little people request stuff for Bayverse Raph it’s crazy😭 And he’s my favourite turtle. So you can decide WHAT the fic is about, I just request some Raph smut!!
Backshots (18+)
Bayverse!Raphael x reader
A/N: Sounded like you were in desperate need, so I quickly cooked up something😂 It’s pretty short, but hey, Bayverse Raphael doing backshots? Hell yeah. Enjoy!❤️
All characters are aged up.
Warnings: Short, doggy, overstimulation, squirting, Raph calls you a dirty girl.
“Yeah, that’s it”, Raphael growled behind you, standing on his bedroom floor, while you laid ass up on his bed. “Take all of it. Keep takin’ all of it, ya dirty girl”.
“Fuck, Raph!”, you cried out, trying to reach for him behind you. But he grabbed your arm, curling it up on your back, never once breaking the rhythm of his hips snapping against your ass, the sound of your skin slapping together echoing throughout Raphael’s room.
Your tight, long-sleeved crop top was still on, but your pants and underwear were far gone, lying somewhere in Raph’s bedroom, far forgotten as he continued to ram into you.
“Nah, dirty girls don't get to touch”, Raph chuckled, finding your whimpering sounds and desperate pleas adorable, his voice so low you could feel wetness starting to run down your thighs. Raph had already made you cum three times already, just by ramming you from behind, so you had no idea how you could still manage to get so wet when he talked. “Dirty girls are only made to be fucked”.
Raph let go of your arm, before grabbing a hold on your hips with both hands, thrusting into you at a brutal speed, making you scream and moan against the mattress. You sounded like a pornstar with how loud you were, however, your sounds were real. You were desperate, feeling yourself getting close to get another orgasm, not knowing if you could handle it.
“Raph! I’m - oh fuck - I’m-!”
“I know”, Raph groaned. “Cum for me, (Y/N). Squirt and make my bed wet like the dirty girl ya are”.
This man was going to be the death of you. Yet you came, crying out in pleasure as you squirted around Raph’s thick member, just like he had wanted you to, all while you saw white spots before your eyes.
“Shit”, Raph groaned, settling his speed, before almost pulling out of you, his head still stuck inside your overstimulated cunt. The hands on your hips moved to your ass, where Raph grabbed onto your cheeks, pulling them away from each other, so he could get a better look at your wet cunt, pulsing around his still erect cock. Then - to your surprise - he spat onto your cunt, putting his hands back on your hips, before slowly rocking in and out of you again. “You can do better, (Y/N)”.
“Wait, what?!”, you asked, trying to turn so that you could look at Raph, only for your head to be pushed down against the bed, his hand on your cheeks forcing the side of your face down.
“I said I wanted my bed wet”, Raph groaned, a smirk thick in his voice. “And squirtin’ only on me isn’t enough”. His raised one of his feet onto the bed, making it easier for him to thrust into you at full force once again.
First kiss headcanons with TMNT boys? (Separately, hope it makes sense lol)
YAS IT DOES I LOVE IT.
ehem ehem...
FIRST KISS HEADCANONS TMNT BAYVERSE X FEM! READER
Leonardo
Leo’s the slow burn of slow burns. He doesn’t rush a damn thing, especially not something as intimate as this.
He’s been fighting the urge for weeks, but every time your hand brushes his arm or you smile up at him after a mission… the control cracks a little more.
You notice him stealing glances. That stoic face flickers, eyes soft, mouth tense like he’s biting words back.
When you ask, “What is it?” he exhales, the type of sigh that sounds like surrender.
He leans in a little too close, still trying to hold onto his composure. His voice drops “I shouldn’t… but I really want to.”
His hand ghosts over your jaw before he pulls back, testing you, giving you a chance to stop him. You don’t.
The kiss starts feather-light, almost hesitant. Then his discipline dissolves, his other hand slides to the back of your neck, deepening it.
When he finally pulls away, forehead resting against yours, he whispers “You’re going to ruin my focus.”
You smirk, breathless: “Good.”
.
.
.
Raphael
Raph’s the type to fight his feelings like they’re another enemy to beat. He’s all bark until it’s about you, then suddenly he’s tongue-tied.
The first kiss doesn’t happen soft. It happens loud, after one too many teases, one too many looks.
You’re arguing about something stupid (probably him being reckless again), and he smirks, all cocky “What, ya worried about me or somethin’, sweetheart?” You roll your eyes, shove his shoulder — and he catches your wrist. That’s when the mood shifts.
His grin falters. The heat in his eyes changes — not anger anymore, but something dangerous in a different way.
He steps closer, testing boundaries he knows damn well he’s about to cross.
“You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna do somethin’ you won’t forget.”
You whisper, “Then do it.”
That’s it.
He kisses you like it’s the last fight he’ll ever win — rough hands, firm grip, but still holding back just enough to not scare you.
When he breaks the kiss, his voice is low “Now you can worry ‘bout me all you want.”
.
.
.
Donatello
Donnie’s crush on you? Obvious to everyone but him. He overthinks it to the point of paralysis
The first kiss isn’t planned. It’s a glitch in the system.
You wake him gently, brushing his shoulder — and he startles, knocking over a wrench. His face goes red instantly.
You laugh, leaning in to help him, and that’s when you realize how close your faces are. He freezes.
His brain short-circuits: words fail, calculations gone. Just heartbeat and warmth.
You whisper something teasing like, “What, no smart comeback this time?”
He swallows hard, eyes flicking to your lips, then back up.
“I can… think of a few responses.”
Before he loses the nerve, he leans in, soft, uncertain, trembling. The kind of kiss where his hand hesitates halfway before resting on your waist.
It’s shy at first, sweet, but there’s passion simmering under it, the kind that only builds from long, quiet yearning.
When he pulls away, he’s breathless and dazed, mumbling, “I think I just discovered a new law of attraction.”
You grin, “Yeah? You gonna write a paper on it?”
“Only if you’re my co-author”
My poor guy's brain is overheating lmao
.
.
.
Michelangelo
Mikey’s been flirting since day one, but it’s usually jokes, nicknames, cheeky winks, until this night (oops)
The laughter fades, replaced by this hush where you both realize… something shifted.
He’s looking at you, smile softening, the goofiness melting into something almost tender.
“Y’know, I joke a lot” he says, voice suddenly low “but this right here? Kinda feels like my favorite dream.”
You tilt your head, teasing, “You dream about me often?”
He grins, but there’s a blush creeping up his neck. “Only the good kind, angel.”
Then he moves closer — his hand brushing your hair back, fingers lingering a little too long.
You can feel his breath when he murmurs, “Can I?” (HE IS SO CUTE)
You nod.
The kiss is sweet, but alive, all warmth and smile and heartbeat. He tastes like bubblegum and adrenaline.
Halfway through, he chuckles softly against your lips. “Damn, I’m gonna need a sequel.”
You laugh into the kiss, hand on his chest, feeling it race.
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"
I have two requests, both with the Bayverse turtles. This is the second one:
Raphael x Female Reader.
Fluff. Lots of Fluff. With some introspection too maybe? Extrovert Grumpy (Raph) x Introvert Sunshine (Reader).
I was thinking of something that would focus on their blooming relationship but seen through the eyes of Leo, Donnie, and Mikey. Or just one of them of your choice if this request gets too long. It's the first time they've seen Raph act so soft, sweet, and calm and awkward around someone and they'll definitely have a lot of thoughts going on in their heads about it. And maybe a lot of teasing too ;). Thank you so much in advance if you decide to write it!
A/N: Hello, anon! To be honest, I wasn’t sure whose POV of Raph and the reader’s relationship to write in. But it seems I ended up gravitating towards Leo the most. Though the other two still have commentary, of course.
Enjoy! 💖
Drawn to You (fluff)
❤️ Bayverse Raphael/Female Reader ❤️
CWs: Fluff, soft/awkward Raph, implied crush/pining, brotherly teasing. All characters are aged-up.
You’re curled up on the couch in the lair, nestled deep into the cushions, sketchbook open on your lap. The paper is smooth under your pencil as you draw one of the graffiti markings on the wall opposite you. You add a final flourish to the spray-painted tag you’ve replicated, tilting your head to admire your work.
Suddenly, the lair’s entrance tunnel echoes with boisterous sounds. Footsteps herald the return of the turtles from whatever topside excursion they were on. You instinctively snuggle a little tighter into the couch, a cheerful smile tugging at your lips.
The first one who enters is Leo, already mid-sentence, gesturing emphatically. “… and I told you the grappling hook wouldn’t hold on that gargoyle, Donnie, but did you listen? Nooo.”
Donnie follows, looking mildly exasperated. “My calculations indicated a 93.9% structural integrity probability. Clearly, the masonry was older than I initially thought.”
Mikey comes in last, practically vibrating. “Dude, did you see that flip Leo almost didn’t stick? Epic fail waiting to happen, bro!”
Last comes Raph. He enters more quietly than usual, rubbing the back of his thick neck, his usual post-patrol scowl firmly in place. His eyes scan the lair, likely checking if Splinter is meditating nearby. Then they land on you.
And something shifts.
It’s subtle, almost imperceptible if you didn’t know him. But from the entryway, where his brothers have paused their bickering to shed their gear, the change is glaringly obvious.
Leo stops mid-gesticulation, his eyes widening slightly. He nudges Donnie, who adjusts his glasses purely out of habit, and raises a questioning brow ridge. Mikey just freezes, his usual bouncy energy stilling as he watches.
Raph’s shoulders, typically tense and ready for action, visibly relax. The deep V of his scowl softens, not quite disappearing, but smoothing out into something almost … hesitant. He takes a step towards the living area, then another, his heavy footfalls strangely muted on the floor. He seems to be actively trying not to stomp.
He stops a few feet away from the couch, his enormous frame suddenly looking a little awkward in the open space. He clears his throat, a low rumble that’s much softer than his usual volume. “Hey,” he says, his voice rough but lacking its typical edge. “You, uh, good?”
You look up, beaming at him. The brightness of your smile seems to physically hit him; he blinks, shifting his weight. “Hey, Raph! Yeah, I’m great. Just drawing.” You hold up your sketchbook. “How was the patrol?”
“Uh, fine. Usual.” He glances towards the graffiti you were drawing, then back at your face. There’s a flicker of something warm in his eyes, a stark contrast to the ‘ready-to-rumble’ look he usually sports. “Looks good.” He takes another step closer, peering over your shoulder, but careful not to crowd you. There’s an uncharacteristic gentleness in his proximity.
Meanwhile, by the entrance, a quiet conversation is happening.
“Dude, look at him,” Mikey whispers, pointing with a slight nod of his head. “He’s doing ‘the thing’ again.”
“Define ‘the thing’,” Donnie begins. “His heightened state of peripheral awareness when she’s present? His decreased vocalizations? The slight, almost imperceptible softening of his default scowl?”
“All of it, brainiac!” Mikey whisper-shouts. “He looks like a big, shy puppy trying to ask for pets without barking too loud.”
Leo, leaning against the wall nearby, arms crossed, watches with a more measured expression. He’s noticed it too, of course. How could he not? Raphael, his brother who communicates primarily through grunts, glares, and the occasional explosive outburst, becomes … subdued around you. Gentle. It’s baffling.
And, Leo has to admit, a little heartwarming.
Donnie pushes his glasses up again. “Fascinating. Physiologically, his respiration rate appears elevated, but his aggressive posturing shows a significant reduction. Perhaps a neurochemical response triggered by proximity to a preferred individual?”
“Or maybe,” Mikey stage-whispers, leaning closer to his brothers, “he liiiikes her!”
Back by the couch, Raph shifts again, his gaze locked on the sketchbook page. He points at a specific detail in your drawing. “You got the … the little flicky bit there just right. The way the paint kinda dripped.” He clears his throat again. “How’d you get so good at this?”
“Years of practice,” you say, offering him another warm smile. “Want to see the others I did?”
His head snaps up, eyes wide for a fraction of a second, that warmth flickering more brightly. “Uh … yeah. Sure. If you wanna show me.” He moves closer but doesn’t sit. His gaze drifts from the sketchbook back to your face, lingering for just a moment longer than strictly necessary.
Across the room, hidden partially by the archway leading to the dojo, the espionage continued.
“See? SEE?” Mikey whispers. “He’s leaning! Like, actually leaning in to look at her drawings! Raph never leans! He looms. Or glares.”
Donnie analyzes the scene. “Observation: Raphael’s typical personal space boundary appears significantly reduced in relation to her. Approximately 45 centimeters closer than his baseline average with non-familial individuals. Also, note the lack of fidgeting typically associated with his impatience. Instead, he exhibits micro-shifts indicative of … social anxiety? Or perhaps, contentment?”
“It’s called being smitten, Donnie,” Leo supplies, pushing off the wall. Casually, he saunters closer to you and Raph, ostensibly to put away his katanas. But truthfully, he’s only positioning himself for a better view.
“Never thought I’d see the day Raph looked like he was afraid of scaring someone just by breathing too hard,” Donnie murmurs.
“He asked how she got good at drawing,” Mikey adds, eyes wide with dramatic effect. “He usually just grunts and says ‘cool’ if he likes something. He used words. Multiple words! In a question!”
Back at the couch, you’re flipping through the pages of your sketchbook. Raph remains standing, his large hands clasped loosely behind his back, a pose that looks strangely formal and uncertain on his powerful frame. He’s genuinely looking at each sketch, his brow furrowed in concentration, not anger.
“This one’s the mural down by the old noodle shop,” you explain, pointing to a vibrant, detailed reproduction. “And this is that little stencil someone keeps putting on the mailboxes near the park …”
“Yeah … know that one,” Raph mumbles, his gaze flicking up to meet yours for a second before darting back to the page. That warmth is definitely there, a banked fire behind his usual tough-guy facade. “You … uh … you really capture the … the feel of ‘em.”
“He’s complimenting her artistic interpretation,” Donnie murmurs, sounding genuinely astonished. “The probability of Raph using such nuanced appreciation is statistically infinitesimal under normal circumstances. This deviation is remarkable.”
“Translation: Raph’s got it BAD!” Mikey giggles, barely containing himself.
It’s Leo’s cue. He finishes securing his swords and wanders over to the couch area, stretching nonchalantly. “Hey, Raph,” he calls out, his voice deliberately casual but loud enough to carry. “Everything alright? You look a little flushed. Feeling okay?”
Raph visibly tenses. His head snaps towards Leo, the soft expression vanishing, replaced by a familiar annoyed glare. “I’m fine, Leo. Just … lookin’ at sketches.” The last part comes out defensive.
“Oh yeah?” Leo stops near the armrest, peering over Raph’s shoulder, mimicking his earlier pose but with deliberate exaggeration. “Whatcha got there? Wow, Raph’s right, these are amazing! You really captured the … spray-e-ness.” He gives Raph a pointed look.
You smile up at Leo. “Thank you.”
Raph shifts uncomfortably, caught between your presence and his brother’s obvious teasing. He shoots Leo a warning look that clearly reads, ‘Don’t push it’.
Mikey, never one to miss an opportunity, comes over. “Ooh, lemme see! Wowzers! Raph, you never told us she was this talented! Usually, you just grunt about stuff.” He grins cheekily. “Guess some things make you wanna use your words, huh?”
A faint reddish tinge creeps up Raph’s neck. “Shut it, Mikey.”
Finally, Donnie approaches. “Indeed. Raph’s verbal communication frequency increases by approximately 35% in her presence, correlating with a decrease in aggressive posturing by nearly 50%. Fascinating psycho-social dynamics are at play.”
“Donnie!” Raph snaps, turning fully towards his brothers now, creating a partial shield between them and you. It’s a protective gesture as much as a defensive one. “Can’t you go … I dunno … invent somethin’ or annoy Splinter?”
“Aw, but Raph,” Mikey whines playfully, leaning around him to beam at you, “we just wanna hang out! Like you’re hanging out! Looking at pretty drawings.” His gaze flicks meaningfully between you and Raph.
You look between the brothers, catching the teasing undercurrent and noticing Raph’s struggle to maintain his composure. A small, amused smile tugs at your mouth. You reach out tentatively and pat Raph’s arm, feeling the muscle beneath twitch slightly at the contact.
“It’s okay, Raph,” you assure softly. “I don’t mind showing them.” You look back at your sketchbook. “Maybe you guys could even give me ideas for what to draw next?”
The effect on Raph is instantaneous. His glare softens again as he looks down at you, the tension visibly draining from his shoulders. The slight flush on his neck deepens, and the anger has dissipated, replaced by that familiar, flustered awkwardness. He clears his throat again. “Uh … yeah. S-sure. If … if you want.”
Leo, Donnie, and Mikey exchange looks. Whiplash. One gentle touch, a few soft words from you, and Volcano Raphael is dormant once more.
Leo can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. Oh yeah; this was definitely unfamiliar territory. And watching Raph navigate it, with all the grace of a tank trying to tiptoe through a minefield, was going to be endlessly entertaining. Regardless, he steers Donnie and Mikey away to give you and Raph some space.
“Did you see that?” Mikey whispers dramatically, eyes sparkling. “Poof! Grumpy gone!”
Raph lets out a breath as his brothers retreat towards the kitchen, their voices fading but their knowing glances still palpable. He visibly deflates, the tension leaving his body in a rush, but he remains standing.
“So,” you prompt gently, tapping your pencil against the sketchbook. “Ideas?”
He glances around the lair, eyes snagging on a training dummy, then the weapons rack, before finally landing back on your sketchbook. “Maybe … maybe you could draw … you know that bit of wall near the docks? The one where the bricks are all busted up and kinda looks like a face if you squint?”
You tilt your head, picturing it. “Oh, yeah! With the really deep cracks running through it? I know the one.”
“Yeah. That.” He gestures vaguely with one hand. “It’s kinda cool. Looks tough. Like it’s been through stuff.” He seems pleased with his own description, though his gaze flicks nervously towards the kitchen, checking if his brothers overheard.
From the kitchen doorway, Mikey leans out, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Ooh, busted bricks! How romantic, Raph! Maybe she can draw a little heart graffiti next to it?”
Raph whirls around, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “Mikey! I swear—”
“Easy, you two,” Leo’s voice drifts from deeper within the kitchen.
Raph clenches his fists, his neck flushing that familiar red again. But then he catches your eye. You’re watching him, not with fear, but with a patient, amused expression. He forces himself to take another deep breath, turning back towards you. The growl subsides, though his jaw remains tight.
“Ignore them,” you say, offering a reassuring smile. “I like that idea. The texture of those old bricks would be interesting to capture.” You flip to a fresh page in your sketchbook, wanting to get Raph involved. “Show me again where the cracks look like a face?”
His anger drains away almost comically fast. He steps closer, bending at the waist to peer at your blank page. He hesitates, then lifts a finger, hovering it just above the paper, careful not to touch. “Okay, so … the big crack goes down here, like this …” He traces the shape in the air above the page. “And there’s these smaller bits that kinda … yeah, like eyes. And the busted bit at the bottom looks like a grumpy mouth.”
He’s leaning closer now, his usual intimidating presence softened by his focused explanation. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the faint scent of the city night still clinging to his gear. He’s completely absorbed in describing the broken wall, his voice losing some of its earlier hesitation.
“Grumpy mouth, huh?” you muse, sketching lightly based on his description. “Sounds appropriate.”
He glances up, meeting your eyes directly for a solid second. The warmth there flares, intense and unguarded, before he quickly looks back down at the sketchbook. “Yeah. Guess so.”
You continue sketching, adding details as he describes them. He stays close, watching the image appear on the page. A few more details he points out include a loose wire hanging nearby, and a specific pattern of moss. He’s surprisingly observant.
Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, the others continue their own observation at a lower volume.
“He’s practically an art historian now,” Mikey says, his voice full of suppressed laughter. “Describing moss patterns! Who knew Raph noticed moss?”
“Or maybe,” Leo murmurs, leaning beside Donnie, arms still crossed, “he just actually wants to talk to her.” He keeps his voice low, not wanting to break the weirdly calm bubble that seems to have formed around the couch.
You finish the rough sketch of the brick wall face, holding it up. “Like this?”
Raph leans in again. He’s closer now, close enough that you could probably count the scars on his face if you wanted to. “Yeah,” he says, his voice dropping even lower, almost a rumble. “Looks good.” He doesn’t pull back immediately this time, his gaze lingering on the drawing, then flicking up to meet yours again.
But then he seems to realize how close he is and moves back half a step, a faint pinkness rising on his cheeks this time.
“They almost touched noses!” Mikey whisper-squeals from the kitchen, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Proximity threshold breached and self-corrected,” Donnie observes.
Leo just shakes his head, a wry smile touching his lips. Donnie could analyze the shell off a turtle, but even he couldn’t miss the obvious: Raph is head over heels.
You flip to another blank page. “Any other cool spots you think would make good sketches?”
Raph hesitates, glancing around the lair again as if searching for inspiration that isn’t potentially embarrassing. His gaze falls upon the worn-out punching bag in his room. “Maybe the bag?” he suggests, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Got a lot of … history.”
It’s a simple object, beat-up and functional, but the way he suggests it feels oddly personal, like he’s offering a small piece of himself.
Leo watches you and Raph. You’re smiling, considering the punching bag with genuine interest. Raph looks at you as you watch the bag, his expression a strange mix of hopeful and apprehensive. The usual storm cloud that follows Raph seems to have dissipated, replaced by this uncertain, almost sunny humidity. It’s weird.
Good weird, mostly, Leo thinks.
Donnie and Mikey look at Leo expectantly, waiting for the punchline. The teasing remark. But Leo looks past them, back towards the couch. Raph sees him, his shoulders tensing again as he braces for the usual barrage. He glances from Leo, back to you, then to Leo with a silent plea in his eyes.
And, for once, Leo listens. He sees the vulnerability there, the raw awkwardness that his brother tries so hard to hide behind muscle and scowls. He’s navigating something new, something that doesn’t involve fists or threats, and he’s doing it clumsily. But he’s doing it.
Leo catches his eyes from across the room. He gives Raph the smallest, almost imperceptible nod that says, I see you. It’s alright. Then Leo turns to his other brothers, lowering his voice. “Alright. Squad, you’re dismissed.”
Mikey opens his mouth to protest, probably armed with a dozen heart-related puns.
“Now,” Leo orders, cutting him off with a look that says I mean it. “Let the big guy breathe. Go sort your gear or something.”
Donnie raises a brow but nods slowly, seemingly accepting the logic of allowing the current social experiment to proceed without further variables. Mikey pouts but follows Donnie, muttering something about ‘mood killers’ and ‘romantic potential.’ Leo leans back against the counter, crossing his arms.
You’re sketching the punching bag, asking Raph about a specific tear near the top. He’s answering, his voice still low, leaning in again, pointing with that same hesitant finger. He looks … quiet. Focused. Almost peaceful.
It’s a side of Raph Leo rarely sees. The fighter, the hothead—that’s the Raph they all know. But this Raph, the one who describes moss patterns and gets flustered by a smile, is new. For Leo, it’s actually kind of nice to see his younger brother soften, even just for a little while.
Perhaps Raph wasn’t just doing ‘the thing,’ as Mikey put it. Maybe he was just being Raphael.
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 🙏
•Raphael would act different around people depending on who they are.
•If he was around Vern he’d have his arm around you constantly. Calls you baby doll around him just so he gets the memo. Vern just gives off weird cocky vibes. Raph doesn’t trust him much.
•If he’s around his brothers he’s more laid back. Casual nicknames such as honey and darling. Picks you up to be seen as dominant.
•Reads you comic books if you ask. His favorite ones being Batman so he could do the voice.
•Secretly paints your toe nails in the comfort of his own room. He’d be humiliated if anyone barged in but he just finds your toes so fascinating compared to his.
•Will do nail art. Mostly as an excuse to put an R on your big toe so everyone knows you’re his. Plus it’s good practice for his precision. At least that’s what he tells you🤷🏻♀️
•Your favorite color is casually scattered across his room.
•Matching clothes don’t come in mutant sizes so he carves you guys matching necklaces out of wood. He only wears it when he’s not on patrol.
•He read somewhere that girls like to wear their boyfriend's sweaters because they're oversized and smell like them. The next day he made it his mission to find a hoodie that was a few sizes larger than what you'd normally wear. Before you come over he sprays it with his cologne.
•Raph gives the best head rubs
•Hums your favorite song when you lay on his chest
•Has a soft blanket just for when you visit because he doesn’t want to hog all the blankets
•He’ll also smell it when he misses you
•He re-tucks you in at night if he sees the blanket off of you
A/N: Hello Lovelies! I’ve made a new blog just for writing fanfiction. Please bear with me as I try to find my aesthetic for formatting my pieces. Feel free to request anything so that I can build my master list. This is an old draft that I’m reposting from an abandoned account if this work looks familiar to you. I hope you enjoyed!🫶
Imagine being sick and so you take a 'quick' nap at the lair, while the boys are out on patrol and they never realised that you slept over at the lair, then all they spot is you sleeping on the couch, cuddled up in Raph's knitted blanket and a plushie that Mikey gave you on your birthday, meanwhile Leo is making you tea when you wake up and Donnie is checking up on your heart rate just in case
