Quick reminder for fanfic writers both on here and ESPECIALLY on AO3…
If your main character has a name and described appearance, DO NOT use the character x reader tag. Like…seriously.
That is an OC. Use the “x oc” or “x original character” tag. Stop using the “x reader” tag. It will not give you more reach because people looking through the “x reader” tag aren’t going to read it. Three guesses why.
You are also making the filtering system null and void, which is harmful ESPECIALLY for archival sites like ao3 where the tags and filtering system are specifically there to make things easier. It’s basic fandom etiquette guys. Common sense and consideration for others. It won’t kill you to tag things correctly.
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.
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.
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.
(When ur kiss with them turns into a full-blown make-out until someone walks in) (Romantic, gn reader)
It was accidental kiss. But then, one second you’re just catching your breath — next, you’re pressed up against a wall or couch or the floor, and their hands are everywhere but respectful. And of course… someone always walks in.
Leonardo
The kiss deepens. It’s slow, burning, as if he was waiting too long for the perfect moment. The embers of a fire that’s been waiting forever to ignite. You’re gripping the edge of his plastron, pulling him closer. He’s got one hand on your waist, the other trembling on your cheek
And then — boom.
“…Leonardo.”
He freezes. Back stiff. Lips still ghosting over yours. You slowly look past his shoulder—
Splinter is standing in the doorway. Dead silent.
Leo practically teleports away from you.
“SENSEI—! I—I was just—”
“Yes. I saw.”
“It wasn’t— I mean, it was, but not—!”
Splinter sips his tea.
“Train harder. You’ll need more focus next time.”
And walks away.
You snort. Leo dies inside, not being able to look at you this time
Raphael
It’s intense. Hot. He’s got you against a wall, your hands tangled around his neck, his grip rough on your waist. He’s kissing you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance. You can’t breathe — and you don’t want to.
And then, suddenly
“RAPH—?! What the actual—”
Raph turns his head, lips still slightly on your neck.
“What?! I’m busy!”
“I can see that! In the middle of the dojo?! Really?!”
“You walked in. That’s your fault.”
You hide your face. Donnie flees. Raph just smirks and goes “Now where were we?”
Donatello
It was supposed to be one kiss. Maybe two. Now you’re both sitting on his bed, your legs over his, his bo forgotten on the floor. You’re straddling him, and the way he’s kissing you —careful, desperate, like you might disappear —is enough to melt every inch of you.
Then—
“Dude—WHOA—SORRY—!”
Donnie gasps so hard he headbutts you by accident.
“OW—Donnie!”
“I DIDN’T MEAN TO—WAIT—GET OUT—!”
“I’M ALREADY GONE BRO GOOD LUCK!!”
You both collapse in laughter. Donnie’s face is red for days.
Michelangelo
You’re laughing, lying on the couch, and suddenly Mikey’s on top of you, kissing the air out of your lungs. It starts fun —then it gets heavy. Hands. Tongue. Teeth.
You moan his name once, and he loses it. He kisses you like he’s starving. And then—
“WHAT THE—”
“OH COME ON, NOT ON THE COUCH—!”
Mikey doesn’t even stop. He just yells:
“CLOSE THE DOOR OR JOIN IN, GUYS!”
“MIKEY—!”
He throws the nearest pillow at them
Been felling sad and wanted something super fluffy, so decided to write dis. And yeah, for everyone who requested, I’m so sorry, I didn’t have energy to do ur request, but I hope I’ll get better lately🙏 it might be a little short guys. So yeah go kiss ur turtle!!
Prompt: Drawing on them (Doodling on their skin w/ notes)
Variant: ROTTMNT + 2012! TMNT
Characters: Leo, Don, Raph, Mike
Format: Headcannons + Imagine
Warnings: None.
Request: N/A. SenchaOriginal
A/N: Long fic incoming! Ahhhh. My first post for the fandom. So exciting >_<
ROTMNT:
Neon Leon
Leo insists on being the “least accessible” surface for notes because he claims it is about “aesthetic boundaries,” and "How can you paint upon what is already a masterpiece?"
And yet, every time you need a pen he suspiciously has one? For someone who trains on the daily, it's very easy to pull his arm towards you and pop the cap off between your teeth. Nardo's just chiseled out of marble, y'know? So chill that he doesn't feel the pen on his skin. He totally isn't whipped or anything. Pshhh.
He secretly loves it when you write grocery lists, reminders, or takeout orders on his hand like he is your personal messenger. He especially likes when you add dramatic little arrows and underlines, because it makes him feel important in the most ridiculous way possible.
His favorites are your doodles and notes of encouragement. They're tucked under his hand wraps for protection, like your own little mystic voodoo on his moral. Especially when he's forgot about it after a bad day, and is greeted with a surprise 'Call me when you're free <3' on his wrist when washing up for bed.
Not like he was going to sleep anyways, eh?
Leo has a lot of opinions about his personal space, and most of them state that your space belongs to him but not vice versa. At least without proper warning.
“See, the issue,” he said, lifting one finger like he was delivering a very important lecture instead of lounging upside down across the couch, “is that I am a masterpiece. A work of art. A symbol. How can you paint upon what is already a vision?”
You don't even look up from your phone, checking off coupon clippings for sales in the undercity. “You are not a museum display, and the only symbol I associate you with requires the median of my five fingers”
“Okay," he whistles low, "Rude.”
“Also, you have to sit still if you want me to write the grocery list legibly.”
Leo huffs, but the smug little curve of his mouth gave him away. “Fine. But only because I am generous, and because I don’t want the peasants to starve.”
"And if we're the peasants then what are you, king?"
"Mayyybe."
He extends his hand like he was offering you a priceless artifact.
You accept it without ceremony. A little scoff, but he pined for it obviously.
For someone who spent half his life in motion, Leo was annoyingly easy to catch when he wanted to be. Training had made him quick, sure, but it had also made him loose in that infuriatingly confident way of his. You could tug his arm down, twist his wrist palm-up, and he would go with it like he had never once considered resisting. Like he was letting you win every little squabble before it began.
Which he absolutely was not. Obviously.
You uncapped the pen with your teeth and started writing across the back of his palm.
eggs
ramen
popsicles (SHERBERT)
Duct tape
Okay. That one spawns a question that Leo is certain has a fun answer.
IMPT: don’t let donnie pick the drinks again (buy a FLAVORED juice or we will have war)
Leo watched, chin propped on the back of the couch, gaze lidded and amused. “You are criminally unappreciative of my natural gifts.”
“Didn't know you had any,” you snort, moving to underline ramen twice.
Ouch. K.O.
“Wow. Bold. False, but bold.”
You add a 'x2' beside eggs, then circled it for good measure. He does recall Mikey wanting to make a cake.
His fingers twitched once beneath yours, not enough to escape, just enough to be felt. He glanced down at the list and gave a pleased little hum, like he was admiring a fine piece of calligraphy instead of a reminder to buy bread and detergent before dad’s good robe started to smell like the backside of Jersey.
There was no real reason for him to have a pen on him. It’s not like he had pockets or anything.
And yet every time you needed one, Leo mysteriously had one tucked into his belt, wedged behind his ear, or hidden somewhere in those wraps of his. Every time you asked, he acted like it was coincidence.
It was never coincidence.
Leo turns his wrist slightly, admiring as you pop the pen cap on, all satisfied with your work.
“…You forgot the dumplings,” he tuts after a beat.
You glance up. “You skim through everything else but that’s what you care about?”
“I am a man of priorities.”
You sigh, but you’re already adding it in, squeezing it between two lines with a dramatic arrow pointing down so he doesn’t forget. Even though he knows you left them out on purpose.
"There. Happy?"
He leans over the side-cushion to bop your forehead with two fingers, "Abso-tiddle-lutely~"
Leo flips off the couch before you can fight back. Although the way you flock to take the spot he left behind suggests there's nothing to worry about. When you sink into the cushion, he expects to find you clocked out in that exact spot for the night.
“Y’know,” he says smoothly, “this is a lot of responsibility you’re putting on me. I’m basically your courier now. Your—your champion. Your chosen vessel.”
“Then don’t forget anything.”
“Puh-lease,” he scoffs. “When have I ever let you down?”
You lift your up over the backrest, just so he can catch one dry-eyed blink as a response. Yeah.
He slices open a portal without arguing.
“…Okay, once,” he amends, already walking backwards. “But in my defense, there’s a reason the guys don’t put me in charge of our money! Or literally anything!”
“Leo —“
Double-D
Donnie pretends he is above “wasting time” on sticky notes, then immediately becomes addicted to having you write entire equations, appointment times, and invention reminders across his non-dominant forearm in neat little rows.
Nature's notepad, who? Don doesn't recall ever saying such a thing. You, my dear, need to stop lending Raph a listening ear. Otherwise you'll develop biased opinions. The chasm is infectious.
While not the grandest at physical contact, there are layers to this turtle. He likes being useful, and this is indeed a use. A use AND an excuse for broaching that touch boundary. Let alone that it leaves behind evidence, aka. proof said natural contact was not imagined.
Definitely does not take pictures of them to keep in a personal folder on his phone before washing off.
Don tries to 'act' annoyed about being covered in ink, but he is very clearly pleased every time he catches himself glancing down mid-soldering and sees, "IF YOU CAN READ ME, IT IS TIME TO DRINK SOME WATER" written beside a tiny doodle of his face looking like a dehydrated sponge.
Ah. Another for the books. Pfft.
Donnie had been in the zone for the better part of an hour, which meant two things: one, that the lab was blissfully immersed in the most raunchy techno beats he could pirate, and two, that everyone else in the lair had learned not to interrupt him unless they desired their bones rearranged in alphabetical order.
Soldering tools were laid out in precise formation. A half-dismantled patrol robot from the hidden city sat on the bench in front of him, wires exposed like the droid he was rewiring had made the very poor decision to challenge him personally.
To which, Donnie would say "Yes". Considering the construct was an attempt to mimic his own beloved Shelldon. A mockery that will soon be reconstructed to serve as a butler for dear papa. Only with minor functions such as fetching goods or locating the tv remote, of course. Promoting his genius and solving a problem that seems to occur every hour. A fitting end with no bits wasted.
Donnie’s cotton-based brow was furrowed, mask bunching at the apex of his muzzle as eyes narrowed behind his goggles. He adjusted the final connection with the steady, practiced movements of someone who could preform sutures on a grape if they were offered the right price-tag.
He did it once, just to prove he was as capable as a neurosurgeon. It was a resounding success, naturally.
Only when his work was complete did the metaphorical and physical gloves strip themselves. He practically threw those latex fashion monstrosities onto the desk, free to crack his knuckles with a pop and pat his own shell after a job well-done.
'Oh good work Donatello. You're a genius, turning copper into titanium with just a bit of elbow grease. Why than you Donatello, I am acutely aware -'
Which was probably why it took him so long to notice the words on his own skin.
Donnie pauses mid-stretch, his gaze shifted, almost reluctantly, to his non-dominant forearm where the ink had settled in dark, neat letters along the curve of his wrist.
if you can read this, it’s time to take a brekkie! :p
Below it, in the corner, was a tiny doodle of his face. Not detailed. Just enough to make the point. Round goggles on his forehead. A little slumped expression with spirals for eyes and an 'x' for a mouth. He'd compliment the penmanship if he could remember where it came from.
He stared at it.
Then, very slowly, licked his thumb and made to rub the first word. When the markings stay exactly as they are, he has to remind himself that the artist is someone he would prefer remains alive. Maybe not in this exact moment but i has impulse control.
Sometimes.
“…Mmm. Cool, cool, cool? Cool, cool, cool.”
The words came out sharper than it should have. Not annoyed, exactly.
The memory arrives all at once, as if his brain had finally decided to stop being unhelpful.
You, earlier, standing too close to Donnie's workdesk while Raph was debriefing after the whole mimic technology situation. You pretending to pay attention to his brother, but your body angled toward Donnie instead. He noticed, and could tell whatever Raph said would need to be repeated later. Donnie would share his recording with you after you admit to spacing out and do the walk of shame.
You asked him, all casual and looking for a distraction, whether he could hold still for a second. He barely looked up from his diagrams. Almost missed the marker in your hand, but only froze up once when the pen first made contact. Improvement? Donnie considers it such.
You were idly drawing nonsense on his arm while he worked, just filling time even after Raph went off to check on how Mikey was coming along with dinner.
And now—
Donnie huffed, one corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. He mentally berates himself for forgetting, but remembers he's supposed to be working on that. So he settles for being miffed purely because this is going to be hell to scrub out later.
“Exaggerated sigh,” he mutters to the empty lab, as though the revelation had personally inconvenienced him. However his tone suggested fondness. “To be ordered around in my own domain? Mm. Will need to work on that."
Donnie brings his newest creation to life with a few taps on his wrist-gauntlet.
"Mmm. Fetchbot? Enter stealth mode. I'm craving Nardo's leftover pizza from the kitchens, if you please."
Raphala
Lots of surface area. Rather than a sheet of paper, his arms are full on poster boards to decorate as you please. Just steer clear of his shell. Raph understands that his spikes are perfect to look like dipped ice cream cones, but they’re not so sweet as the treat in question.
He also likes to watch you work. The gliding pen feels nice on his scales, a bit ticklish; yet it’s the ease you handle him with that makes his big heart grow six times until it’s busting out of his plastron.
Another who appreciates the reminder that you’re nearby. Especially since he can’t know where you are all the time given the whole … as Leo puts it, ‘situation’. You check seven out of seven for coming to see him every day of the week, but damn if you could just be the tattoo on his skin instead of these little pictures?
He has to settle, it seems.
Although it is quite the sight when Raph tries to use his intimidating appearance to his advantage, just for a villain to point out that his plastron is covered in flowers and polka dots. Is he going to wash it off? Nah. Raph will just smash. The ain’t gonna remember anyways.
His brothers are a different story but nope. Still won’t ask you to stop. Never.
The warehouse is already half wrecked by the time the fight really gets going.
Metal beams bent, crates split open, something sparking ominously in the corner—standard fare. Just another robbery the Turtles happened to cross while out on their usual spin of the city. Usually they leave this sort of low-grade human deal to the police, but the NYPD isn't the "best" at their job. Busting a few crooks and leaving them for the cops to collect is an easy deal. Thirty minutes. Tops.
These types of criminals are more bark than bite anyways. Most pass out from shock at the first glimpse of the Hamatos and make the job easy. Some try to bargain, but give in quick. Then there are the select few that try to make a break for it.
This is one of those times, and Raph's right on the frontline of it.
Big. Loud. Unstoppable.
Exactly how he likes it.
“C’mon!” he laughs, ducking a swing and slamming his fist into the ground hard enough to rattle the entire floor. “You’re gonna have to hit harder than that!”
Intimidate. Scare them, tie them up, and tip off the cops. That's the goal. he turtles don't harm if they can avoid it, and Raph's not above using his size.
Leo flips overhead, slicing clean through a dangling cable. “He says that now, but if you bruise his face he’s gonna cry about it later.”
“Raph does not cry about bruises! They're badges!”
Leo cackles overhead, stopping to hang off a hanging beam. He makes goo-goo eyes paired with mockingly exaggerated kissy face at his brother.
“I’d lie to myself like that too if someone was there to bandage me up every time —”
“Focus, geniuses!” Donnie snaps from the side, staff whirring as he deflects a blast. “Preferably before we all die in a very avoidable, very embarrassing fashion.”
Mikey cartwheels past, nunchucks spinning. “I dunno, I think we’re doing great! Ten outta ten teamwork, guys!”
The thief—some armored brute with more attitude than skill—stumbles back, clearly trying to reassess the situation. His small team was already knocked out on the side from shock. Raph isn't sure what he's aiming for by running off on his own - only scum leaves their team behind.
He doesn't care to understand though, puffing his chest as Mikey goes to cover the opposite exit. They thief's shocked, just a runner. Maybe 45 minutes this time.
The thug goes through stages of thought while eyeing the four brothers: fear, fear, fear -
Then his gaze lands on Raph.
And he does a double take.
The standoff hiccups for half a second.
“…Wow,” the guy says flatly, a bit breathless.
Raph blinks. “What?"
The villain points. Not at his size. Not at his weapons. Face. Color. The usuals.
At his plastron.
“…It is really hard to take you seriously,” the guy continues, squinting, “when you are covered in pink hearts.”
A beat passes. Raph's staged bravado dials back as he forgets himself.
Leo snorts. Loud. Raph hears a crash from behind, his brother fallen from his perch to wheeze on the ground.
“Oww — Raph, man, he’s kinda got you there.”
Mikey gasps, sparkles in his eyes “Wait, did you notice the flowers too? There’s flowers! I helped with the flowers!”
Donnie doesn’t even look up from his tech-gauntlet, amidst tipping off the police. It's become apparent that the usual facade has been long abandoned. “Statistically speaking, Raphala? Intimidation factor here has dropped approximately—oh, let’s say, seventy percent.”
Raph looks down at himself, and sees nothing wrong.
Across the front of his plastron are uneven rainbow hearts, some filled in, some not. Polka dots scattered between them. A couple of tiny doodled flowers tucked near the edges and your initials right over where his heart would be.
He tilts his head.
Then looks back up.
“…Oh,” he says, completely unbothered. He turns excited. “You like ’em?”
The thug gapes openly, likely questioning all his life choices. “Like—no. No, I—why would you—why do you have those?”
Raph grins.
Not sheepish.
Not embarrassed.
Just pure, unrestrained pride.
“Raph got ’em today,” he says, tapping one of the hearts with a thick finger. “Custom work!”
The villain gestures wildly. “Aren't yous' some kinda freak vigalante? Who'da touch you - how's that even help your gig?”
“Help?" The wrinkles on Raph's forehead make their scrunchy debut, " Raph doesn't need any help when he's got all these.” He replies easily, puffing his chest out to show all he is. His biceps flex for good measure with a bench press of 250 pounds behind their showmanship.
“You look like a cheap Valentine’s card!” The brute spits.
Mikey pops up beside him. “A very handsome Valentine’s card.”
“Thank you, Mikey.”
“I did the dots too!” Orange giggled. In the faint distance, sirens began their steady approach.
The villain pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is ridiculous. Yous' and your kiddie paintings are just wasting my time! I'm gettin' out of here, because one more minute looking at ya and my retinas are gonna burn off."
Raph’s bravado doesn't drop, but there's a shift in pressure. His muscles on display aren't just for show but if this guy doesn't want to believe it? Well...
“Hey,” he says, tone still light—but not necessarily chatty anymore. “Careful what you say next.”
The villain scoffs. “What, you gonna hit me with love and affection? Did I hurt your little feelings, turtle man?”
Leo winces, followed by a low whistle. “Ohhh, buddy. You picked the wrong thing to make fun of.”
Donnie finally looks up from his gauntlet. “I would highly advise surrendering.”
“The hell?!” the crook snaps. “Because I insulted his arts and crafts project?”
Raph cracks his knuckles, their loud crunch like pop rockets.
“Nah,” he denies, tittering with a restrained laugh. “Ya see, Raph was gonna go easy on ya.”
He rolls his shoulders, stepping forward just enough to block out the flickering overhead light—big, solid, impossible to ignore.
Then he smirks again, snaggle-tooth cutting past his lip. A brazen sight that morphs his grin from a cute quirk, to an alarming edge.
“But now I’m not feelin’ it.”
Michalena
Mikey is the absolute best canvas because he treats every new doodle personal graffiti. He's accustomed to using a canvas, but now he gets to BE the canvas.
His entire body ends up covered in tiny cartoons, goofy reminders, fake warnings, and messages left behind. He never remembers what half of them mean and often forgets to wash them off, so you can write “HONK IF YOU LOVE MICHAEL” on him and then spend the whole day laughing.
It's a personal show as Leo carries one of those squeaky plastic chickens and honks every time Mike pops out of his room just to watch him flail. Donnie is next with an airhorn soundboard on his tech-gauntlet. Raph joins with vocals. April, Splinter, and yourself have a money pool going on how long it'll take for Mikey to break.
News Flash: Five days. Followed by a gentle intervention in regards to how he needs to wash his shell more. After collecting your bank, of course.
He claims 20% as tax. Good joke, he's down, but you're paying for pizza the next day because he lowkey almost spiraled. Any toy that squeaks or honks has been banished from the lair.
Mikey is facedown on the couch like a fallen soldier. Ninja down! Ninja down.
One arm dangles off the side. The other is dramatically draped across his forehead, as if shielding himself from further emotional harm. His voice echoes, muffled and long-suffering.
“I’m not saying I’ve changed as a person,” he groans, “but I have seen things. I have experienced a level of psychological warfare that no turtle—no, no living being—should ever endure.”
From a spot pretzeled on the floor, you don’t bother looking up.
“That’s crazy,” you say, calmly stacking another bill on your pile.
Across from you, April snorts, tossing in her debt. “Five days, though? I thought you’d crack by day three.”
“I trusted you,” Mikey whispers to the heavens. “All of you. This was a betrayal of the highest order.”
Looming over the couch backrest, Raph is still shaking with silent laughter. “Man, you shoulda seen your face every time Leo honked that squeaker—”
“DO NOT EVER,” Mikey snaps, suddenly sitting up, “bring up the honking.”
Like summoned by the memory alone, Leo leans halfway out of the hallway, holding up the now-confiscated squeaky chicken with a grin.
“Honk?”
“LEONARDO—”
“Okay, okay!” Leo disappears again in a blink, laughing manically. Coughing echoes from the kitchens followed shortly by a garbled hack.
He'll live. Maybe.
Mikey slowly turns back to you, eyes wide and haunted. “Five days,” he repeats. “Five days of living in fear. Every corner a trap. Every sound a threat. I couldn’t even stretch without someone making a noise at me.”
Donnie, without looking up from his tablet, adds, “For accuracy, it was not every stretch. Only when your shell was exposed.”
“My shell is always exposed, Donnie!”
You hum, counting the last of the money before tapping the stack into a neat pile.
“Okay,” you say. “Final tally.”
Mikey watches you like a hawk now, instantly zeroing in. “Is that—wait, is that mine? That better be mine. I suffered.”
“You participated.”
“I was made a fool.”
April points at his shell, still decorated with graffiti albeit smeared. “You did walk around for five days with ‘HONK IF YOU LOVE MICHAEL’ written in giant letters.”
“I thought it was a positive affirmation!” He turns to you with the look of a kicked puppy, "You said it was a good luck charm!"
“It was,” Leo calls from the other room, sauntering in with a glass of water and his dignity on a thread. “We just loved you a lot this week, Hermano. Relaaaax.”
Mikey makes a strangled noise. Leo wasn't lying, but the love was laid on thick. Motivated by what makes the world go round. That sweet, sweet dinero. The Big Green. Dolla Dolla.
You finally glance up at him, biting back a smile, and pick off a portion of your winnings before holding the stack out.
He squints at it. Suspicious. “What’s this?”
“Compensation.”
“…For my trauma?”
“For your silence on the matter.”
Mikey gasps, offended, but he takes the money immediately, clutching it to his chest. “You cannot buy my forgiveness.”
A beat. He sniffs, and you have won.
“…This is a good start, though.”
You roll your eyes, but your hand comes up to gently tap one of the fading doodles on his arm—a little crooked star you’d drawn days ago. Specifically an evil little Luma from Super Mario.
“Anything else, your highness?”
Mikey sits up straighter, considering.
Then he points at you with gusto and does his best princely voice
“I sentence you to provide unlimited pizza!” he declares. The jury has spoken their verdict. Everyone else in a twelve foot radius perks at the idea of free dinner.
There goes your winnings.
“Alright, my liege." you sigh, raising your palms "nothing crazy though."
“And—” he leans forward off his seat and into your face, narrowing his eyes with exaggerated seriousness, “—you are legally obligated to smother me with affection for the next week.”
“That feels like an unethical demand.”
“It is recompense!" he insists. “You made me like this. This is your doing. I require emotional reparations.”
You snicker, reaching out to grab Mikey by the wrist and tug him closer. As if he had to ask for that.
“Fine,” you sigh the word out. “Pizza and my uncapped affection, but you’re washing your shell tonight before any further contact.”
Mikey immediately clings to you like a koala, completely abandoning all prior dignity. “Done. Agreed. Signed. Sealed. I am healed, baby!.”
2012!
Leo
Leo takes notes on him very seriously, like you have entrusted him with important command information. He sees the simple act as a sign of trust and domesticity. Be it a note, doodle, reminder, assurance, etc. Whatever it is, he likes the process more than he feels he is allowed.
He prefers clean, organized writing on his forearm or bicep: patrol routes, supply lists, training times, and little reminders from you to not overwork himself. He acts stern about it, but if you ever write something affectionate in the margins, he caves like a starving man just handed prime rib (or pizza gyoza, in this case).
Considering he is the one calling the shots most of the time, there is little room for silliness or small hopes to slither about in the mess that is his thought process. Which is exactly why the small 'Come back safely,' written underneath the access code to the team's next infiltration site is so important to him. A grounding moment, perhaps tailed with a brief laugh at the words 'ask April to buy milk too' smudged below.
He does get a tad miffed if you write anywhere he can't catch - like his shell. If he sleeps on his stomach and you draw a sea of stars on there with Krognar going to town on a hoagie? Well, he's going to find out in one of three ways.
Sensei will point it out (Amused, probably as a riddle. Depends on if he wants to extend a bit of mercy that day), one brother will be unable to resist cracking a joke, or both. It is almost always both. Splinter does love a good show.
Which is exactly why you take the chance whenever you are able, because those training sessions are the ones Leo sleeps best after. You'd know, because why else would he keep making the same 'mistake' of letting you near?
Leonardo woke to the soft, unwelcome reality the Space Heroes introductory song stuck on loop accompanied by a dry mouth and a crick in his neck.
For one disorienting second, he did not remember where he was.
Then he shifted, felt the blanket still pulled neatly over your sleeping form beside him, and the memory returned all at once: late evening in the conversation pit, a proposed Space Heroes marathon, the way you had swindled him in with the promise of takeout from Murakami's, the way he had meant to leave after one episode and then somehow stayed for all of them. One blanket had become two, then one again when you had curled over him in your sleep, and at some point Leonardo stopped pretending he was only there to put your mind at ease. Not when he can't remember falling asleep...or the last time he slept undisturbed.
Although there was a weight grounding him, so to speak.
He pushed himself up with a faint grunt, careful not to disturb you. You were still out cold, one arm tucked beneath your chin, face relaxed in a way that made his chest feel oddly, stupidly warm. He rolls the abandoned blanket into a pillow and slowly slips out from underneath you. He notes tattoos on your cheek left behind from his plastron, and practices discipline by not smoothing their pattern with his finger.
The room was quiet except for the low hum of the lair and the distant murmur of his father already awake somewhere nearby. Leonardo gathered the blanket higher over you without thinking, tucking it more securely around your shoulders. The motion was automatic, practiced in the way only things done often and sincerely could be.
Only when the tv shuts off, does Leonardo realize how late he's slept. There is no time for his usual morning routine. His feet rush to the dojo, and there Splinter waits for their pre-training morning meditation.
“Leonardo.”
Splinter’s voice came from under the grand tree, calm as ever.
When he entered, Splinter was already seated, hands folded, face serene in that way that suggested he had known something was coming before Leonrdo himself had. It spurred guilt in his son, even if Leonardo doesn't sense any scrutiny. Which is odd, considering his father's respect for holding oneself with strict discipline.
Leonardo kneeled in the doorway, "Hai, Sensei."
Splinter’s eyes opened halfway.
“Ah,” he said, voice smooth with amusement. “My son has chosen to join the morning practice. Enter.”
Leonardo straightened immediately, on his feet to his father's side. “Apologies, Sensei. I overslept.”
Leo narrowed his eyes slightly. That tone was one reserved for lessons he usually only understood after his father's advice wasn't needed anymore.
Leonardo straightens slightly, folding his hands into his lap. “I will ensure it does not happen again.”
Splinter’s eyes are already closed, posture perfectly composed.
“I wonder,” he says mildly, “if that would be such a tragedy.”
Leonardo blinks.
“…Sensei?”
No response. Just the faintest curve to Splinter’s mouth before he falls into an eased position to begin meditating.
They begin.
Breathing in. Out. Centering.
Leonardo does what he always does—pushes everything aside. Focuses on the rhythm, on the stillness, on the quiet discipline he’s built for himself over years.
And yet he does not fall into calm. There’s something off in the space he dwells in, and so his eyes open. When he spares a glance to his right, Splinter is already looking at him.
"Apologies, Sensei. I feel unbalanced for some reason." Leo blurts, having disturbed not just his own focus.
Splinter dismisses the concern, his lip twitches upwards and Leonardo can't help but feel like there's a piece he is missing.
“Not every session is meant to provide insight. You seem…" Splinter chooses his words slowly, "Lighter this morning.”
Leonardo’s eyes widen, just a fraction. He is unsure if that was a compliment or a hint to something he'll regret not realizing in training later.
“Uh..I don't feel any different?” His voice pitches, unsure.
Another pause.
“Perhaps,” Splinter continues, laughing minutely under his breath, “it is simply a good day. Yame, we will end here for today. Go brush your teeth in the kitchen before training. We do not need another of you following Michelangelo's hygienic routine."
Leonardo flushes and his shoulders climb up as he ducks to horridly check his breath. With Splinter's permission, he rushes to rinse his mouth out while his brothers fight over the bathroom.
He misses how Splinter’s eyes crinkle with a rare mischief behind the shogi doors.
—
Training starts not long after.
Leo just barely resettled himself when his brothers file in one by one, all of them looking just a touch too pleased with themselves for a simple morning session.
Raph cracks his neck first. Donnie adjusts his wrist wraps. Mikey is practically vibrating with contained energy, which is never a good sign considering he is at his worst during the mornings. Leonardo wonders what put them in such a good mood.
His gaze moves over them once, sharp and assessing, and the moment he catches the strange, shared flicker of amusement between all three of them, his posture stiffens on alert..
His eyes narrow. “What.”
Raph folds his arms, biting first. “What, what? Can't a turtle enjoy the morning sewer air?”
Leo looks to Donnie. Donnie, with deeply insulting calm, looks away. His eyes dart to the left, and sets suspicion further.
Then Leo looks at Mikey.
His youngest brother immediately fails to hold himself in line. As expected.
Mikey chokes, shoulders jerking once, and has to turn away fast enough that it almost looks like a coughing fit. A second later he drops to his hands and knees, laughing so hard he can barely breathe.
"Oh come on! Will someone just tell me what's so funny already?!"
The silence that follows is somehow worse.
Raph’s mouth twitches. Donnie presses a hand to his face. Even Splinter’s ears tilt down the tiniest bit.
Leo slowly turns to his father. “Sensei.”
Splinter’s expression remains serene, although he spares a moment to cough in his fist. "Enough chatting. Let us begin for the day.”
That single command should have been enough to reset the room to focus.
It does not.
Leo’s suspicion deepens, now hitting rock bottom. This morning could not be any more disorienting from the usual routine.
Still, he says nothing as they go through warm ups and katas.
Not until they pair off for sparring. Donatello with Raph. Leonardo with Mikey. He settles into form across his brother, swords drawn and assessment nudging his instincts to the slightest misstep.
Leonardo cannot recall the last time Mikey waivered during practice this much. When his brother's snout twitches, his cheeks grinning from ear to ear as he twirls his nunchucks, Leonardo wonders if it is a ploy. That Mikey perhaps trained alone, and is trying to place doubt so his opponent will lower his guard.
For a moment, Leonardo feels pride that his normally listless brother is exploring different methods in their shared art.
Only until Splinter draws in a quiet breath and lifts one hand.
“Ha—”
Mikey loses it all. Again.
He folds completely, one hand slapped over his mouth, the other braced on the floor as laughter bursts out of him and he crumples like paper. It is the sort of laugh that comes from the chest and refuses to be contained, bright and helpless and entirely too loud for the dojo.
"I can't fight him like this, Sensei! It's too cruel!"
Raph loses it next, a rough bark of a laugh that he tries and fails to smother behind a fist.
Donnie makes a valiant effort.
Fails by a mile.
Leo stands perfectly still in the center of the room while all three of his brothers dissolve around him, and something cold and suspicious sinks in his stomach.
He turns slowly toward Splinter.
His father, to his absolute horror, is smiling.
Splinter reaches one hand back toward the small shrine at the edge of the dojo, where the framed family photographs sit in their careful little row. He takes an ornate hand mirror from the display and, without a single word, offers it to Leonardo.
The gesture is gentle.
The timing is not.
Leonardo takes the mirror with the precise stiffness of someone accepting a bomb.
For one terrible, silent second, all he can do is mourn the loss of whatever respect his team had for him.
Because your handiwork is everywhere.
Across his cheeks are exaggerated blush lines, neat and unmistakable.
Over his mask are thick, dramatic eyebrows drawn in with extra care to move with his forehead wrinkles
And across his mouth is an exaggerated, ridiculous smile. Ear to ear.
The kind that makes him look less like a proper leader and more like a host in one of those cheesy kiddy arcades with the animatronics. Smile too big to be anything but desperate for freedom.
“Sensei,” he says, voice perfectly even in the way that means he is one sharp edge away from breaking, “may I be excused for a moment?”
Splinter accepts the mirror and inclines his head towards the main shogi doors. “Of course.”
That is all it takes.
The sliding door to the dojo slams open hard enough to echo through the lair, and Leonardo's voice carries after it with an unmistakable target on his tongue.
“Y/N!”
The sound of his sprint fades down the hall, Splinter replaces the mirror in its place with quiet dignity, then folds his hands into his sleeves and looks after his eldest son with serene approval.
“…Yes,” he sighs fondly, as if to no one in particular. “Much lighter indeed.”
DeeDee
Donnie is more likely to use your notes like an actual planner, except the things you write on him matter because he will absolutely forget to take care of himself while working. He likes having formulas on his wrist and reminder notes on his palm, especially if they are written in your handwriting, because it feels strangely grounding during long nights in the lab.
This here is a terrapin of sentiment. The first time you used him as a notepad was like Armageddon in his mind. Every joint lockes in place as if the mere twitch of his finger would deter you. Be it a little note or just a smiley face, Donnie has it pictured and tucked away for safe keeping.
Secretly, he wants to return the favor. Although he isn't brave enough to reciprocate. The action isn't inherently bold. Mikey draws on both himself and everyone else to an annoying extent. Yet Don worries too much, and marking you in any way feels taboo.
The closest he came was a small dot on your hand. He chickened out at the last second and made the attempt out as reaching for a nearby paper. Nevermind that it was YOUR paper. He fumbles horribly. Don't correct him or he'll just combust on the spot.
Donnie trusted you with his computer the way a dragon might trust someone with its most precious coin from its hoard: reluctant, cautious, and only after several months of explaining the ins and outs of his meticulously arranged files.
Nonetheless, he did eventually trust you. Which meant the world, because knowing the code to his CPU was like having access to the trenches of his mind. Although you were almost certain he religiously wiped the internet history on this thing. Apparently Mikey could not be trusted.
“The file you need should be in the recovered evidence folder,” Donatello said, not looking up from where he was hunched over a dismantled half-open Kraang bot on the workbench. “If the security code is embedded in the metadata, I should have it extracted in—”
He paused long enough to adjust a tiny wire with the tip of his tool, his tongue sticking out between his teeth in focus. Adorable.
“—an estimated seven minutes. Use the dencryptor I showed you last week and let me know what numbers are highlighted in red."
You type in his password and get ready to sift through. Apparently the last mission was a major score, and the guys might've cracked the code to locating any hidden kraang bases. With the file and the droid he was disassembling, it could save days of tracking.
You, for one, were excited to sift through boring data for once.
You gave him a look from your seat at the monitor station. “An estimated seven minutes, or seven 'Donnie' minutes?”
After all, he loved using 'estimation' as an excuse for all the nights a 'quick tinker' turned into six hours and callused fingers.
“You're pushing me.” That earned you the briefest huff through his nose, not without a font lit to his cheeks, "but seven actual minutes. The computer operates on finite unit rather than my personal agenda."
You snicker, he limply points his screwdriver at you in warning, and that's when you salute the great Dee for his service. The great terminal hums to life as you get to work.
The home screen soon became cluttered in the usual way: schematics, folders, half-open diagnostic windows, and a long scroll of notes so technical it almost looked like another language. It was, to be fair, although you're still unsure what the official tongue of Kraang was called. Krangese?
Donnie, always three steps ahead, left the information you needed in a folder marked with capital letters, and for a while you did exactly what you were supposed to do.
You searched.
You filtered.
You opened the evidence documents and skimmed them for the security code he wanted. Pulled and placed ones you suspected might be of use into the decryption module.
An hour passed and you began to feel the boredom check in. Donatello lied. Seven minutes per scan may be accurate, but when you're working through dozens of documents it doesn't count.
Almost by accident, your cursor drifted to the internet browser icon tucked away in the corner. Definitely not aiming to put a podcast on or sneak a few funny cat videos while Donnie is in the zone.
Yet rather than double click, you hesitated to goof off when Donnie ws so excited about this possible breakthrough.
That brief moment caused the curser to highlight the "browser" name.
"clickformotivation"
You stared at it for a second, because you were certain not a single browser in existence had that name.
Then, because curiosity was one of the very few impulses stronger than common sense, you clicked.
Rather than the internet hub you were used to, it opened a file. A secret file, you realized to late. One Donnie disguised to look like a browser tab.
Cheeky. Classic Dee.
And suddenly the screen filled with images.
Photographs, scanned and saved in a neat little archive, of all the things you've drawn on Donnie over the years. What started as a way to keep contact became a habit, one you weren't aware he paid too much attention to until this moment.
Your handwriting on his wrist in black marker: Murakami's. 9:00. Don't be late, dummy. (affectionate ^_^)
A tiny doodle on his forearm, half hidden under his wrappings of a crooked turtle with a thermometer in its mouth. You give a laugh, remembering when the whole lair was targeted by some pollen-shedding mutant. Stupid bees.
Some physics equation written across the back of his hand in blue ink, your notes crowding the margin with questions. You had no idea what they meant. Just that your physics professor was an asshole, and you needed Donnie to help arrange study materials.
A reminder on forearm - "EAT ME COOKIES. BRAIN FOOD YUMMY" with a poor depiction of Sesame Street's Cookie Monster next to it, the words crooked because Donnie had probably been moving while you wrote it.
You see they're organized by date, but can be filtered by viewing date. You click the file with the most views, your heart pounding.
'I love you, Dee <3' - Written along the inner side of his third finger. In the photo, he has his middle and third pressed in a circle so they can be seen clearly.
Some were blurry. Some were taken at odd angles, you can only imagine how he got the ones on his shell. Some looked like they had been snapped in a hurry.
There was a lot of evidence to be sorted through. Just not the kind you expected. Donatello doesn't realize it but you're more than happy with this breakthrough today. Not that the kraang bases weren't important.
You clicked through the folder slowly, time doesn't matter anymore.
A doodle of bubbles on his wrist.
A tiny “good job! victory!” tucked beside a bandage on his calf. You remember that one, he still had the scar, and apparently your attempt at comfort too.
You're lost in the sentiment. No mater how far you scroll, the collection keeps going. It really makes you realize just how many years you've spent alongside the Hamatos. So many little moments you've overlooked, yet the smartest of you all held with care. It wouldn't surprise you if he had backups. Neither if he had backups OF the backups.
Then, from behind you, Donnie’s voice pierces straight through the wave of affection that you have no clue how to handle.
“Have you found it yet?
You froze, the reality that you're snooping is present and the consequence nigh. Computer privileges may be lost permanently for breeching his privacy.
Click. Click off! At least answer him, you idiot!
"Hey, do you need a break? I can ask Leo to order..."
A heartbeat later, Donatello's chair scraped backwards. You hear his breath catch, that familiar garbled squeak pulled from the back of his throat.
Then his footsteps, quick and hurried until something tugs the back of your chair. Not in a dramatic swivel, but you feel the slight tug and weight.
He came into view in your peripheral, goggles pushed up on his forehead, hands still faintly grease-smudged from the bot he’d been working on.
Donatello took one look at the screen, and then every single system in his body seemed to seize up at once. Then crash.
“Oh - Oh no.”
It was barely a whisper, more like a whimper? Donnie's Adam's apple moved as he swallowed, and you felt guilty for walking in on something he clearly cherished. Even if it's the sweetest thing a guy has ever done, and you felt nothing short of cherished.
However you appear to Donatello in this moment, it only serves to flush him further.
The same Donnie who could improvise on the fly under pressure. The same Donnie who could outthink any machine, turn a wooden staff into a weapon with his mind, and out-sass almost anyone in the lair if he needed to.
Gone.
In his place was a turtle going through all stages of grief. Which was unnecessary.
“I can explain,” he blurted out, sweaty and shaken.
You glanced back at the screen, keeping your voice as kind as you can. “You really saved these?”
He made a small, helpless motion with one hand, like he was trying to physically catch the words before they got any louder. “It was not— I mean, I did not mean to make it weird. I'll delete them if you want, I swear! Please don't think I'm a creep or leave or anything. Please.”
“Weird?” you repeated, and now you were smiling from cheek to cheek, "A secret folder dedicated to my doodles, disguised as a web browser? I'm impressed, Dee."
His eyes widened a fraction.
“That folder name was — I was using it as a reminder. For morale. It is not—” He exhaled sharply through his nose and runs a palm down his face. “It is not what it looks like. I swear.”
It looked exactly like what it was.
"Really? Because it looks like you love me a whole lot, or at least these little drawings. So I hope I'm right and you're wrong, at least this time."
A hidden archive of every little mark you had left on him.
Every reminder. Every doodle. Every note.
Saved. Kept. Catalogued with more care than he would ever admit out loud. You were so sure Donatello disliked them. At least the hidden ones he couldn't find right away, or with more suggestive writings he could be teased about. Yet even those were catalogued.
You turned the chair fully to face him, knees tucked between his legs as you kick your feet like a giggly schoolgirl, and watched as your words compute. If Donatello could retreat into his shell right now, you're certain he would. Yet he knows you would merely peer inside, and wait for him to come out.
“Donnie.”
He flinched at the softness in your voice.
“It was not meant for anyone to see,” he muttered, but no longer panicked. “I thought it would be useful to keep a record of...of you."
Then he seemed to realize what he had just admitted, because his whole face seemed to tighten all over again.
"Not that you're something I have a right to record or anything! It's jst that some days I find my spark gone and when I think of you, it comes back. There is no better motivation for me when I need to try harder."
Your impish lit disappears as you melt into his chair, like a puddle of sweetened sherbert just moments away from joining icecream kitty in his freezer abode. What did you do to deserve him?
“And,” he added, meek as can be, “I did not think you would mind. H-hoped you would not mind.”
There it was. The true worry. The one that suggests you might think this is too sentimental or him too much. An insecurity you've reassured over and over, that you would continue to correct.
You collected yourself from the puddle with effort, and when you reached for his hand, he looked briefly like he might combust on contact alone.
“Donnie,” you said gently, “I don't mind. In fact, I've never felt more loved or appreciated in my entire life."
He made a sound that was somewhere between a protest and a surrender.
You opened the folder again, just to prove your point, and set the filter to put the oldest at the very top. You made sure to ignore his weak protest, and not let go of his hand.
The first dates all the way back to the very beginning. When you were just a teen in need of a piece of paper to write a meetup time for Mikey's improvised krognar marathon, and Donnie was a convenient alternative. Before you even had a T-phone of your own. When the world sparkled a little less, and purple was only close to your heart for being the shade of your favorite tunic.
You laughed under your breath, utterly smitten. “I can't believe you've kept all of these."
Donatello tapped his index fingers together in a nervous tick, sheepish and perfectly himself. “I was not aware there was a limit.”
Raph.
Raph will absolutely pretend to complain about anything written on him, especially affectionate things, but he keeps every single note as long as he can. The pretending is only in front of his brothers and friends. If you’re there? He won’t encourage you but he also won’t say anything snide on the matter.
That is…until he hears the snickering. Totally not whipped 2.0. This one is like a chestnut. He isn’t soft on the inside, but he is perfectly toasted. The others are in for a knuckle sandwich if they keep it up, but the moment you look at him? He’s whistling all nonchalant.
He likes reminders that someone is on his side, even if the reminder is written in glitter marker and disguised as a joke. Like the eldest, he feels wrong for indulging in something that makes him feel so normal.
Side note: You use sharpie marker for the sole purpose of pissing him off. Don’t think for a second that he won’t screech bloody murder from across the lair after getting a good look at your paint job in the mirror. Best get your ass over those turnstiles and maybe make a meat shield out of Casey.
By the time the sun drops behind the trees, Raphael already regrets coming on this pilgrimage.
Not enough to say it out loud, obviously. He’s got a reputation to maintain, and his brothers are all trying too hard to act like this “training” is some kind of sacred rite instead of what it really is: sleeping on the ground, eating whatever passes for dinner, and pretending the city isn’t still out there needing them. That they have hope.
Raphael shifts where he sits by the fire, arms crossed, jaw tight. His eyelids clenched tight in an attempt to meditate. Which was desperate, even for him.
The woods are too quiet and too loud. He and his brothers have become too soft, sitting on their shells with no direction. It's beyond frustrating.
He hates the way every branch snap sounds too far away, the way the wind through the trees doesn’t cover the thoughts in his head the same way city does. No traffic. No shouting. No familiar noise from the lair or the bustling streets or you - hell. He missed you.
Soft. He's too soft.
It’s only been a few hours and he already wants to go back.
Not because he’s weak. Not because he can’t handle training. His stomach can go on empty so long as he has a goal and something to channel his nerves towards.
No. It's because everything important is there — back in the city, back at the farmhouse, back with the people the turtle quartet has left behind to find themselves.
But they’re out here for a reason.
To get stronger.
To save New York.
So Raph grits his teeth and tries to channel the bit of direction they seemed to dig from under their nails and three months of loss.
Leonardo discusses watch rotations while Donatello sets to make a fire. Mikey whines about wanting to roast marshmallows and sleep in his fluffy bed back at the house, but no one tells him to shut up. His ramblings, normally annoying, are a reminder of good thoughts. Which Raph thinks are pointless but his little brother needs some kind of optimism.
Optimism.
Raph tunes out, his eyes slit open to eye his guarded arms folded over his chest. The chill hits harsher when he loosens up, brushes his scales as he unwraps the guard covering his right wrist.
To the ink still written there in your careful hand—
家族
Family.
The memory of you is fresh and sharp in his mind. Your fingers catching his arm before the brothers departed, marker uncapped, refusing to explain what you were doing until the last stroke was finished. Pressing the inside of his wrist toward him and telling him quietly, So you don’t forget who’s waiting for you to come home.
Raphael had no idea when you learned this word, or how. Last he checked, you only knew the phrases Leo uttered during sparring like the cocky show off he was back then. Raph missed a lot during that time, it seems. Not just about his brother, but you too.
Raph wondered if you learned for him. If you would tell him more. What else you've hidden. There wasn't time to ask.
At that moment, he rolled his eyes and told you he wasn’t going to forget something that obvious.
Now, alone in the dark with the woods pressing in around them, he stares at that single word like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored.
And when training starts again at sunrise, Raph is the first one on his feet.
Because if this is what it takes to protect the people waiting for him?
Then he’ll give everything he has.
Then more.
Because that’s what family deserves.
Mikey
Mikey is a disaster in the best possible way, so writing on him becomes a running joke, a game, and eventually a whole communication system. His shell gets covered in doodles, warning labels, fake membership badges, nicknames, and absurd little declarations like 'House Gremlin: do not feed after midnight' or 'kewl guy right here'.
In turn, your arms and legs are positively covered in sleeve tattoos made of glitter, ink, and whatever questionable sauce he found in the fridge earlier. Don’t ask.
He’s super ticklish, so the moment the pen hits he can’t sit still. Although the sunshine practically cascades in waves whenever you sit next to him and just tug his arm in your lap to start messing around.
Finger puppets? Finger puppets. One day the power went out, and you both staged a Telanova while Donnie got to work on the generator. Best hour ever, even if no one else will ever admit it.
Out of all the little things…his favorite is when you connect his freckles like constellations. It takes him right to the stars with all his favorite heroes, and you have to get close when doing the ones on his face. The best constellation are the small hearts strung together on his cheeks, because yours are right there and the perfect shade to draw one to match.
Mikey practically vibrates with excitement the second he barrels into his room with the box held over his head like he’s won a prize. Every molecule that composes this turtle spazzing out all at the same tie.
“Check it out!" he announces, breathless and grinning, “you are so not ready for this! I gotta whopper right here, m'dude.”
What a rare day for Mikey to use that word for anything but a burger request. Which in it self was a rarity as well, considering there was only one thing on his mind when takeout was on the table.
You look up from where you’re lounging on the floor amid a pile of comics and half-finished ramen. “That depends. Did Donnie actually find you something cool for once at the dump?”
Mikey gasps, scandalized on his brother's behalf. “First of all, rude. Second of all, yesssss.”
He plops down beside you with no restraint, the now shared beanbag bouncing you airborne for a brief second, and tears open the box with glee.
Inside is a set of paints, still wrapped, brightly colored and untouched.
He stares at them starry eyed. The look he reserves for cute animal videos, orange soda, and - on occasion - you.
“…Those are new?” you can't help but smile, his happiness is infectious.
“I KNOW, RIGHT? ” He shakes the packaging like he's mined gold. For Mikey? It might just be so. “Who just throws out perfectly good paints?! That’s like, a crime!”
"It's not a crime, but I do agree that it is incredibly wasteful." You hum, taking the box from him. This was a conversation you typically had with Donatello after his foraging. A bit of common ground, as you were a bit nature-forward and did appreciate how he could make brilliant inventions with items that people abandoned.
You turn the box over in your hands, reading the label. "According to this, it's washable paint. The kind kindergartens let kids use to they don't stain their clothes. Probably from some school’s old art supply stash."
You deliver the news a bit dejected, since you were certain Mikey wanted this to work on his paintings on the sewer walls.
"Sorry Angie," you click your tongue, passing it back, "what if I buy --Uh. What is that look for?"
You had turned to find Mikey’s face was barely an inch from your own. His cheeks stretched to their full, eager extent, freckles pulled as he practically tried to crawl in your shirt with how he leaned in.
"Can you please paint my shell? Please. Please please please please pleeeeeeeaaaasssseeee." His voice pitched three octaves on the tail in a while that surely would've had Casey shove a puck in his mouth.
You blink, taken aback. “Your shell?”
“Yes! Like, custom paint it to be pretty? Make it awesome.”
The request is certainly out of nowhere, and yet you're just grateful he isn't bummed about Donnie's 'mondo find' being a dud. A glance at your comic and you realize the story was a bit lackluster to dive back in.
There is no reason not to play along, and you never wore anything you didn't mind getting stained in the lair. Or in the turtles general vicinity, with how Mikey throws those egg bombs.
"Okay. One custom look for your character, coming right up."
You shoulder him lightly so he’ll lie flat, slumped on his plastron against he beanbag while you prep the paints. Mikey shimmies with delight the second the first brushstroke goes down, and you have to warn him more than once to keep the canvas still. Otherwise he will have nothing to flaunt but the equivalent of a bad hair day to his family.
You start with a yellow base, then orange, then red, layering the colors across the curve of his shell until it looks exactly like what it should have been all along.
A pizza.
A giant, ridiculous, beautiful pizza. Michaelangelo's true form.
Mikey cranes his neck as far as he can manage to look back at it. “Oh my gosh," he wheezes, wistful and in love, "Oh my gosh, it’s perfect.”
You add little pepperoni circles. He makes a squeal like he’s about to cry from happiness.
“Now, tell me this doesn’t rule,” you say, drawing some texture on the outer ridges to look like perfectly golden crust.
Once you're finished, he flips off the chair and wiggles around to help the paint dry faster.
“It rules so hard,” he whispers, so serious that you snort a laugh. Then he straighten, pointing at you. “Okay! Your turn.”
“My turn for what?”
His grin turns wicked.
“For art, silly.”
Before you can protest, he snatches the brush and settles it in his hand with the beaming confidence of a true menace. You try to run, but it's useless to try and beat a ninja on a mission. You shriek as he grabs your arm, tugs it to his mercy and starts painting without a single ounce of mercy.
There is no plan. Only Mikey.
He draws stars first, then a crooked moon, then a string of tiny hearts climbing up your arm. When he moves to your other wrist, he adds a turtle shell doodle along with orange and yellow ribbons wrapping you up like a present. Your legs get a ridiculous smiley face on both knees. Then a little pizza slice with sunglasses on your ankle before he starts going crazy and splotching rainbow all over like a wild canvas.
“Michael,” you say, trying not to laugh, “what is all this even supposed to be?”
“A masterpiece,” he declares, and holds his brush like an art prude unveiling their magnum opus.
“It looks like a kindergarten art project got into a fight with a glitter bomb.”
“Exactly. And it was a tie! Happy end.”
He leans closer, tongue peeking out in concentration as he paints a tiny cluster of freckles along your cheekbones. Just like his, but with blush pink. He admires his work after each dot, although you think he's taking his time on purpose. You cannot move, after all. Retribution for scolding him so much.
Mikey tilts his head, looking at you for a long second before drawing a tiny heart on your cheek, then a sloppier one on his own since he did it without a mirror.
He beams at the result like he’s just created the greatest thing in the world.
“There,” he says proudly. “Now we’re both the coolest students in the dojo. "
“Pretty sure we crossed the line from cool about ten minutes ago.” you snicker. In your book, he was the 'coolest' every day. Chilly even. Brrr.
“Yeah,” Mikey says, completely pleased with himself. “But we look awesome.”
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.)
