My personal tmnt fic archive

a 29 year old tmnt fan. I have hopped on and off tumblr for years. but I am back to indulge my need for fluff, angst, smut and more~

[tmntngl]

I know no one cares about this little blog. But anyways~

I think I will let this place be a kind of reblog catalog of fic/drabbles/writing that make me feel either:

Giddy

Sad

Horny 😏

Mostly bayverse at the moment. But can change along the way!

Therefore I will go through and put tags on the reblogs. If I feel really motivated I may create a masterpost of sorts. But that will be later, if ever.

So if you by chance stumble upon this little blog, know it is dedicated to reblogs. So if anything catches your eye you need to check out the original blogger for more 😘

Let's go!

Current taglist:

[tmntngl]

I woke up to find me craving some slow burns. Nothing wrong with prompts and drabbles, always love that! But I got the itch for a deep dive into something... So I realized I could return to a fic I remember.

Now I've read to chapter 10 of Dog Days of Summer. @adebauchedsloth wtf. chapter 9 was, how to put it:

Your writing of Donnie is absolute perfection! His humor, awkwardness and growing feelings are on POINT. I love the chapters of his pow. So much pining, fluff and muchy feelings make me:

I could have been happy with just this. A bit of fluff and pining.

But you have cranked out sooo many chapters for this beast. It just keeps building. I will be back when I can peel my eyes off it again...

[tmntngl]

Finally caught up to the last chapter which is currently 30...................

I am feeling things. Wondrous, sappy, things. This f-ing fic is ruining my life 😭 (in the best ways). It is fluffy, steamy, but oh so deadly. This you? @adebauchedsloth :

This cliffhanger is hurting me! God I need mooore!!

[hotheadedhero]

Reach, Retry, and Requital

AN: Almost a year after its initial publishing date, we finally have a part two omg. Better late than never, ay? XD Now the boys can finally make up for their mistakes

Part 1

Bay Turtles x Reader

Leonardo

Not much time had been wasted after talking to Splinter, springing into forthright action, the weight of those shared words settling into his chest. His father always had a way of cutting through the noise, of seeing the core of the matter with unsettling clarity. Leo knew what he had to do. He had to talk to you, truly talk, not just attempt to ambush you in the kitchen while you grabbed a quick snack, not just exchange polite pleasantries while you pass each other in short, fleeting beats. He needed to carve out a moment, a real moment, where he could lay bare his disarray and, of course, his regret.

Finding you was the first challenge. You were a ghost in the lair these days, flitting from room to room, always busy, always surrounded by others. It was like you were actively avoiding him, which, let's be honest, you were. He had figured that out long ago.

Finally, he finds you in the dojo, assisting Donnie with calibrating some new training equipment. The sight of you, focused and determined, sends a fresh wave of longing crashing over him. Despite the initial urge that had him barrelling in search of your person, he lingers in the doorway, watching you for a moment. The way the low light catches in your hair, how you laugh at something Donnie said. Small things - insignificant things - but they were yours, and he suddenly realised more just how much he missed them.

Donnie notices him first, offering a small, knowing smile before excusing himself with a mumbled, "Gotta check on Mikey's pizza-making experiment.” A lame, half-thought-out excuse, but the deliberateness of it isn’t missed by his brother. “Good luck, you two."

As he migrates from the dojo, Leo moves in just a couple paces. "Hey," he begins, trying to keep his voice casual, but the nervousness is palpable. "Can we talk?"

You stiffen slightly, your hands stilling on the control panel of the automated training dummy you had been working on. In all honesty, you’d like to go back to working on it and keep your mind away from the turtle who is awkwardly approaching you. Being dismissive of what he has to say, of him entirely, may be seen as calloused but the mere sight of him gets your system all up in a tizzy. All it does is remind you of the conversation that put this wedge between you in the first place.

You turn back to the project, a carefully neutral expression on your face. "About what, Leo?" The bluntness stings, and it’s a stark reminder of the distance that has grown between you two.

"About... us. About what happened..." He trails off, unsure how to articulate the jumbled mess of emotions swirling inside him.

You sigh, a sound that holds a strange mixture of weariness and resignation. "I thought we made our positions clear. You're a ninja, you have responsibilities. I understand that, and you made it abundantly clear how you feel about relationships. The last thing I want is to be a distraction."

A poor choice of words on his part. A remark by the very same brother who left, from a much prior altercation, rings in his head. Does he really know so little about feelings? The insensitivity of what comes out of his mouth before he can think about the ramifications? A hand smooths over his face as if trying to wipe away the idiocy and rid himself of his past discretion. This must have been how you felt, your side of the street. He thinks he knows why you’ve been so distant - understands why it had to come to such drastic measures in the first place.

"You already distract me." The words just kind of blurt out, quiet and raw.

And your expression softens, just a fraction, and he clings onto that flicker like some sacred wish. You try to battle the urge, but ultimately, you fall prey to it and crane your head back over to look at him. He’s still some distance away, not daring move until you give him some sign or reason to, and his stance tells you all you need to know. Yet, you can’t ignore the hurt. Your hurt. The hurt you’ve been feeling all this time.

"Leo," you say softly, "I care about you - I do - but I need to protect myself as well. I can't…” You take a heavy breath, reserving the tremble that tries to knock you down. “I can't be someone's second choice, someone's maybe-someday."

He finds that opportunity he had been looking for, steps closer, his gaze locked on yours. "You wouldn't be. Not anymore. I was wrong.” Another foot forward, still tentative in case it’s too close for your comfort. “Give me a chance to prove that I can be more than just a man of responsibility, that I can be the kind of person you deserve."

Silence hangs in the air, thick and heavy, and Leonardo reckons that he could probably wave his katana around and feel some resistance were he to try. He can see the unrest in your eyes, a battle between caution and hope. Each tick of the clock is a deafening reminder of what’s at stake: his atypically loud mind, both of your feelings, a relationship altogether, even just trying to reclaim the old one.

Eventually, you speak, your voice barely a whisper. "I... I don't know. I just don't know."

It’s not a no, but it isn’t a yes either: a small glimmer of hope for the glass-half-full positioned individual, but he can’t say whether he’s on grounds for that junction or not. For now, perhaps he could take it. The middle of the seesaw, going in neither direction, having to wait for an affirmative. Either that or you’re just keeping him suspended in uncertainty before you deliver the final blow. He would probably deserve it.

Just when he thinks it might well and truly be too late to rectify his unjust, you speak again, “I’m not gonna regret this, am I?”

If it wasn’t for the soft curve of your lips pointed up in his direction, he’d be solely focused on the sombre tone of your question. A glimmer of hope. It was there after all. He isn’t completely out of the dog house but it’s a start, as good a start as any.

Matching your smile, he finally closes the gap between the two of you and kneels. “Not as much as I’ve regretted turning you down in the first place.”

Leo will be the first to admit it’s corny but sounding a little cheesy is worth it to hear the light snort it gets out of you. Playfully, you roll your eyes and lazily push him away. If not anything else, he’s just missed being this close to you without you feeling the need to bolt from his presence. It would take time, but he’ll prove to you, and himself, that he’s worthy of another chance. He has a lot of work to do, and he’ll do it. For you.

Raphael

Raph pushes past Casey, not saying another word, just twisting and launching himself into the night, the anger directed squarely at himself. The adrenaline is pumping now as he bulldozes his way towards your apartment, fuelled by a potent cocktail of guilt, self-loathing, and a fierce need to atone. If not for the chance to make something of these feelings, at the very least he needs to apologise for the way he acted.

The trek through the city feels longer than usual. Every shadow seems to mock him, every stray sound amplifies his dread. He vaults over rooftops, his movements driven by a desperate urgency until, finally, he reaches your place. He hesitates atop the building just opposite yours, his hands pressing into the ledge. He suddenly feels unsure of himself. What is he going to say? How can he possibly undo the damage he’s caused? He needs to think about this carefully if he wants to avoid blabbering like an incomprehensible idiot.

Whilst mulling it over, he spots your silhouette inside, cleaning up from dinner, if he has to guess. You’re busy with your idle tasks but he can see the tension radiating off of you in waves. Raph's heart clenches. Tense because of him, no doubt, and if Casey knows that he made you cry, it’s likely his brothers know too. That would explain their assistance in keeping you out of reach. If he can commemorate his family for anything, it’s for protecting you, even if it’s from him as much as that fact burns. You’re a beautiful spirit who gets along with most of anyone, and he had treated you like the very joke he thought you were playing on him. Thick-headed irony. He could berate himself with all the names under the sun, but that isn’t going to get him anywhere. He just needs to take that first step forward. Do something about it.

But despite being no stranger to making amends for his behaviour, this feels different. If he gets in a fight with one of his brothers, they always forgive each other eventually. That’s what families do, it’s part of the description, but this is you. Even if he lays out everything, will you forgive him so easily? Can he forgive himself?

The pacing comes to a halt, and he huffs quietly. It’s just like a bandaid - he needs to rip it off. He doesn’t want it to seem as though he’s ensnaring you in the comfort of your own home, somewhere you can’t escape from, but he also doesn’t know when or where he’ll get an opportunity alone without his brothers forming a protective barrier around you.

Raph jogs on the spot, smacks his face a couple times, does the few things he can think to do to psyche himself up before easing himself onto the fire escape and tapping on your window. The sound almost makes you jump, but you’re quick to open it up for him. He barely has a chance to lousily mumble your name when you hurriedly pull him in. Wrecked nerves and distancing aside, the last thing either of you needs is a neighbouring wanderer spotting a man-sized turtle hanging from your window.

The moment he’s inside, you shoot the blinds down and whip your attention towards him. “Raph, what are you doing here?”

Maybe it’s because you were so quick to pull him in, or the concern where he thought he’d be met with fear, but the breath in his lungs suddenly abandons him. The floor groans beneath his restless feet as he fidgets back and forth, although barely surpassing an inch with each movement. For a cold-blooded creature, he’s almost certain he’s working up a cold sweat, but he’s here now. There’s no point in drawing this out any longer than it has to.

“I came to apologise for what I said. How I acted.” The tense fingers at his sides clench further. “I didn’t know I made you cry, and I’m sorry. You didn’t- don’t deserve that. Not ever.”

This isn’t enough. It’ll likely never be enough at this rate. Each word out of his mouth doesn’t feel sincere, doesn’t make up for or even come close to truly demonstrating how sorry he is. Everything is solely meant but he knows he needs to knock down some more walls before you can see, genuinely see just how much he regrets himself. Your stare hones in on him expectantly, and his head rolls over his shoulders, trying to alleviate the knots in his neck.

"Truth is, I was scared. I thought there was no way you could actually feel that way about me. A freak." He winces at the words, hating how they sound out loud, but he misses the way your brows hood over your eyes, keeping his on the floor.

He takes a deep breath, the sensation barely lukewarm against his chest. Somehow, he feels smaller than you at this moment despite his hulking figure. All you can do is watch him, studying his posture, the lines etched into his face, the way his hands are balled into fists at his sides. Remorse warring with his stubborn pride; unequivocally contrite and vulnerable in a way you’ve rarely seen.

He hates how he dismissed your feelings, how he rejected your attempt at admitting yourself to him, how he ignored the pull of his own heart towards you for the sake of stupid self-preservation. If he had even given himself a glimmer of belief that you could feel some kind of way about him, neither of you would be in this mess. But he’s getting too caught up in the ‘whys’ when he should be focusing on the simple matter that what he did, what he said to you was completely unjustified.

"Look, you don't gotta forgive me. I ain't even expecting you to say nothing. Just know that I'm sorry I yelled and that if I could go back and do it again..."

His lips press shut to save himself from adding to this already sappy display, and it’s no wonder he hasn’t had anything back yet. You’re weighing something up - probably something big. He's just waiting for you to lash out, to fling back the fire he had so unceremoniously bestowed onto you. Befittingly, give him a taste of his own medicine. Instead, he hears your feet shift away from him, the sound strangely loud in the small space, followed by a quiet creak and some shuffling. When he risks a glance in your direction, you’re on your couch, a hand laid out on the neighbouring cushion.

"Here, let me tell you something.” You gesture for him and, warily, he sits beside you, the unsuspecting pillows gasping beneath his weight. “Don’t get me wrong, the yelling was a touch excessive,” you lightly laugh, downcast, “but I wasn't necessarily upset about that. I was upset because you didn't believe me. Raph, why in the world would I ever lie or joke about something like that?"

"You ain't bein' serious," he breathes out, marginally humoured, predominantly pained. "Look at me."

"I'm looking,” you retort quickly. “What's the problem, hm?"

He had a whole set ready, he swears, but the way you look at him instantly shuts him up. Never in all his years did he think that someone so beautiful could gaze upon him with such endearment, such adoration, though you’re mostly creased up with this stern glower. He doesn’t have an answer for you. All he can think to do is latch onto this thread and run with it.

"Does that mean… we can give this a shot then?" he asks quietly.

"On one condition," you barter, and the soft hand to his cheek almost makes him crumble.  "I know that head of yours works in funny ways, but I would never lie to you. Okay? Have faith in my word." 

Raph searches your face for any doubt, any sign that the dumb parts of his brain can possibly pick up to beat himself down again, and when he sees none, he slowly smiles. "I think I can do that."

You grin back only to get all pinched. “And one more thing.” You flick the space between his eyes and he blinks frantically from the sheer audacity alone. “Call yourself a freak again and I’ll have your head.”

He points a glare down at you, but it’s threatless. He can’t fight the tug on his lips with your scrunched face beaming up at him, nor does he want to with this fresh breath, this sense of a new start. There may be some rocky terrain to overcome, but just knowing that you see him for more than what he is on the outside is enough for him.

Donatello

Donatello spent the next several hours poring over Vern's advice, scribbling frantic notes on his datapad. Vern’s "field experience," as Donnie had so generously put it, seemed to revolve largely around retaining a smarmy bravado, casually nonchalant, half-attentive one-liners, pretending to be more confident than he is, and questionable fashion choices. He had suspected that this advice would be a mixed bag of dubious strategies, but there were still some surprisingly insightful points. He sifted through the static, disregarding about 90% of it, isolating the core principles: communication, understanding, and most importantly, acknowledging the other person's feelings. Easier said than done when he wasn't even sure what your feelings were.

The next few days were a blur of nervous energy and thorough planning. He felt like he was deciphering a complex algorithm, one where the variables were emotions and the output was… a date? He still wasn't entirely sure. He needed something subtle. Something that would resonate with you. Something him. He considered presenting you with a meticulously coded program designed to optimise your favourite hobby, but dismissed it as too nerdy, even for him. He then thought about building a miniature robot that would follow you around, showering you with compliments, but that bordered on creepy. None of these ideas seemed to feel right.

He was a disaster. A romantically inept, highly intelligent disaster. The truth is, he’s paralysed with fear of messing this up. He’s a genius when it comes to technology but the book of love is a series of intricate formulas he can’t seem to crack.

Days turned into a week, filled with agonising internal debates and discarded plans. He noticed you even less now, afraid that you'd see the turmoil in his eyes. He'd catch glimpses of you laughing with Mikey, strategising with Leo, or even helping Raph with his sai sharpening; each encounter a painful reminder of his own inaction.

Finally, he decided that the best course of action was to go with his gut. He was a scientist, after all. He'd treat this like an experiment: observe, analyse, and adjust his approach as needed. He started by paying closer attention to your interactions with the others: the way you'd patiently explain things to Mikey, the strategic insights you'd offer Leo, and the way you'd subtly tease Raph to ease his tension. He realised that you valued connection, humour, and intelligence. Armed with this admittedly very basic data, he devised a plan. A low-key, Donnie-esque plan.

One afternoon, you’re sitting at the main table of the kitchen, sketching something in your notebook alone, and he sees his chance. Taking a deep breath, he walks over, clutching a small, metallic object in his hand. His feet shuffle, suddenly forgetting all the carefully crafted lines he'd memorised.

"Hey," he greets, his voice a little higher than usual.

You look up, eyes clumsily shifting around before landing on him again. "Uh, hey, Donnie. Something I can help you with?"

He swallows, watchful of your uneasiness, but presses on nonetheless. "Actually, I wanted to show you something."

He holds out his hand, revealing a small, beautifully crafted origami crane, made entirely from thin wafers of aluminium, circuits and wires. A lot of his craftsmanship typically focuses on practicality and efficiency rather than aesthetic appeal but he knew he had to work on that for this particular occasion. If he were to say so himself, he’s rather proud of the outcome.

"Oh." Not exactly the reaction he was hoping for, and the perturbed cross of your brows only racks his nerves that much more. “You made this?”

He nods, cheeks flushing slightly. Whether it be from bashfulness or embarrassment, he can’t tell. “I was experimenting with conductive materials and, well, I thought you might appreciate it."

Considering how the last couple of months have been, you’re not entirely sure what you should say. A gift? Something that he made for you? He appears to be evasive of the true nature but you’re suspecting that he specifically made this with you in mind. It doesn’t do much to subside your confusion, but you can tell he’s hanging by a thin string for your reaction. Gradually, you take the crane, turning it over in your hands. It is rather pretty. You still can’t quite figure out why he’d do this but he may just threaten to split at the seams if you don’t say something more.

“It’s… beautiful.”

Donnie feels as though he can breathe again, encompassed by this wave of relief. "Thanks," he mumbles, looking down at his feet. "I also wanted to say, it's been weird without you around my corner lately." He rushes the words, tripping over his tongue. "I mean, I miss your visits."

You chuckle softly, sadly. "I miss them too. I just thought you were busy, and maybe... I was making you uncomfortable."

His head shoots up, baffled. "Why would you think that?"

"Well, you know-” You gulp, your positions suddenly shifting. “That time I... I was just rambling, wasn't I? It's fine. I shouldn't have bothered you."

"Bothered me? What are you talking about?" he asks, brows furrowing behind his glasses.

He replays the last conversation in his head, cupping the base of his skull like he’s trying to physically reach for it, stop it from escaping him. The last time you were in his lab, what had happened? It goes over a couple more times until suddenly dropping on him like a ton of bricks; the awkwardness, the slight stutter in your tone, the inelegance in how you held yourself.

He had been completely oblivious.

"Wait, are you saying...? I didn't..." he stammers, face burning with mortification. "I had no idea."

He wants to disappear, to crawl into a hole and never emerge. How could he have been so dense? He completely misinterpreted the situation and, in doing so, has probably ruined everything.

"Donnie," you utter softly, placing a hand on his arm. "It's okay. Really. It was probably my fault for being so vague. Besides," you continue with an upturned lip, "maybe it's good that you didn't get it. Now you have a chance to do this properly."

"Do... do what properly?"

You laugh, a light, airy sound that makes his stomach flip. "Ask me out, silly. If you want to, that is." You bite your lip, the apprehension evident in your eyes.

Donnie's mind races. Vern's advice, the meticulous notes, the carefully calculated plans - it all flies out the window. He had to of accounted for all the outcomes of this conversation he could possibly conceive but he hadn’t anticipated this. That being said, your encouraging smile gives him new strength and he knows that all he needs to do is be himself.

"Yes," he affirms, his voice finally steady. "I would really like that. To... to ask you out. Properly." He pauses, then adds with a shy smile, "Maybe we could analyse the properties of bioluminescent algae? Or just get pizza. Whatever you want."

With a scrunched grin, you giggle. “Both sound good.”

Rest assured, the algae and pizza had soon become forgotten prospects when you find yourself in Donnie’s little corner after so much time, and he may or may not have admitted to seeking advice from the last person you’d suspect to get this ball rolling. It gets a good set of laughs out of you. As far as dates go, it’s a nice way to get back on track and ultimately the first of many more to come.

Michelangelo

With April's blessing - if you could call it that - Mikey felt a lightness he hadn't realised he was missing. It wasn't just the weight of unrequited affection, but the weight of stifled curiosity, of ignoring a pull that had been steadily growing stronger. He still cared deeply for April, but it was a different kind of caring, a comfortable devotion that he now understood as friendship. However, there’s still a surge of tension meddled in with the determined certainty. He bounces on the balls of his feet, his orange mask tails flapping as he bounds to seek you out. He knows that waiting any longer will only amplify his anxiety. He needs to talk to you, explain himself, and, hopefully, salvage what he had so carelessly thrown away.

He starts by looking for you in your usual spots: not in the kitchen, no sign of you in the dojo, and you were definitely not by the TV. He even checks the garage on a whim, thinking you might be tinkering with one of Donatello's inventions. Nope. The only place he could assume you’d be is back home, but that’s a problem for two reasons: it’s daytime, and there’s no guarantee you’d even open the window for him were he to turn up. All he can do is wait until you next bless the lair with your presence, but Mikey hasn’t always been known for his patience. He tries to fill the time with various activities, whether that be fiddling with his drums, attempting to break the pinball machine’s high score again, flicking through various channels on the TV, and so on.

This barely kills an hour.

Suddenly, a thought strikes him and he jumps up from the couch, making a grab for his skateboard. Maybe he could roll between the main entrances in a subtle attempt to “accidentally” bump into you. That way he can guarantee having the space to talk alone. Perfect. He throws his board down and bursts out of the lair, the grimy air surprisingly refreshing. Even if he still has to wait for your arrival, he can at least practise some new moves in the process, though he wouldn’t be practising for long. He’s halfway down the primary sewer line when he spots you, and all of the planned one-liners just disappear.

Even in the dinge of underground New York, you look beautiful, the dust motes dancing in the air and catching the glint of the flashlight in your hand. He takes the leap upon seeing you, quite literally hopping off his board and jogging into the last traces of momentum. In your surprise, you tread a couple of steps back, and he consciously keeps a respectable distance. He remembers how close he used to sit, how easily he’d tease and nudge, and diffuses under the shot of guilt - the hurt in your eyes when he'd previously bumbled around April like a lovesick puppy. How could he have been so blind? So oblivious? He'd been so caught up in a childish crush that he'd completely disregarded the person who truly understood him, who always had his back, who would make him laugh until his sides ached. The person in front of him, now tentatively avoiding his gaze like a stranger. Crap, he was meant to say something. How long has he just been standing here staring at you? Too long, it would seem. Your head tilts with another uncomfortable glance at the floor, and you pivot to walk around him.

"Wait.” He spins on his heel, watches you stop, and it dawns on him just how incredibly awkward this is. "Uh, look, I messed up. Big time. I thought we could just go back to being friends, but I was wrong. I didn't realise how much what I said would hurt you. I was so caught up in- well… never mind. The point is, I hurt you and I'm really, really sorry."

You still make no effort to face him, but you speak, cool and even. "Apology accepted."

It wasn't the response he'd hoped for or even the response he envisioned. He'd expected anger, maybe a lecture, but this detached acceptance feels worse. It highlights the chasm he's created between you both.

"I know an apology isn't enough,” he pushes on. “I get it if you don't want to hang out with me anymore, or play games, or anything, but I miss you. I miss laughing with you and just... being around you." He pauses, gathering his courage. "And I realised something else too: I was so busy looking in one direction, I didn't see what was right in front of me. I didn't see… how amazing you are."

Shoulders hunching, you scoff. "Please, Mikey. Spare me the flattery. It's not going to change anything."

"It's not flattery!" he insists, his voice rising defensively. "I mean it. I really do. This is how I feel.” Mikey’s hand takes a helm on his board and he holds it to his plastron. "Seriously, I was an idiot and I'm hoping, maybe, just maybe, you can find it in your heart to give me another chance. Not as a friend-friend, unless that’s what you want, but as something more."

He holds his tongue from everything else that wants to sputter out, reduced to watching the back of your head and praying for a sign. Aside from the occasional drip or muted whir of cars above, there’s a low, rhythmic thrumming in his ears, growing louder, beating against the inside of his skull mercilessly. He swears his heart must have jumped into his throat. It sits on pause for a short moment when you finally look at him, your eyes searching, and he sees a flicker of something other than indifference: a spark of hope veiled by uncertainty.

"Mikey, this is... a lot to take in."

"I know," he replies sincerely. "I just need you to know how I feel. I'm not expecting you to say yes, or even forgive me right away. But please, can we at least try?" He reaches out, his hand hovering tentatively near yours, waiting for your permission to touch. "I know I don't deserve it, but I'm asking for a second chance. Please, just tell me what I can do to make things right."

His bright blue eyes plead for an understanding. He’s not sure he’s ever wanted something so badly in his life. Not like this, and the wait on your behalf only punctuates that for him. Your gaze wanders up, expression unreadable. The sparkle in your eyes is still there, but it’s flitting like a dying ember.

"It's not that easy, Mikey," you say softly. "You broke my heart, you know? And even if I wanted to go back to the way things were, I don't think I could. Not completely."

Mikey’s heart sinks. He's already ruined everything, hasn’t he? The thought is a punch to the gut, leaving him breathless and deflated.

"But," you continue, a hint of a smile playing on your lips, "I also miss you, and I'm a sucker for a sincere apology, so I'm willing to try. But you have to understand, this won't be the same. Not for a while, anyway."

A lifting deliverance, so intense it almost brings him to his knees. "Anything. Anything you want. Just tell me."

You smile a genuine, beautiful smile that lights up the dim sewer tunnel. "Okay, I get automatic dibs on the last slice of pizza for the next month."

"Deal!” He grins, answering without hesitation. “Anything for you."

Mikey knows it will likely take a whole lot of scrubbing to rebuild what he had broken, but he’s ready. More than ready. He finally sees what he’s been missing, and he isn’t going to let it slip away a second time. The possibility of something more than friendship still flickers in the back of his mind, but for now, he’s content to start with the pizza.

[tmntngl]

Yes, yes and YES. Great description of all four. Absolutely felt like them. Read both part 1 and 2 for getting a great trip in angst and forgiveness!

[tmntngl]

I woke up to find me craving some slow burns. Nothing wrong with prompts and drabbles, always love that! But I got the itch for a deep dive into something... So I realized I could return to a fic I remember.

Now I've read to chapter 10 of Dog Days of Summer. @adebauchedsloth wtf. chapter 9 was, how to put it:

Your writing of Donnie is absolute perfection! His humor, awkwardness and growing feelings are on POINT. I love the chapters of his pow. So much pining, fluff and muchy feelings make me:

I could have been happy with just this. A bit of fluff and pining.

But you have cranked out sooo many chapters for this beast. It just keeps building. I will be back when I can peel my eyes off it again...

[avery73]

Random Turtle Thoughts...

Is this what painters feel as their brush strokes bring the oils on flat canvas to life?

Is it the rush that long distance runners describe as a high after they've gone long eough that the anguish in their fatigued muscles suddenly morphs into immeasurable strength?

The breath of awe that steals an explorer's air as they emerge from dense overgrowth to a pristine waterfall, untouched by the perversion of man?

Is it the warmth and security that blossoms inside a child's heart when wrapped up in their favorite blanket, snuggled against their favorite stuffed animal?

Leo didn't know for sure. But what he did know, gleaming cerulean orbs drinking the image of you in, was that he would keep this moment etched forever in his heart.

Standing at your bedside, he calmly stripped off his gear. All the while tracing your delicate curves, bathed in silvery moonlight, with his heart. Threading bits of his own soul and devotion as he went.

Slipping into the plush comfort of your bedding beside you. Wrapping his muscular arms around you. Pulling you close. Holding you tight. Nuzzling his snout in against your neck until finally feeling like he was one with you - Leo let's out a sigh.

Fingers brushing small circles against your bare skin, bringing his love for you to life.

The rush of your body reacting to his touch, suddenly replacing the tired ache of his limbs with a weightless synergy.

His breath stolen by the awe of your loyalty and affections given so freely to him. Your fingertips trailing paths across his scales with a reverence that rivaled his own.

A warmth blooming in his chest as your love blanketed him with a comfort - a security - he thought he'd never know.

The sleepy smile breaking across your silken lips setting every nerve in his body on fire in such a way that he never wanted to the relief of water again.

It's what he feels in this moment. Right here, right now. That in all the chaos and turbulence that dictated so much of he and his brother's lives, you were his guiding light. His beckon to call him home.

That so long as he was with you, he would always be exactly where he belonged. With you, he was whole.

@luckycharms1701 @yorshie @justalotoffanfiction @definitely-canon @writinandcrying

@donniesgirlie @gornackeaterofworlds @thelaundrybitch @sophiacloud28 @iridescentflamingo

@the-cauldron-witch @redsrooftopprincess @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @ninnosaurus @tmnt-tychou

@thepinkpanther83 @akari180 @milykins @citruswriter @jenuinely-speaking

@androidships007 @chicchanmooshy @peachesdabunny @msjadamatthews @ahhhhhhhhhfuck

@theanonymousninja247

[tmntngl]

God damn! The warmth. The love. You never miss do you?! Pls put me on the tag list 🙏

[redsrooftopprincess]

Memory

RaphaelxReader

Warnings: Amnesia, Angst

(this is so tropey and self indulgent that I was almost too embarrassed to post it, thank you @the-cauldron-witch for giving me the stones. Apologies in advance. 😅)

"What are you to me?"

You freeze, your pen stopping mid-letter. For the last week you'd been trying to figure out how to answer if he asked, and you were still at a loss. 

Don't think for him, Donnie'd said, the memories are there, he just has to form the connections. They'll be stronger, and this will go faster, if you let him do that on his own.

He knows he shouldn't be asking, but every time he looks at you he feels like he's missing something important, and the way you look at him sometimes... he can't bear it. 

"We should, um," you clear your throat, looking very intentionally at the paper in front of you, "we should really focus on this analysis. The more data we can feed Donnie, the sooner he can figure out of there'll be any serious lasting consequences to this." 

"I'm missing three years of my life, I'd say that's pretty serious," he quips, humorlessly. You still haven't looked up at him. Jaw tight, measured breaths the only thing keeping your hand steady. You'd been keeping it together for the last two weeks, you couldn't break now. Least of all in front of him. 

Six hours trapped in a reinforced refrigeration truck. He only survived because of what little body heat you could offer, but you'd both nearly died. You woke a few days later, in the infirmary, your hands still raw and recovering from frostbite, but Raphael... didn't. 

For fifteen days, no one knew if he was going to survive. You didn't sleep. You couldn't eat. You wouldn't leave his side. The number of arguments you and Donatello had about you resting were in the double digits. He might lose his brother, he wasn't going to lose his best friend, too. The only way you agreed was by dragging the couch beside the cot Raphael was laying in.  

When he awoke he couldn't remember much of anything. Slowly, over the course of the next week, memories drifted back like smoke. He remembered his father, his brothers, April, his best friend, Casey, that dumb ass, Vern, but not you. The last three years are still a blur and none of it makes any sense.

He looks at you like a familiar face at the grocery store. Like something is digging at the back of his mind, something important, but he can't quite place you. He looks at you with curiosity, even attraction at times, but the love that you built and fought for, through death and distance, is gone.

You inhale, before the pen begins to move again in your hand. He reaches up and stops it. 

"Y/N..." The familiar feeling of his hand around yours, his thumb gently brushing the hollow of your wrist, makes your chest ache and your eyes fall closed. 

Tears glitter at the seam of your eyelashes, as the words slip free unbidden, barely louder than a whisper, "I miss you..." 

His hand stills, there it is again. That feeling, understanding just outside his reach, he's pulled to you and he doesn't know why. Everything you do affects him, and right now, you're crying, and he would tear the world apart to see you smile again. 

You inhale sharply, pushing yourself to your feet and pulling your hand from his, leaving the pen on the table, "I need to go."

"Y/N, wait," he begs, quickly, standing, "please, I-" 

All of your faculties are being used to keep you in one piece. You don't even have the ability to attempt any kind of excuse. "I'll be back tomorrow night. We can finish the analysis then." You shove your laptop into your bag and zip it closed, slinging it over your shoulder, before you rush out of the lair to echoes of him begging you to stay. 

You barely make it home before you collapse by the couch and weep. Three years. Three years just gone. 

You pull the deep red blanket he made you last winter off the couch and wrap yourself in it, in him, in his scent, because it's the only thing of his you can wrap around you. 

You let yourself cry. Mourn. Since he woke up, you've been shoving everything down and away. 

This is not about you, you'd scolded yourself. 

You'd reminded yourself it must be worse for him. He's probably terrified, losing so much time must be scary as hell. And you'd kept it together. Every time he looked at you with that question in his eyes. Every time he said "hey" and kept walking. Every time he touched you... and let go. 

But you've reached your breaking point

The feeling of his hand on your wrist was so familiar, and you were pulled back into lazy evenings in bed, the sunset painting your skin, as the two of you found any excuse not to get up for work. Comfortable, safe, warm. Things you haven't felt since before all of this started. And it was all too much. 

Violent sobs rip through your body, as your heart rages in your chest. It's not fair. You'd already been through so much. Fought so hard. And, for him... none of it happened. The bone-deep love and connection that had become so vital to both of you, was ripped away, and you were the only one left bleeding. 

You don't notice the soft landing beside the window. 

He just stares at you for a moment. He's overcome with the need to catch you up, hold you to him, and do whatever he has to do to fix it.

"It's important, isn't it," he says finally, quietly, "what I can't remember."

You gasp and stand up, clumsily, hands flying to your eyes and wiping pointlessly at tears as you turn away, "You shouldn't be here." 

"See, I'm not so sure about that." He steps forward slowly, "because..." His eyes fall on a carved wooden rose, and he pauses. A craftsman can always recognize their work. His eyes begin to scan the dimly lit room around him. 

No photographs, but all around him are little things made by his own hands, his favorite books and movies, this place doesn't just feel familiar. It feels like home. His eyes return to yours as he continues his approach.

You fall back against the wall as he advances, "Does Donnie know your here? You really shouldn't be out running around the city by yourself. You're still recovering, it's not... safe." Your breath hitches as your back hits drywall. 

He takes your hand gently, holding it just like before, caressing the inside of your wrist. Your jaw clenches, and your eyes sting. As he invades your personal space, your body reacts on instinct, head tilting up, hand against his chest, and his responds, gripping your waist and pulling you into him, breathing in deeply a scent just on the edge of his memory. 

"That's what I'm missing, isn't it," he asks softly, tears darkening the fabric around his eyes, "that's what this feeling is... love." 

Your heart twists, and you can't breathe. You're trembling with loss and grief and you don't want him to stop. 

"I love you," he says, almost in wonder, holding your gaze. 

It's like a bullet to the chest and all the air rushes out of you. Tears stream freely from your eyes and you draw a shuddering breath. "You don't even know me," you say, and you swear you don't mean for it to come out as bitter as it does.

He flinches, stepping back, but not releasing your hand. The shame and guilt are instantaneous. None of this is his fault. You look down and away, unable to meet his amber eyes, "I- I'm sorry," you manage, "I-"

"You're wrong."

You look up through tears as he steps forward again, pulling you closer. A hand comes up and cups your cheek as the one around your waist tightens, and he looks down at you with an intensity you haven't seen in weeks. 

"I may not know your face, or remember... anything about you, but..." His eyes close and his hand slides into your hair as he dips his head and touches his forehead to yours, "I remember... this," he continues breathlessly, gripping your hair gently, "I remember this feeling... Your skin... against mine. Your scent..." 

It's there. He can feel it. Just beyond his reach. He's been grasping blindly. Needing you and not knowing why, needing to feel you under his hands, against him. 

The hand at your waist slides to your lower back, pulling you closer. "Help me," he pleads, eyes shut tight, all focus trained on you, voice thick with hope and desperation, "please... help me remember." 

Donatello's warnings burn to ash within your memory as his mouth claims yours in a searing kiss. 

It's clumsy at first. Demanding. Desperate. Like a dance he doesn't quite remember the steps to. He holds too tightly, moves too stiffly, but you open to him anyway, and a warm wave of sunlight flows into him. 

He was so cold. He's still so cold. He can't remember the truck but he can remember the cold. Seeping into him slowly. As time dragged on and his body heat waned he'd grown so tired so quickly. He could still feel it. Frost on his edges. He's tried everything. Heated blankets, hot showers, gallons of tea. He's been trying since he woke up, he just can't seem to get warm. 

But where his skin touches yours, it's like holding the sun. 

Your heat floods into him like warm, golden light. Like the dawn. Pouring into the deepest, coldest parts, and filling him completely with that feeling. Love. And there you are, beneath the melt. As vital and familiar as his own heartbeat.

His kiss softens, his hold becomes more sure, familiar. It takes you a moment, but you realize, between kisses, he's whispering, "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..." He holds you the way he always has, and he kisses you the way he always has, and soon your crying too hard to kiss him back.

He holds you tight against him, pressing you against his chest, kissing your hair, apologizing over and over as if any of this is his fault. You cling to him desperately, afraid that if you let go it won't be real, that he'll forget you again. You squeeze your eyes shut tight, afraid that you'll be wrong, and you'll look up into his, and you'll find only questions.

His hold tightens and his eyes burn. He's angry. This is unacceptable. Unfair. He got played, and he was supposed to die in that truck. What the Oroku fuckers didn't count on, what they never count on, is you. You'd pressed yourself against him, sharing what little warmth you could. By the time the others found you, both of you were unconscious and hypothermic, but still alive, Raphael's large body wrapped tightly around yours. You'd kept his heart beating. Just like always.

He pulls back and attempts to raise your chin to meet his eyes. You resist. He can smell your fear, feel the pounding of your heart under his fingertips.

He rests his head against the side of yours and speaks your name softly, in the same voice that has pulled you peacefully from sleep a thousand times. Another sob escapes you and you curl into him tightly, before a few moments pass and you unfurl, your eyes raising to meet his. 

The weight of his gaze settles on you and you never thought you could be grateful to see such depths of pain within him, but within the pain was... everything else. From the depths of despair to the heights of ecstasy, every moment of the last three years was a storm inside his eyes.

You can see the naked rage, swirling in the tempest, and it mirrors your own. Those responsible would be dealt with, later. Now, you reach back behind him, and he dips his head to make it easier for you to remove his mask. You toss it aside, and he presses his forehead to yours. You rest your hands on either side of his face, tracing the familiar scars, and you can feel his shuddering exhale. 

"I love you."

"I love you."

"I'm sorry."

"Raphael-"

"I didn't mean to-" His breath catches on a sob, and you pull him tighter against you. Burying his head in your shoulder, he wraps his arms around your waist and breathes deep. If scent is the strongest sense tied to memory, he would bury himself in you. He would never forget again. 

....

I know this isn't how amnesia works, okay??? I KNOW the plot here is swiss cheese!!! but it got stuck in my head and now you have to deal with it too, so there.

...

Tag list

@thelaundrybitch @the-cauldron-witch @fyreball66 @ninnosaurus @tmntngl @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @zagreustomb @ramielll @silverwatergalaxy @gornackeaterofworlds @daedric-sorceress @sophiacloud28 @iridescentflamingo @milykins @sacred-holy-light @celeste-clearwater-06 @pheradream-15

[tmntngl]

This... this... what can I say except, this was perfect! 😭 who cares about reality when the feels hit this good. I will gladly feast in angst any day~

[avery73]

Random Turtle Thoughts...

He doesn't miss it. The way your eyes light up when you hear his voice. How there is a slight flush dusting over your cheeks when your gaze meets his. The faint, but undeniable flutter that quickens your heartbeat when he comes near.

In the beginning, he thought he was just imagining it. Projecting what he felt his own body doing out onto you. Fabricating supporting evidence to justify the hopeful wish. Simply validating the near compulsive need to do whatever was within his power to recreate the phenomenon.

But that was then. When he was sure there wasn't a chance in all the world that you could find him the least bit attractive. Before he knew you weren't just being kind and welcoming.

He'd noticed it once while training alone, putting his all into each deliberate flex, every calculated exertion. It was fleeting. So quick he really had to dissect the event second by second to be sure it had truly happened before he could fall asleep that day. After all that examination though, he was certain, you had been aroused by his display.

Could that really mean it was possible? Could he really have a chance?

Every time you were around from that moment forward, he gingerly tested his hunch. He'd allow his touch to linger on the back of your arm. You didn't flinch or pull away. Soon he carefully allowed his fingers to dip to the small of your back. You'd slightly lean into his touch. During movie nights, he'd drape his arm behind you across the couch. It didn't seem to bother you at all, so each time he'd drop his arm bit by bit until his arm was wrapped around your shoulders. You only ever inched closer within his embrace.

He found his actions encouraged those of your own. As he was working his arm towards pulling you into him, your hand was working its way up his leg. At first, you'd just touch every now and again, before pulling back to fold your hands in your lap. Then you allowed your hand to rest on his knee. Each night you spent sitting next to one another, the placement of your hand working back bit by bit, until the top of his thigh was the spot it'd stay the whole movie.

And your hugs hello and goodbye became longer. Soon, your touch would remain on him after the hug had ended. You'd even lean into him, as if seeking another hug, sometimes throughout your visit.

This all had to mean something. Right? He had a chance. He knew he did. With all the cues you were sending each other, surely you wouldn't reject him. Right?

The secrets you two shared. The way he let you in. The way you opened up to him. How your eyes would linger on one another. The laughs and jokes that now felt natural. How you sought him, as he sought you, finding a comfort together neither of you had known before.

He couldn't keep pretending he wasn't crazy about you. He couldn't fake not wanting you one more night.

So no, he doesn't miss it. The brightness swirling within your eyes as you watch him draw near. The pink flush that deepens across the apples of your cheeks as the intensity of his gaze subconsciously backs you up against the wall. The slight hitch to your breath as his finger curls around the ball of your chin. The flitter to your long lashes as he tips your face up and dips his head down low. Your heartbeat as it pounds rapidly inside your chest as he tenderly presses his lips against yours.

He doesn't miss it. The breathy sigh you let slip free.

Whispering, "Finally."

@luckycharms1701 @yorshie @justalotoffanfiction @morenovix218 @writinandcrying @donniesgirlie

[tmntngl]

That is what I am talking about! Pining? Check! Some self doubt? Check! Shared glances? Check! Luv this~

[cowabungacafe]

Homecoming comfort

Prompt - Those nights when they come home late and see you asleep on the couch and they come, pick you up and tuck you into bed with a kiss on your forehead" from me-writes-prompts

Character - Bayverse raph x reader

The dim light of the lair greeted Raphael as he returned from a night of patrolling the city. His muscles were tense, and exhaustion weighed heavily on him, but the sight that awaited him in the living area instantly softened his demeanor.

There you were, sprawled out on the couch, a book forgotten in your lap as sleep claimed you. Your features were softened by the gentle embrace of slumber, and a small smile played on Raphael's lips as he approached.

He watched you for a moment, his heart swelling with affection at the sight of you so peaceful and vulnerable. Despite the dangers they faced, moments like these reminded him of what was truly important in life.

With silent steps, Raphael moved closer, careful not to wake you. Gently, he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch feather-light as he marveled at your beauty.

"You should be in bed," he muttered softly to himself, his voice barely more than a whisper.

With a sigh, he reached down and scooped you up into his arms, marveling at how small and delicate you felt against his muscular frame. He cradled you close to his chest, feeling a sense of warmth and contentment wash over him at the thought of having you safe in his embrace.

The journey to your shared bedroom felt like second nature to Raphael, his steps sure and steady as he navigated through the familiar corridors of the lair. He couldn't help but feel a sense of pride knowing that he could protect you, even in the darkest of times.

Finally, he reached your bed, the soft glow of moonlight spilling in through the window casting a gentle glow over the room. Carefully, Raphael laid you down on the mattress, tucking the blankets snugly around you to keep you warm.

Leaning down, he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin for a moment longer than necessary. "Sleep well, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice filled with love and tenderness.

With one last lingering glance, Raphael turned to leave the room, his heart lighter knowing that you were safe and sound, where you belonged. And as he made his way back to the living area to unwind, he couldn't help but feel grateful for moments like these, when he could come home to you, his anchor in a chaotic world.

[tmntngl]

A second sleep prompt but now with big red. Awesome!

Those descriptions of him, being safe and warm. That is what I would want to convey if I ever start writing. I think Raphs biggest trait is his protective trait 🥰

[cowabungacafe]

Tender Return

Prompt - Those nights when they come home late and see you asleep on the couch and they come, pick you up and tuck you into bed with a kiss on your forehead" from me-writes-prompts

Character - Leonardo(bayverse) x Reader/Yn

Exhaustion painted your eyelids heavy. You'd drifted off on the couch, the flickering light of the television the only companion to your slumber. A gentle creak of the fire escape startled you awake, and you blinked blearily to find the room cloaked in darkness.

"Y/N?" Leo's voice, a soft rumble in the silence, brought your focus to him. He stood silhouetted against the moonlit sky, weary but concern etched on his face.

The exhaustion hit you like a wave then. You remembered waiting for him, worry gnawing at you with every passing hour. Now, seeing him safe and sound, relief washed over you, pushing back the weariness.

He saw the sleepy smile grace your lips and a tender smile mirrored his own. "Didn't mean to wake you, love," he said, approaching cautiously.

You shook your head, the couch feeling suddenly uncomfortable. "No worries, Leo. I just..." you trailed off, a yawn escaping you.

He understood your unspoken words. His blue eyes, usually sharp with focus, softened with understanding. He knelt, the concern in his gaze melting into something warmer.

"You should be in bed," he said gently.

Without another word, he scooped you up effortlessly, his strong arms cradling you close. You rested your head against his warm chest, a sense of safe haven engulfing you. The familiar scent of leather and disinfectant, unique to him, grounded you.

He carefully carried you to your room, the moonlight casting silvery shadows on the walls. He gently laid you down on the bed, pulling back the covers. You were already halfway to sleep, lulled by the rhythm of his footsteps and the soft weight of his hand on your cheek.

Just before you drifted off completely, you felt a soft touch on your forehead. It was a feather-light kiss, filled with a thousand unspoken emotions.

"Sleep well, Y/N," he whispered, his voice laced with affection.

He didn't stay long, disappearing back into the night like a phantom, leaving behind the warmth of his kiss and the lingering scent of his cologne as the only evidence of his presence. You drifted off to sleep, a smile gracing your lips, feeling safe and loved in the quiet sanctuary of your room and the unspoken promise of his return.

[tmntngl]

That was soooo cute and fluffy. Just what I need sometimes~

[yorshie]

sees your requests open and slides in like a penguin on ice 🧊

possibly showing off a new swimsuit in front of the turtles in hopes it gets Raph's attention because every other hint you've dropped has gone wayyyy over his head (...or so you assume) 👀

showers you in love and sparkles!!! ✨️💕🫂

Kkkkkeeeeeiiiiisssshhhhhhaaaaaaa. *clings to you like a wet noodle*

I scrolled all the way down to the bottom of my requests and gasped when I saw your name. >:3. I gladly shower in the love and sparkles, and hope you forgive me for the amount of silent pining I’m about to shove down everyone’s throat. lol.

Bay Raph x fem reader (I think the only gendered terms are two pieces bathing suit but idk does that count in 2025? Question mark? Idk I’m tired)

SFW

Ok. Breathe. You can do this.

The mid-morning sun cut through the lacy curtains and across the tiny vanity surrounding the sink. The bathroom you were holed up in was better suited for the sixties, with the chair rail topped with faded, flowered wallpaper and the worn floor that couldn’t quite hide the handmade nails driven in to hold the boards in place. You knew plans had been made and then discarded over and over concerning updating it, but no one could quite agree on how to update it, and hardly anyone came up to use the little bathroom cooped up at the end of the hallway to be reminded about it.

Which was precisely why you were holed up in it now. Even though the door hadn’t locked for years, it was the safest place to hype yourself up.

You were failing miserably.

“You got this,” You told your reflection for what felt like the hundredth time, gaze flicking down below your chin before resolutely jerking back up to your face.

A second ruled by your thundering heartbeat, before you gave in. “Nope. I can’t do this.”

It’s just a bathing suit. You reasoned with yourself. Just a bathing suit, modest even for two piece standards if you were being honest but…

God, it….. it was so red.

The exact same shade of red as Raph’s bandana.

You’d hunted for that exact shade of color, of course. You practically had it tattooed to the back of your eyelids, had lost countless hours imagining what the feel of that bandana would be like under your fingers if you were only brave enough to reach out.

You’d contemplated it, once, when leaning against the back of the couch while bantering with Raphael. Had thought about just… reaching out, twirling the nearest loop of fabric about your fingers and wrist like it was something commonplace, something you were allowed to do-

But your bravery had deserted you the moment Raph had looked over his shoulder at you, eyes crinkled soft in silent laughter, relaxed and carefree in the conversation. Something you had thought impossible when you had first met him.

You couldn’t have handled it if that soft look had disappeared, if the armored walls he had slowly lowered during the time you’d known him snapped back into place.

You stared at the red bathing suit again, tugging on it gently in the hopes it might cover up more perceived flaws, like it might answer your unspoken questions, like it might give insight on whether or not this would work.

None of the other things you’d chanced to show Raph how you’d felt had worked, after all.

You wanted… You just wanted to show him…

You let out a pained, warbling curse, head dropping to rest in your hands as you contemplated sneaking back to the room you were sharing with April and pretending you were too sick to go downstairs.

A heavy knock sounded on the door, a muffled voice quickly to follow. “Hey, princess, ready to go?”

You startled, badly, tripping on the worn, warm rug laid out in front of the claw footed tub and having to catch yourself to keep from going completely ass over tea kettle into the cold porcelain.

It hurt, no matter what, slipping on the rim and sliding into the hollow, swim suit bottom riding up painfully on the descent.

Raph called your name out in question while you internally panicked, staring at the door while dread coiled oily and dark beneath your sternum.

”I’m- fine!” You called back, wincing internally when your voice cracked in a lie between the two words.

Evidently Raph heard the tell as well. “uh, huh. Yeah, sure. Try that again, peaches. You good?” There came a testing rattle of the doorknob, and your heart leapt. “You didn’t fall, right?”

“Don’t-“ you struggled to get back on your feet, hands and hip slipping on the tub with a loud squeak when your skin stuck to the cold surface. “Don’t open the door!”

The testing jiggle of the doorknob stopped, and you could feel the stare Raph was leveling at the door through his pointed silence. “You did fall.”

Accusing. You flinched at the sound, stumbling towards the door and leaning both hands against it like that might succeed in keeping him out if he decided otherwise.

“I promise I’m fine!” You hurriedly looked around for your T-shirt, anything, a towel for god’s sake, to wrap yourself in. A helpful thought flitted through your mind that you had left your clothes on your borrowed bed to avoid the exact scenario of trying to hide the bathing suit, and your head thunked against the door in internal shame.

Raph shifted on the other side, feet scuffing slightly. You could hear the sound of stiff fabric rubbing against scales, and realized he must have been on his way out to the pond when he came to check on you, the stiff sound of swim shorts unmistakable.

“Ok…. Well, I got a towel for ya, if you want it, so you don’t have to sit on the grass when we’re done swimming. You ready to go?” It was a lot, you knew, for him to give up the line of questioning. It made the answer you were about to give him sour all the more.

You gripped the door knob tight, your other hand clenching tight enough to drive your nails into your skin as you waffled. “I- I don’t think I can.”

A pointed silence. Then: “What? Why?”

It was your turn to shift, weighing each word. “I’m uncomfortable.”

Raph turned that over for a moment in silence, before you heard another rustle of cloth. “Here- open up.”

You gripped the doorknob tighter, parroting him in words and tone without meaning to. “What? Why?”

“S’ my shirt,” The door opened despite you clinging to it, just a smidge, just enough for him to wedge the article of clothing through the crack. “You can cover up with it, so you can still have fun.”

You took the shirt automatically, staring at it like it was a foreign thing while Raph shut the door once more with a soft click.

It was worn, likely years old, the seams frayed and a number of small holes dotting along the neckline. It would likely swallow you whole, take several rubber bands to hold to your frame, but…

It was red. A more muted color than your bathing suit, but-

You swallowed, hard, setting the shirt on the sink and laying a hand on it for comfort, before steeling your spine.

You heard Raph take a preemptive step when you turned the knob, backing up out of the way, but your eyes were fixed somewhere on his midriff as you stepped out into the hallway next to him.

”You…” His words trailed off, sounding a bit higher pitched than you were used to, and you chanced a look up at his face.

Green eyed wide, he stared at you, gaze tracking down over your torso before he seemed to remember himself and his eyes snapped back to your face. The finer scales around his beak and cheeks mottled, turning a more muted color, as blood rushed to his face. “You -ah, s’… nice-”

He snapped a hand up to his face like that might stop the train crash of words leaving his mouth, and you felt the first warm ember creep alive in your chest, that oily feeling lessening.

Silence, for a long moment, as you both considered each other. Sunlight streamed through the far window across the opened space beyond the bannister, backlighting the side of Raph’s shell and his face a golden color. Somewhere below, you could hear Donnie humming a song.

“I… liked the color.” You told him softly, finally, wrapping one arm around yourself and leaning against the door jam, breaking the stand off.

Raph made a low noise, muffled, behind the meat of his hand, and your gaze dropped in time to see his other fist clench tight before tracking back up the scutes covering his chest.

”You good?” You asked him with that same, quiet voice, feeling that beat of self consciousness grow the longer he stayed silent. Chancing another glance up at him, you found a deep look settling over his face, thoughts flashing like rapid fire hits as microexpressions twisted the features around his fist with an alarming rate.

’Yeah,” he finally breathed, hand dropping to clench at his side with the other. “Yea, m’fine. You uh- you ready, then?”

He still had that slightly hunted look, barely stepping to the side as you nodded slowly and moved past. Your elbow grazed the hard plating of his plastron as you stepped past him, and you heard him suck in a sharp breath at the sensation.

Goosebumps erupted down your spine as you felt him move to shadow your steps down the hall, but when you turned to look over your shoulder his gaze wasn’t on you, that still rather thoughtful scrunch between his eyes. “Your shirt?” You reminded him, gesturing back down the hall.

Narrowed green gaze considered you for a moment, not looking back towards the still lit bathroom. They tracked down your form for a moment, and you felt that kernel of warmth once more.

”Leave it… unless you need it?” The second part was intoned like a revelation, half turning like he’d go back for it.

Your hand on his arm stopped him in his tracks. ‘No,” You squeezed, and felt the muscle ripple in response. ‘I don’t.”

[tmntngl]

Yorshie, yorshie, yorshie... you outdid yourself! The premise of this was simple but cute. But then you sprinkled this with so much pining and longing. It can never be too much of that in my book. Thanks~

[dontlookatmytmntcollection]

Spring Fever

Raphael x Fem!Reader

I really REALLY don't like my writing but thanks to @turtleweens I have like six new 'Spring Fever' wips. So here is a gift! Go check out their blog 😭 it's one of my favorites

Warnings: 18+, angst and fluff

-----------

"I need to go-"

"No."

"And you need to go, too."

"No."

Her sigh was hardly heard over the rain against her windows. Struggling against the large turtle's grip to get out of the numerous pillows and blankets, it was to no avail.

"At least let me get ready, Raph."

"No." he buried his nose in her collar bone, pinning her to the sheets.

"Okay, this stopped being cute, like...five minutes ago."

His embrace loosened just enough to free her and she kicked away the covers, ignoring his hand slipping from her arm and stumbled to the bathroom. He didn't follow, his quiet growl swallowed up in a pillow, his giant frame hidden away in the box of shadow provided by the windows on either side of her bed.

As the minutes ticked away silently, she glanced more and more at his quiet figure as she pulled herself through morning routine.

He'd usually be on his feet, poking her side as she brushed her teeth, attempting to keep her cloths out of reach or kissing her neck, begging to join her in the shower.

Guilt pulled at her. But she heard Leo's voice clear as day. Lecturing them both for leaving the apartment too close to sunrise. For being reckless- for endangering each other for no reason- he'd ask for a stupid explanation they'd never give him. 

Raph needed to go home now if he was going to leave at all. She tried to relax, quenching the urge to snap at him.

Especially now. Because it was not the time to be short with him.

He was a big boy. It was an overcast day, and he wasn't exactly a stranger to daylight travel. So he wasn't incapable. But..."Be home by sunrise." They all said it. All the time. For good reasons. Fear for her boyfriend's safety was the only thing keeping her from marrying the doofus in Time Square, somedays. 

Raph wasn't moving. If she didn't know better she would think he'd fallen back asleep. 

This temptation to join him was...overwhelming. 

She felt nobody in her shoes would blame her. Sure, this dating a giant turtle thing wasn't new, anymore, but it was young. Their one year anniversary was coming up. It hasn't always been easy, like- sure, no duh. 

But it's been one hell of a ride this past week.

The term spring fever had been something tossed at her once. She had dismissed it; innocently imagining it was something to look forward to. A week of her boyfriends undivided, perhaps obsessively possessive attention. She cringed now.

She always knew Raphael had a heart bigger than his skin. Felt it about him immediately. But this week...man, this week was- crazy.

Sometimes it was like she held everything he was, is and ever will be like it was something she could break in half at any moment.

She first noticed how affectionate he's suddenly gotten. Well- openly affectionate. Thumbing her ear and kissing her cheek infront of his brothers, going up to hug her from behind in the kitchen as if he suddenly no longer cared who saw.

She's gotten him to smile the biggest she's ever seen. Got him to laugh hard enough that it got her laughing too.

Then their argument twenty four hours later was the worst they'd ever had. And it was over...her forgetting to check in? They had both been tired. Him especially. He'd been worried and scared and an absolute jerk to her.

His apology the next day was the very first time she had ever seen him cry- watching him struggle to communicate around his immense embarrassment and guilt and frustration that he just couldn't say any of this right- God, she'd never seen it like this and her heart broke.

Then she had laid awake in shock after the best night of sex they've had yet. Her boyfriend holding her tight amidst the pillows and blankets; breathing her in slow and quiet like she was life itself. 

Rollercoaster much?

She didn't want to leave his side today. At all.

The very thought she was about to walk out of this door to sit at a desk for hours without him... This rain storm and miles of distance between them- the loneliness stung even now.

She knew he'd probably rather die than admit it. And that it was completely untrue-

But she felt he needed her; and that she needed him.

She blinked, realizing she had stopped moving to stare. At the blue and grey shadows dancing on his battered shell, at the red mask in the far corner, at the mismatched, dirty armor all around the room, the stuff he would usually be scrambling to pick up right now.

This silence, man. It grew to be too much. 

"Hey," she whispered, resting a hand on his arm and sitting at his side. "We have to go."

"...yeah."

It was whispered back. Defeated. Sad but sad like he was hiding it. Voice low and gravelly. His hazels slowly blinked open, those third eyelids making a brief and rare appearance. His breathing was forcibly even, big arms wrapped around the pillow under his head. 

The memory of how he had looked at her with shame and distress as he got out that, "I'm sorry." as if she was gonna kill him for it- it burned.

She had rushed to his rescue at the first hint of glossy eyes- pulling off his stupid mask and holding his face as she gently forgave him for snapping at her, those tears only falling. Sure he had been an asshole. But with how he kept telling her she didn't deserve any of it...it as if he was now apologizing for so much more than a stupid petty argument- the build up of fear and hope he held for this relationship was hitting him so hard it hit them both.

It had hurt like a bitch.

Her fingers now brushed the old brand on his shoulder, the old scales catching her skin as she glanced outside, biting her lip. Debating.

"Sorry, babe." he reached up to rub his eyes.  "I'll get goin'-"

"No." She decided. "No. Wait here."

He watched her leave the room, his glowing eyes twinkling in the shadows of the headboard.

It was several minutes before she was back in the room, Raph's expression puzzled.

Afraid to break the rainy silence, she slowly took out her earings instead. 

His silver eyes narrowed, their connected gaze never wavering. But when she hunched to pull off her socks- man, watching his expression drop like, "No way, is she really-?" It was like watching sunlight break through clouds. 

She smiled, walking to his side of the bed as she began to unbutton her shirt. 

The bed creaked horribly under his weight as Raph pulled his legs under himself, reaching to help her. "Are you serious?"

Those eyes, like, c'mon- "Don't look at me like that," she whispered, his sweet smile too contagious. 

"Are ya gonna get in trouble cuz' of this?" 

"A little," she sighed. "Don't expect it every year, okay?"

"Okay."

"What are you going to tell your brothers?"

"To go fuck themsel-"

"Raph." She snapped. 

"I'll text them in a second." Raph tossed aside the bra, pulling her in bed to help with her dress pants. "I'm kinda busy."

"It needs to be soon," she glanced outside, struggling to help him. "They'll be worried-"

The kiss was as humble and thankful as much as it was insistent and hungry- but it isn't often she felt him smile into a kiss.

[tmntngl]

Oh yes, the classic mating season trope in all it's glory! A fluffy one is also appreciated, not only smutty ones 😉. Raw emotions and needy turtles themes are faves of mine~

[redsrooftopprincess]

Stay

RaphaelxGN!Reader

No warnings, light angst

He lands softly on the rooftop and makes his way down the fire escape. He's late. Caught by a stupid gang scuffle, it's already almost dawn. He still needs to see you.

He grips the window, sliding it open almost silently. The apartment is dark, and he can only see by the ambient light of the city. He slides the window shut and turns to find you, asleep, on the couch. His movements practiced and silent, he's probably the only person in the world who can move around without waking you up, his brothers included.

He looks down at you, a velvet affection filling him. A whisper of gratitude so soft he can't help but just stare for a moment. You are so beautiful. He inhales, deeply, and reaches for the blanket laid across the back of the couch, one of his, in a deep forest green. Unfolding it, he drapes it gently over your sleeping form. It settles into the peaks and valleys of your body. In the almost-year he's known you, you've become his whole world.

He really wanted to see you this morning. Not for any particular reason, it's just been a few days, and he accepted a while ago that he can't go more than a few days without seeing you. He needs you like a junkie. Every moment with you destroys him, but he'd cross oceans.

He adjusts the blanket gently as it slips down your shoulder, his cold scales brushing your warm skin, and almost shivers. His hand passes over a broken line of light that slashes across your back, and his focus shifts from you as it glints off a few scales on the back of his hand. The rest is marked by scar and injury, and what isn't is stained by the city. His jaw tightens as he turns away. He should have at least washed his hands before touching you, but he couldn't help it. He was drawn to you, like always, like a sun.

A small hand slips into his as he takes a step toward the window, and he stops. His hand instinctively closes around yours, and he turns to find you looking up at him sleepily, your hair slightly disheveled. As the warm, ambient light of the city glitters in your soft eyes, he's caught in them, and lost.

Your lips part, and you soundlessly whisper one word.

"Stay..."

His breath seizes in his chest. He glances toward the window, seeing the pitch dark of pre-morning shifting into slate blue at the horizon.

"I can't..." He whispers, painfully, turning his gaze to yours. It hurts, having to say no. Having to say he can't. Having to flee from the sunlight like some horrifying nightbound monster.

Your only response is a gentle pull on his hand, and he has to swallow down the sudden desire to fall to his knees beside you and stay forever. By some miracle, he manages to hold his ground.

"Y/N, it's almost morning," he says, every word a shard that sinks deep into his chest. I'm sorry...

His resolve almost breaks when your soft hand slips from his and slides under the couch cushion you've been using as a pillow. Your eyes close and you settle under the blanket. He watches you for a few moments as the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest deepens and you drift back to sleep.

When he can finally pull himself away, he stands outside the window, hands braced on the fire escape, and draws a shuddering breath. He looks up into sky, now shifting from light pollution to simply light, as if it might hold some kind of clarity. There's a need in him like nothing he's ever known, but there no where to go with it. It just eats at him like acid, and some nights, it feels as though, by morning, there will be nothing left.

But the slate blue has consumed the black and a new spectrum begins to bloom, slowly, above. He was supposed to be underground half an hour ago.

His eyes fall closed and he draws another deep breath, pulling himself together for the run home.

...

Tag list

@thelaundrybitch @the-cauldron-witch @fyreball66 @ninnosaurus @tmntngl @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @zagreustomb @ramielll @silverwatergalaxy @gornackeaterofworlds @daedric-sorceress @sophiacloud28 @iridescentflamingo @milykins @sacred-holy-light

[tmntngl]

Right up my alley. I have a need for angsty turtles~

[luv4arinn]

I Just Wanna Feel

Author’s Note: So—sorry for not posting in weeks, but I had a massive writer’s block, and well… I’m back! I was heavily inspired by THAT Robbie Williams song. Yes, I watched his biopic. Yes, I cried. Yes, I recommend it. And… surprise?! There will be a whole chronology with the others, all themed around Robbie’s songs! Yayy <3!! Consider it a gift? from me for taking so long 🥺. Love you all.

Pairing: Bayverse!Donnie x female reader

Tags: Intense fluff, nerd having an emotional crisis, extreme overthinking, unexpected kisses, Donatello’s mental breakdown, romantic panic, “oh no I messed up” but in HD, happy ending.

The sound of the keyboard echoed through the room—a rhythmic, steady tapping that blended with the low hum of the monitors. The bluish glow from the screens cast irregular shadows across his face, reflecting off the lenses of his glasses with every line of code appearing and disappearing on the monitor.

Donatello was there, as always.

The work was easy. Thinking was easy.

It was like a well-structured algorithm: receive information, process it, execute a plan of action. The world had rules, patterns, probabilities—formulas that predicted outcomes with near-absolute precision. No matter how chaotic a situation seemed, there was always a logical solution waiting to be uncovered.

Computers don’t lie.

Data has no biases, no whims. It doesn’t suffer irrational fluctuations. It doesn’t beat faster without reason. It doesn’t have to remind itself to breathe.

But then…

There’s you.

And everything falls apart.

Not immediately. Not like a fatal error shutting down the system in the blink of an eye. It’s more subtle. Like an unexpected variable in an equation that had, until now, been perfect. Something that doesn’t fit into the rigid structure of his world—but something he can’t ignore either.

He thinks about it often. About how his brain operates like a well-calibrated machine, each thought clicking into the next like the teeth of a moving gear. Logic is his native language. Reason, his compass.

And yet, when it comes to you, all that logic becomes blurred.

The gears grind.

The code becomes erratic.

The equation fills with unknowns.

Because when you step into his space, when your voice disrupts the steady rhythm of his keyboard, when you lean over his desk without a second thought for the scattered circuits and switch off his monitor without warning…

His first instinct is to think. Analyze. Quantify.

What does this mean?

Why does his heart react this way?

Why does his skin register the shift in temperature more intensely when you’re near?

But thinking doesn’t give him answers.

Feeling does.

And that is terrifying.

Because feeling isn’t predictable. Feeling has no neatly arranged lines of code, no graphs to chart behavioral patterns, no equations with exact solutions.

Emotions, in themselves, are a chaotic system.

And you…

You are the anomaly he still doesn’t know how to decode.

Nights shouldn’t feel this short when spent alone in front of a screen. And yet, when his mind drifts to the memory of a laugh, the fleeting image of a glance, the echo of an accidental touch… time dissolves in a way not even quantum physics could explain.

When he feels the weight of his name on your tongue. Like an access key to a system he never thought anyone would try to hack.

And he watches you from the corner of his eye as you lean closer, and in that instant, every variable in his mind shifts. Every equation rewrites itself.

A shiver runs down his shell.

Feeling.

He knows because his chest tightens with an undefined pressure, a sensation he can’t attribute to any specific physiological variable. His heart rate isn’t elevated from exertion. He’s not under attack. He’s not in danger.

So why does his body react as if he is?

There’s no equation to explain this.

Because if there were, he would have solved it long ago. He would have identified the problem, broken it down into its components, eliminated any errors. But every time he thinks he’s close to an answer, another unknown appears, shifting all previous solutions out of place.

Music filters through his headphones, slow and melancholic.

“I just wanna feel, real love…”

A shiver runs down his spine.

His body reacts to the sound before his mind does. It’s absurd. It’s ridiculous. There is no logical reason why a progression of chords and a set of words arranged in a certain way should have this effect on him.

And yet, here he is.

Fingers hovering over the keyboard, motionless—caught between the instinct to keep working and the strange, undeniable realization that… he can’t.

Not because he’s tired.

Not because he lacks information.

Not because there’s a problem that requires more processing.

But because, for the first time in a long time, the data isn’t the most important thing.

The screen flickers with information he should be absorbing, but he isn’t. His glasses reflect numbers and graphs that would normally hold his full attention, but his gaze is empty, unfocused.

The room remains unchanged—draped in shadows, illuminated only by the bluish glow of his monitors and the faint blinking of LED lights from his equipment.

The mission had been difficult. The margin of error had been higher than he liked to admit.

It wasn’t often that his calculations failed.

But sometimes, calculations weren’t enough.

Sometimes, reality simply… refused to adhere to logic.

“Feel the home that I live in…”

His jaw tightens.

He doesn’t know how that song ended up on his playlist.

But he has a reasonable theory.

One that involves Mikey, his blatant disregard for personal privacy, and his insistent need to “help him connect with his emotions.”

(Sure. Right.)

And yet…

The lyrics hit him harder than he’d like to admit.

It’s not the melody itself. It’s not the chords or the rhythm. It’s the way the words seem to slip through the cracks in his mind, seeping into the spaces that logic has never quite managed to seal shut.

“I just wanna feel, real love…”

Donnie exhales slowly, his fingers still hovering over the keyboard, motionless.

He thinks about the battle.

The mistakes.

The risks they took.

Numbers flash through his mind like a simulation running in reverse—impact probability, the margin of error in his calculations, the reaction speed needed to avoid damage. Fractions of a second where the difference between victory and absolute disaster depended on decisions made under pressure.

But more than anything—he thinks about you.

He thinks about the way, at the end of the fight, you rushed to check if he was okay.

About how, without even thinking, your hands—warm, alive—ran along his arm, searching for injuries he had already identified and dismissed milliseconds before with his visor.

He could have told you it wasn’t necessary.

That he was unharmed.

That he had concrete data to prove it.

But he didn’t.

Because logic dictates that worry should be extinguished by facts.

But feeling…

Feeling dictates that your touch lingers, even after you’ve gone.

That the sensation of your skin against his stays beyond his capacity for reasoning.

That the light pressure of your fingers on his forearm still burns in his memory, like an unsolved equation looping endlessly in his mind.

“Come and hold my hand…”

Donnie closes his eyes.

He could turn the song off.

He could erase the anomaly from his system.

He could rewrite the equation, adjust the variables, find a way to rationalize what he feels.

But… he doesn’t want to.

Because for the first time in his life, the result of a problem doesn’t matter as much as the unknown.

He doesn’t just want to think.

He wants to feel.

He wants to understand why being with you feels like the only constant that truly matters.

And then—you arrive.

Without warning, without fanfare, without the slightest idea that the world inside Donatello’s mind is teetering on the edge of a collapse even he can’t explain.

The lab door slides open smoothly—barely a whisper against the silence, thick with static electricity and the faint murmur of music in his headphones.

He notices everything.

The shift in air pressure.

The sound of your footsteps, softened against the floor.

The faint scent of shampoo and fabric laced with the chill of the night.

The way the temperature in the room rises by just a fraction of a degree when you step inside.

But he doesn’t turn around immediately.

Because he doesn’t know what to do with the anomaly that you are in his equation.

He doesn’t know where to place you within the rigid parameters of his logical, structured world.

His operating system slows, his brain—so used to processing information with the precision of a surgeon—stalls in an endless loop, searching for a resolution that refuses to exist.

And then—your voice.

“Donnie?”

Soft. Not because you’re hesitant, but because you know him. Because somehow—through a method he can’t quantify—you can read the tension in his shoulders. You can see the way his fingers have stopped typing, even though the screen is still waiting for input.

He closes his eyes for just a moment, as if that alone might be enough to reboot him, to restore the control that feels like it’s slipping through his fingers.

He knows he should say something.

He knows he should act normal.

But his normal means efficiency, speed, precise answers delivered at the exact right moment.

And right now, every command in his mind is failing.

You watch him with quiet curiosity, tilting just slightly toward him—just enough for the air between you to feel heavier, more tangible.

“Everything okay?” you ask, voice soft in that way that completely disarms him. Then your gaze sharpens slightly, scanning him with quiet scrutiny. “Are you hurt?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he looks at you.

His mind runs an automatic analysis of your expression—eyes slightly narrowed, lips barely pressed together, the faintest crease in your right brow, as if you’re already calculating the probability that he’s lying.

Logic dictates that he should reassure you with data. That he should tell you his visor has already run a full diagnostic scan and that his physical condition is optimal. That there is no rational reason for concern.

But then his gaze drops.

And he sees his own hand, still resting on the desk—still tense.

And for the first time in a long time, he chooses to do something without overthinking it.

He looks at you again.

His throat feels dry. Without realizing it, he wets his lips—a quick flick of his tongue over skin cracked from hours without proper hydration.

Then, in a voice so quiet it barely sounds like his own, he asks:

“Can I… hold your hand?”

It’s not the kind of question anyone would expect from him.

And he knows it.

Because it doesn’t fit his usual patterns. It’s not something that makes sense in any logical context.

But right now, logic is utterly useless to him.

Your lashes flutter in subtle surprise, as if the words take a few extra seconds to fully register.

“What?”

His instincts scream at him to backtrack, to rephrase, to find a way to explain what even he doesn’t fully understand.

But he doesn’t.

“I want to…” He inhales, trying to reorganize his thoughts. “I mean, just—”

He shuts his eyes for a second, frustration flickering across his face. He has never felt this clumsy with words before.

When he opens them again, you’re still there. You haven’t moved. You haven’t looked away.

And somehow, that alone gives him the courage he’s lacking.

“I just… want to feel it.”

The truth escapes him so easily, so quietly, that it almost embarrasses him.

Your expression shifts.

It’s not amusement.

It’s not rejection.

It’s something softer. More intimate.

And without questioning it—without hesitation or unnecessary words—you let your hand slide over his.

Not hurriedly.

Not hesitantly.

Just with the quiet certainty of someone who understands exactly what he’s asking for.

And when your fingers intertwine with his, Donnie feels every equation, every algorithm, every carefully structured rule in his mind… simply dissolve.

As if they had never really mattered in the first place.

“Well?” you ask, your voice carrying a faint attempt at lightness.

Donnie knows you’re trying to sound casual, that you’re masking your uncertainty behind a relaxed tone. But he notices.

He notices the delicate dusting of pink on your cheeks, the almost imperceptible tremor in your lower lip, the way your thumb brushes against the back of his hand—like you’re adjusting to the contact just as much as he is.

And something inside him… softens.

His lips curve, at first unconsciously—a smile, small and barely formed. Then, from deep in his chest, a quiet laugh escapes, unbidden and genuine, as weightless as the air after a storm.

It’s not mockery. It’s not disbelief.

It’s something purer. Something real.

—Nothing, —he murmurs, his thumb moving awkwardly against your skin— Just… this is nice.

The confession catches him off guard.

Because he hadn’t planned it.

Because he hadn’t filtered it through his logic before speaking.

Because it simply happened.

And then, you look at each other.

Maybe for too long.

Maybe just long enough for the world around you to blur into a distant murmur, as if nothing else exists except the space you occupy together.

He finds himself mesmerized by you.

Fascinated.

But not in the way he is fascinated by a new equation, by an unexpected pattern in the data, by the perfect symmetry of a well-designed structure.

This is different.

This is raw.

This is visceral.

This is feeling.

His other hand, trembling in a way he doesn’t understand, lifts with a slowness that borders on reverence.

And when his fingers brush against your cheek, the touch is so light it feels like an experiment in itself.

He feels.

He feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the way it molds so effortlessly to his touch, the way your body leans ever so slightly toward him—responding to an equation he hasn’t yet written but, for the first time, doesn’t feel the need to solve.

He feels the erratic pounding of his own heart, too fast, too unsteady, as if it has forgotten its natural rhythm.

He feels the heat gathering in his chest, expanding outward like a shockwave, defying all logical explanation.

And then, he hears you sigh.

Small.

Soft.

Almost imperceptible.

But he feels it.

He feels the warmth of your breath against his skin, the subtle vibration of your exhale in the nonexistent space between you.

Feels,

feels,

feels.

As if every one of his senses—once so meticulously calibrated to process information—has now been repurposed for a single objective:

You.

Your warmth seeping into his skin.

Your quiet, rhythmic breathing.

The barely-there weight of your gaze resting on him.

The familiar scent of you, imprinting itself onto some hidden corner of his mind he never thought necessary.

Just you.

Only you.

Nothing else exists.

Nothing else matters.

And then—without thinking, without calculating, without rationalizing it into exhaustion like he always does—

he kisses you.

It’s brief. Just a brush of lips.

A moment suspended between doubt and need, between impulse and fear.

A single heartbeat contained in a single point of contact.

And then—

He hears you gasp.

His entire body locks up. Every muscle goes rigid with a tension so sharp it’s almost painful.

His brain—so efficient, so precise, so relentless in its ability to analyze every variable in a situation—enters a total shutdown.

He stares at you, eyes wide, pupils blown.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

He misread everything.

What the hell was he thinking?

You don’t see him that way.

Why would you?

Why would you ever?

Shame crashes over him like an unstoppable wave. His stomach twists, his skin burns, his heart clenches into an invisible fist that threatens to crush it from the inside out.

He pulls back, his hands loosening, his voice catching in his throat.

—Oh, God, I didn’t mean to— —he stammers, his voice cracking under the weight of his own panic. His thoughts are a mess of unsolved equations, of probabilities collapsing into a singularity of pure dread— I just… I thought it was a good moment, I—

—Yes.

Your voice cuts through his spiral.

His brain short-circuits.

—It was.

…

What?

His breath halts.

The air thickens, pressing in from all sides, as if the entire universe has stopped—right here, right now, in these words, in this reality he never accounted for.

And then—

You close the distance.

You are the one to bring your lips back to his.

And his mind—his brilliant, overanalyzing mind—

for the first time in his life—goes completely silent.

And he simply—feels.

[tmntngl]

This was the first thing I saw when opening the app during a stroll I am on atm. Quickly sat down on a bench to be able to read the whole thing. This one was the beeeest!! The more thoughts and feelings there is, the better. Thanks~

[avery73]

Random Turtle Thoughts Today...

It's a simple thing. Really it is. But he can't deny, seeing it floods him with what feels like liquid lightning.

He was sad at first if he's perfectly honest with himself.

You were shivering so hard. And the hoodie tied securely around his waist was really more for fashion than function, since, let's be real, he wasn't getting that particular garment stretched over his shell. And you were cold. Looking small and vulnerable in such a way that it made his heart ache; even when he knew you were in no immediate danger. So of course he was going to offer you his hoodie! No way he was going to watch you shake with chattering teeth like that on his watch.

The way you'd smiled so appreciatively back at him as he offered it to you made his heart warm. You looked cute too! So stinking cute in his oversized grey hoodie with his signature orange accents. It was like for a second, you were his. Or at least he could pretend that.

He had parted ways with you that night with a giddy swirling in his gut. Much like humans described having butterflies. But he was Mikey - super badass mutant ninja turtle with the brains, the brawn and dazzling personality! He didn't get butterflies. He got swirls. Much like how he fantasized about twirling a lock of your hair around his finger while gazing passionately at the stars trapped in your eyes.

He chastised himself. That was a fantasy. One he didn't even dare let manifest into a hopeful wish. You were special to him. And if he dared give his longing a foothold, he'd be done for.

Despite how much he'd willing fall into that permanent abyss for you, he knows it would be one sided. And he couldn't do that to himself.

Reluctantly, he decided to just wait for you to return his hoodie. Where maybe he could wad the material in his nose, savoring the lingering hint of your scent, and pretend it was you beside him one last time before packing the longing away. Before he had to come back to reality.

But then the odd part. You came down for a movie marathon night with he and his brothers. No borrowed hoodie with you. Perhaps you'd forgotten it. No big deal. Next time.

Except, next time came. And still no hoodie. Time and time again, you were around them or meeting up with them in one capacity or another. Yet each time, you made no acknowledgement of having his hoodie.

And Mikey, honestly, is feeling hurt. He knows he couldn't actually wear that hoodie. But he really liked it. It was still soft. It went with his style perfectly. Maybe it was even sort of like a security blanket for him. That hoodie was an extension of him. He was happy to share it with you. Honest, he was. But he hadn't meant for you to keep it.

An uncharacteristic sense of... of something. Some emotion he's unfamiliar with begin to grow inside of him. Like a splinter festering into a painful sore.

Why wouldn't you bring him back his hoodie?

It was true. There had been something hurting inside. He might even venture to say he was a little mad at you.

That was before now though. As he stood transfixed on the fire escape of your apartment, his mouth slightly agape, eyes unable to blink. And a swirling spinning faster beneath the heart shaped mark on his navel.

There you are. Gorgeous as always. Nestled on your couch with sketch book in hand. Your attention consumed in a world of the music playing in your ears and the image coming to life at your pen strokes. Hair cascading down your shoulders. Legs, lean and toned and glowing with a freshly darkened tan. In nothing but his hoodie.

HIS hoodie. The same unassuming, worn grey hoodie, accented in his shade of orange, that normally adorned his hips. The simple garment that now suddenly meant so much more.

Your eyes flicker his way. Spy him at your window. You giggle. And the swirling inside catches fire. Slipping from the spot you've been nestled you saunter his way. Coming to open the window and invite him inside.

He's feeling breathless as you open the glass and lean out to him. The smile gracing his face isn't his usual one. It's one he can't help, looking at you, his heart screaming to tell you how he feels. To please accept him. To let him love you in all the ways he doesn't let himself think in depth about.

That's not what he says. He chuckles and compliments how good the hoodie looks on you.

It's a simple thing. Really it is.

Until -

Until you tell him, "Only because it's yours."

And now he's sure. It is liquid lightning swirling inside him.

Coming close to you, feeling your warmth and your weight leaning into him as his fingers stroke your lower back. His chin tilted down, yours tilted up. Lips brushing so slightly against each other.

It is liquid lightning.

And he can't wait to pour some of it into you.

@luckycharms1701 @yorshie @justalotoffanfiction @definitely-canon @writinandcrying

@donniesgirlie @gornackeaterofworlds @thelaundrybitch @sophiacloud28 @iridescentflamingo

@the-cauldron-witch @redsrooftopprincess @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @ninnosaurus @tmnt-tychou

@thepinkpanther83 @akari180 @milykins @citruswriter @jenuinely-speaking

@androidships007 @chicchanmooshy @peachesdabunny @msjadamatthews @ahhhhhhhhhfuck

[tmntngl]

Ooooooh that was the cutest! Such great writing on mikey's inner thoughts and feelings. Felt it all🥰👌

[luv4arinn]

Bayverse!Donnie headcanons bc his my bbg

Okay, lol, I really needed to let all of this out and just vomit all the ideas I’ve been hoarding about this man. I love him. I’ve adored him ever since the 2012 series, and that made me realize—I definitely have a thing for nerds. And glasses. Dear god.

I hope you guys like this!! Do you think I should do the same for the other brothers? Or maybe for the other characters? (I wouldn’t mind taking the risk and making headcanons like this for Rocksteady, hehe.)

Alright, bye!!

warnings: sfw & nsfw ( but not so explicit?) :p

- He’s a genius with confidence… until he isn’t.

Donnie is incredibly self-assured when it comes to his intellect and skills. He knows his worth and never doubts his ability to solve problems. Jumping out of a plane without a parachute? Easy. Hacking government security systems? A piece of cake. But confessing his feelings to you? That’s a whole different challenge.

This is where his anxious side kicks in. His brain, used to solving any equation, completely short-circuits when it comes to emotions. What if he misinterprets your signals? What if he ruins the friendship? What if you like someone else? Sure, he can design an exoskeleton in less than 24 hours, but love is a field where variables don’t always make sense.

If you think you can hide something from him, think again. Donnie notices everything. From the slight shift in your expression when you’re tired to the pattern of songs you repeat when you’re feeling down. (And no, he absolutely did not hack your Spotify, ahem—)

- That’s why, when you start falling for him, he already knows. In fact, he probably figured it out before you did.

He won’t tell you right away. Inside his head, there’s a storm of chaotic thoughts, organizing themselves into an ultra-detailed data table with every relevant piece of information. Give him a few days, and once his mind has fully processed everything, he’ll come back to you as a renewed Donnie—determined, confident, and ready to make you his.

- Donnie doesn’t just plan things; he breaks them down into a thousand strategies of action. His trash bin is living proof of the number of ideas he discards and reworks over and over.

Gifts? He’s not the type to grab something generic at the last minute. His gifts are so deeply personalized that they’ll make you feel like he knows you better than you know yourself.

Example: If you ever casually mentioned that you’d love to learn to play an instrument, he’ll build one for you—customized with enhancements. If you said you love the stars, he’ll create an interactive star map with the exact alignment of the sky on the day you were born.

Your birthdays, anniversaries, and any special dates are planned years in advance. It doesn’t matter if you’re not officially together yet—he already has ideas saved for when you are.

- Romance in his brain is an equation far too complex.

Donnie isn’t clumsy because he lacks intelligence; it’s because his brain moves too fast. His emotions and logic are in constant conflict, creating an ongoing battle between Confident Donnie and Nervous Donnie.

You’ll see him go from saying something with complete confidence to, “Uh, well… what I meant to say is… no, wait, forget it—” and then getting frustrated with himself because that definitely wasn’t what he had in mind.

But when he manages to organize his thoughts, he’s one of the most direct people you’ll ever meet. Once he crosses the mental line of “I’m doing this,” there’s no turning back.

- Gifts

He doesn’t believe in generic presents. Everything he gives you has a specific purpose. A bracelet that’s actually a disguised tracker (“For safety. Just for safety.”), or a stuffed animal that can record voice messages.

One day, you wake up and find a new app on your phone with your name on it. You open it, and it’s a virtual assistant designed specifically for you, complete with personalized reminders for the little things Donnie knows you always forget.

- Once he has you, you are his priority.

Once Donnie accepts his feelings and takes the step to be with you, he becomes the most devoted boyfriend.

He’s not excessively clingy or jealous like Raph, but his love is obvious in the time and effort he invests in you.

No matter how many projects he’s juggling, if you truly need his attention, he’ll give it to you without hesitation.

- Donnie needs physical contact, but his intellectual pride won’t let him admit it outright. Instead, he prefers to justify it with overly precise scientific explanations.

“Well, you see… my body temperature tends to drop faster than that of the average human, so it’s biologically beneficial for me to share contact with an external heat source.”

Translation: “Hug me. Now.”

If you confront him with something like, “Why don’t you just say you want cuddles?” he’ll turn bright red and start stammering, scrambling for excuses.

Don’t listen. Just climb onto him.

- Donnie can plan everything, but he cannot predict your spontaneous displays of affection.

If you surprise him with a kiss, his brain completely shuts down for 3-5 seconds before he can process it.

Unexpected gestures—hugging him from behind while he’s working, cupping his face in your hands, or kissing his cheek out of nowhere—leave him frozen, recalculating.

Sometimes, his first reflex is to adjust his glasses, only to realize that they have nothing to do with the fact that his vision just blurred from sheer shock.

NSFW

- He’s patient… but only to a point. Donnie will never pressure you. He’ll wait as long as you need, always making sure you feel safe and comfortable.

However… he’s already undressed you with his eyes a million times.

His mind is a machine of ideas and theories, and when it comes to you, he has imagined everything. Everything.

He tells himself he can be rational and controlled… but if you take too long, his thoughts will become a little more persistent.

- He’s not innocent. Don’t even think it for a second.

He may seem shy or awkward about relationships, but when it comes to this, his mind is a laboratory of hypotheses he’s dying to test.

He has analyzed you with surgical precision. He knows exactly how you blush, how you react to certain touches, which words make you tremble.

Do not underestimate him. He has read, he has researched, he has learned.

But nothing compares to the real thing. With you.

When he finally has you in his hands, his brain short-circuits.

No matter how many times he imagined this moment, nothing could have prepared him for the feeling of your skin beneath his fingers.

His jaw clenches, he exhales sharply, and his pupils dilate as if he’s just been electrocuted.

His entire expression changes—from his usual nervousness to something darker, more intense, starving.

- He becomes obsessive about memorizing every single reaction of yours.

He’s analytical. He will learn what you love and make sure to do it better every single time.

Eye contact and sounds. His drug.

Look at him. Don’t look away. Don’t ignore him.

If you dare to hold his gaze while he’s above you, he will completely lose himself in you.

Your voice, your moans, your gasps—they ruin him.

He needs you vocal. He needs to know he’s doing a good job.

If you get shy and try to cover your mouth, he will ask (or demand) that you don’t.

Kinky? Oh, absolutely.

Donnie lives to experiment. It’s in his nature.

Positions? All of them. But his favorites are the ones where you are on top of him.

He loves being dominated.

After spending his entire life controlling every aspect of his world, it’s a relief for his mind to surrender completely to you.

“Set the pace, beautiful. I’m in your hands.”

Toys? Oh, yes.

You can be sure he has researched every single thing about them.

But he won’t settle for the ones that already exist. No.

He will build his own. Upgraded. With precisely calibrated speeds and optimized materials.

“This one has five vibration levels, but if we increase the frequency by 15%, we could—”

May God help you if you walk into his lab at the wrong time.

May God help his brothers if they ever find out.

Dedicated and obsessed with you.

Donnie doesn’t do anything halfway. If he gives himself to you, it’s completely.

No matter how much time passes, he will always give his all to make you feel incredible.

He’s not a casual lover.

He is yours. And you are his.

“You are my greatest discovery.”

[tmntngl]

Thank you! The fourth one is found~

This is why I love this old stupid site. How can people be so GOOD at depicting the tmnt boys in just the right way. You hit so many great points for me, perfect!

[luv4arinn]

Bayverse!Raph as a Boyfriend Headcanons <3 (but I psychoanalyzed him way too much)

Parenting: Raph x Female Reader

Warnings: Low self-esteem, body dysphoria, this is more serious, sorry, yeah nsfw

This man is the definition of “I’m a mess, but if someone even looks at you, they’re dead.”

In the Bayverse movies, Raph carries a deep-seated resentment toward himself. It’s not just his aggressive attitude or his constant need to fight—deep down, he’s convinced that he doesn’t deserve anything good. And when it comes to love… God, it’s even worse.

In his mind, it’s impossible for someone to see him as anything other than a monster. Not a mutant, not a warrior, not a man—a monster. And even though he’d never say it out loud (because, to him, admitting it would give it power), every time he sees you—every time you smile at him, every time you talk to him like he’s not some freak of nature—his brain just short-circuits.

Because what could he possibly offer you?

Donnie has intelligence and could talk to you about a million fascinating things. Mikey would make you laugh and shower you with love without hesitation. Leo… well, Leo has always been the strong one, the one who makes the right decisions, the one who is everything he isn’t.

But him? He’s just Raph. Impulsive, hot-headed, stubborn, and with a track record of messing up at the worst possible moment.

And the worst part is that even though he loves you in silence, even though he wants you more than he’d ever admit, he would never dare to do anything about it. Because… what if you realize he’s not worth it? What if you snap out of it and realize you could have someone better? What if one day you look at him and see what he sees in the mirror?

That’s why Raph would never make the first move. He’d never stare for too long, never dare to cross that line. But his possessiveness would betray him. The way his brow furrows when you talk to someone else. How his jaw clenches when someone gets too close. How his knuckles go white when he feels like someone else has what he’ll never be able to have.

And if you do return his feelings… God, Raph won’t process it. He won’t believe it. He’ll convince himself it’s a mistake. That he’s going to ruin it. That he doesn’t deserve this—that you deserve better.

But if you prove him wrong—if you stay, if you choose him every single day—he’ll be the most fiercely loyal and protective person you could ever have by your side.

Because even if he never says it out loud, even if he never fully admits it, even if he still doesn’t quite believe it himself… knowing that someone sees him as more than a monster is the only thing that could ever heal the wounds he’s carried his entire life.

Raph doesn’t know how to love halfway. He doesn’t know how to be lukewarm, how to be indifferent. His love is a wildfire—one that consumes and leaves scars if left unchecked. And that’s exactly why he hides it. Because he’s afraid that if he lets it out completely, he’ll end up burning the thing he loves the most.

He’s a passionate lover. But not the kind who sweetens his words or whispers promises in hushed tones. No. Raph loves through actions. He loves by protecting, by holding on, by remembering every little detail, by always being there even when you don’t ask. His love is something you feel in the tension of his muscles when someone gets too close, in the way his gaze darkens when someone makes you laugh a little too much, in the way his hand—his massive hands—grip your waist as if you might disappear at any moment.

But as fiery as his love is, his insecurity is just as cold as a bucket of ice water. He’s not the type to throw tantrums or make a scene just because someone else talked to you. No. His jealousy is quiet, internal, corrosive. Not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he doesn’t trust himself.

Every time he looks at you, every time his eyes land on you, his mind is flooded with the same whirlwind of thoughts:

“God, she’s so beautiful.”

“I love her.”

“Mine.”

“Incredible.”

“I don’t know how she chose me.”

“She could have anyone else.”

…

“I don’t know how she chose me.”

“There are better men than me.”

That last thought is the one that hurts the most. Because no matter how many times you prove him wrong, no matter how many times you stay, no matter how many times you choose him over and over again—deep down, the idea that you could leave never fully leaves him.

That’s why he holds on, even if you don’t notice. Not in a desperate way, not in an obvious way. But it’s there. In how he always walks in a way that keeps his body between you and any other man. In how his fingers sometimes grip the fabric of your clothes just a little too tightly when you’re around others. In how his gaze turns sharp and lethal, even without saying a word.

Because Raph is a warrior. A soldier. A fighter.

But when it comes to love, he doesn’t fight with the same confidence.

Not because he doesn’t want to—

But because he doesn’t believe he has the right to.

Raph isn’t afraid of many things. Not of pain, not of fighting, not of facing an enemy who could kill him at any moment.

But he’s afraid of heights.

And he’s afraid of himself.

Sometimes, on the darkest nights, when the world is silent and there are no distractions to keep him occupied, that fear eats him alive. It burns through his chest like acid. Because he knows what he is. He knows he’s not like Leo, who can think before he acts. He knows he’s not like Donnie, who can analyze things without letting emotions cloud his judgment. He’s not like Mikey, who can let things go with a smile.

He is rage.

He is fire.

He is violence contained within a body too big and a mind too tormented.

And if that rage were ever directed at you…

That thought alone is enough to make his stomach twist. It sickens him, makes him want to throw up, to punch something just to distract himself from the possibility. Because Raph knows what it’s like to lose control. He knows what it’s like to feel his vision go red, to not realize what he’s doing until it’s too late.

But never, never could he allow that to happen to you.

And yet… he’s human. (Well, as close as he can be.) And he makes mistakes.

If you ever fight—if his emotions ignite like an uncontrollable wildfire, if the heat of the argument blinds him, if his voice rises until it becomes a roar—God, he doesn’t even realize what he’s saying. The words spill out like daggers, sharp and unfiltered, filled with frustration and things he doesn’t mean. And deep down, as every syllable poisons the air between you, his throat tightens, his tongue tastes foul, like he’s chewing on something rotten.

But that’s not the worst part.

The worst part is when, in an impulsive act—because he’s always impulsive—his fist slams into the wall right beside you.

The sound echoes. A sharp, heavy thud.

Loud. Too loud.

And when the dust settles, when the echo of his own fury stops ringing in his ears, that’s when he sees it.

Your eyes.

Wide open. Shocked. Scared.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

That fear in your gaze hits him harder than any enemy he’s ever faced. It’s like a punch to the chest, a bullet straight to the heart. His breath catches. His entire body freezes, and the fire inside him—the one that fuels him, the one that’s always raging—suddenly dies out.

There are no words to describe what he feels in that moment.

Shame. Guilt. Self-loathing.

He’s not afraid that you’ll hate him. He’s afraid that you’d be right to.

That you’ll finally see what he’s always known: that he’s not good for you. That he’s dangerous. That no matter how much he loves you, his own nature will always be his worst enemy.

And if he ever loses you because of that…

He doesn’t even know if he’d be able to keep breathing.

Your footsteps fade into the distance, echoing against the damp concrete of the sewers, and Raph stays right where he is.

Still.

Not moving.

Not doing what every fiber of his being is screaming at him to do—run after you, stop you, grab you, tell you he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to scare you, that he didn’t mean to make you cry.

But he doesn’t.

Because he can still see it in his mind. Your expression, that look in your eyes that wasn’t anger, wasn’t sadness—

It was fear.

God.

He clenches his fists and lowers his gaze. He wants to convince himself that he’s not following you because he’s too proud to apologize, because he hates admitting when he’s wrong (and he was wrong—he always is when it comes to these arguments). He wants to tell himself that it’s because he was already in a shitty mood from arguing with Leo earlier, that it’s not his fault his temper is a ticking time bomb.

But deep down, he knows the truth.

He doesn’t follow you because he’s scared.

Because what the hell is he supposed to say? What words could erase what just happened? How could he possibly fix this without making it worse?

So he does the only thing he knows how to do—

He hits.

His fist collides with the wall again, pain shooting through his knuckles like a reminder of what he is.

Of what he can’t change.

And yet, hours later, there he is.

Standing outside your window.

From out here, he can hear you. Not loud sobs, not heart-wrenching cries, but enough. Shaky breaths, the faint sound of your sniffles. And he—he almost turns around right then, almost runs because he doesn’t know if he can take it.

But he doesn’t.

Because he fucked up. And if anyone deserves to carry the weight of this, it’s him.

Slowly, he opens your window (locked, but you gave him a key). He makes no sound as he climbs inside, though the floor creaks slightly beneath his weight. He finds you sitting on your bed, gaze lowered. And when you finally lift your head and your eyes meet his—

It’s like the air is knocked right out of his lungs.

He doesn’t know what to say.

He’s never been good with words. Never known how to express what he feels without his tongue getting tied, without his voice betraying what he really means to say.

So when he finally speaks, his words are clumsy, short—

A failed attempt at explaining the unexplainable.

But you see it.

You see the way his shoulders slump, the way his eyes avoid yours like he’s not worthy of looking at you. You see the tension in his jaw, the war between his pride and his regret.

And then—he does it.

A step forward. Then another. And another.

Until he’s right in front of you.

His massive hands take hold of you with an impossible gentleness, and in one swift motion, he pulls you against his chest.

It’s firm. Warm. Encompassing.

There are no words that could say what this says.

His breathing is heavy, his heartbeat pounds against your ear. One arm wraps around you completely, the other cradles your head against his neck—like he’s making sure you can’t leave, like he can’t lose you again.

And then you feel it.

A faint touch against your hair.

A kiss.

He doesn’t say “I’m sorry” out loud. He doesn’t need to.

His actions say it all.

And you know it.

So yeah. Reconciliation.

But as he holds you, his forehead pressed against yours, his hand still gripping onto you like he’s terrified to let go—

Raph can only think one thing:

“I just hope I don’t fuck this up again. And if I do… God, please let her forgive me.”

Loving Raph is complicated.

Not because he isn’t worth it, but because he makes it difficult. Because every day is a battle against his own fears, against the thought that maybe—just maybe—he’s not enough for you.

But if you’re wondering about the… intimate side of things.

Well.

We all know Raph isn’t exactly innocent.

In his mind, he’s already had you in every way possible. He’s already imagined you gasping his name, cheeks flushed, breath ragged, looking at him like he’s the only thing that exists. He’s lost count of how many times he’s had to slip away, lock himself in the bathroom, and let his hand do the work while his mind recreates you in vivid detail—every little thing he’s memorized about you.

And when he really can’t take it, when the need is unbearable and his body begs for any kind of release, he just tells Mikey to sleep on the couch.

It’s selfish. He knows that. But he doesn’t care.

Because that night, he needs his space.

He needs your scent still lingering on his pillow, needs to bury his face in it and close his eyes while his hand moves at a frantic pace—imagining it’s your skin he’s touching, your mouth around him instead.

But outside of his mind, outside of his most desperate fantasies—

Things are… different.

So far, the farthest you’ve gone is mutual masturbation. And God.

He thought he was going to die when he felt your lips around his length, when your tongue slid along his shaft and your eyes met his. His back hit the wall, and he let out a groan so deep he swore someone in the lair must have heard him.

And when he had you riding his fingers, gripping onto his arm as you unraveled in his hand, he swore his self-control was hanging by a thread.

But he always stops there.

Because Raph is big.

Not just in size, but in strength, in intensity, in everything. And no matter how much you want him, no matter how many times you assure him that he would never hurt you on purpose, that fear is still there.

That damn fear of hurting you.

Because if he were human, he already would’ve had you. He would’ve taken you the way he’s supposed to, given you everything you want—everything he craves with every fiber of his being.

But he’s not human.

And even though his hands were made to protect you, he can’t stop thinking about what would happen if he ever slipped up. If he ever lost control.

Loving him is complicated, huh?

But if there’s one thing for sure—it’s that you could never get bored of him.

Because there’s something incredible about the way he holds you when he jumps across rooftops, the cold air hitting your face and the night sky reflecting in his golden eyes. There’s something addictive about the feeling of being in his arms, adrenaline rushing through your veins as he moves with lethal precision, like the city belongs to him.

And if you train with him… well, that’s a whole different story.

Because Raph loves seeing you strong, seeing you challenge him, seeing you throw punches at him with all the determination in the world. And even though he’d never admit it out loud, he enjoys it way too much when you sit on his shell while he does push-ups.

Not just because he likes the weight of you on him, but because every time he pushes up and down, he can feel your laughter against his neck, your presence wrapping around him like a second skin.

And God knows—there’s nothing in the world that makes him feel more complete than that.

[tmntngl]

Here we gooo, the third one in the bag! I just love a long read with heart wrenching self doubt and angst 😍

[luv4arinn]

Bayverse!Mikey Headcanons, but once again, I try to psychoanalyze everything.

Pairing: Mikey x female reader

Warning: Mentions of ADHD, mentions of sexual assault/rape, slight emotional dependency, slight NSFW

Dating Mikey is a special case.

Canonically, he has ADHD. His mind is a constant whirlwind of ideas, movement, impulses, and words. But when it comes to you… God. He does everything in his power to focus. To center all his attention on every word you say, every gesture you make, every little expression that flickers across your face.

Because even though his brain is always racing, even though his energy seems endless, there’s one certainty that keeps him grounded: you.

And Mikey… Mikey is flirty.

It’s not that he tries to be—it’s just who he is. It’s in his blood, in the way he moves, in the way compliments slip from his lips so naturally, it’s like he doesn’t even think before saying them. He proved it in the first movie when he saw April and blurted out that thing about his shell being tight. So no, he’s not the type to keep quiet when he likes someone. Not at all.

Mikey will make sure you know.

And not in a subtle way.

He’ll tell you with over-the-top words, with lines that sound straight out of a bad rom-com but, coming from him, somehow feel genuine and even adorable. He’ll tell you with cheesy nicknames, with grins so wide they could light up the room, with eyes that sparkle like you’re the moon itself, illuminating his entire world.

And he’s expressive. God, he’s so expressive.

He has no filter. If he thinks you look amazing, he’ll say it. If he finds something you did adorable, he’ll mention it. If he’s hopelessly in love with you, he’ll make sure the entire world knows.

Mikey doesn’t love in silence.

He loves loudly, with excited shouts and sudden hugs, with happy jumps and improvised dances right in the middle of the lair. He loves with every fiber of his being—fearlessly, unapologetically.

And if that means that sometimes his love is too intense, that sometimes it’s a hurricane of words, laughter, and exaggerated gestures… well.

That’s only because he can’t help it. Because you’re his girl. And he’ll never let you forget it.

And if he ever hears that yes slip from your lips… brace yourself.

Love him the way he loves the world, please. This man has so much love to give. I truly believe he’s incredibly affectionate deep down. But he knows you, and he’s learning to control himself. Still, sometimes… sometimes, all that sweetness slips through the cracks.

Because he loves you the way he loves the world.

He loves you the way he loves music.

He loves you the way he loves skateboarding.

Too much sweetness? Eh. I hope you have a taste for sugar.

Mikey is an outpouring of love in its purest form.

He’s a man who feels too much, who lives too much, who loves too much. But when you enter his life, everything he thought he knew about love suddenly isn’t enough anymore.

And if he ever hears a yes from you—if you ever confirm that you love him just as much as he loves you…

Brace yourself.

Because this man falls apart. He melts like ice cream under the summer sun. His heart bursts into a thousand colors, like fireworks lighting up the New Year’s sky. He hugs you, lifts you off the ground, spins you around, laughs, yells, probably runs off to tell his brothers, then rushes back just to make sure it wasn’t a dream.

Please, love him the way he loves the world.

Because Mikey has so much love to give—more than his own body can contain. And yes, deep down, he’s overwhelmingly affectionate, though he tries to hold back. Not because he minds being that way, but because he knows you. Because he’s learning to manage his intensity, to not overwhelm you with everything he feels all at once.

But sometimes… oh, sometimes he just can’t help it.

Because he loves you the way he loves music—with passion, with energy, with every cell in his body vibrating in sync with his own rhythm.

He loves you the way he loves skateboarding—with the thrill of speed, with the adrenaline of knowing that every moment with you is a new trick to master, a new challenge that excites him.

Too much sweetness? Eh… you’d better have a sweet tooth. Because this man is a never-ending sugar factory.

And beyond all that, Mikey is an artist.

An underappreciated artist, yes, but an artist nonetheless.

There are probably walls in hidden corners of the sewers covered in his mark, in designs that tell his story. He may not say it out loud, but every stroke, every explosion of color, is a piece of his soul imprinted on concrete.

And if you share his love for body art? God.

If you love the idea of tattoos, or if it’s your first time and you decide you want him to be the one to do it… Mikey is going to lose his mind. He’ll squeal with excitement, hug you, and before you even realize it, he’ll already be showing you sketches, ideas, and designs he probably drew long before you ever even brought up the topic.

Because deep down, all Mikey wants is to leave his mark on the world.

And if you ever let him leave his mark on you…

Well.

That will only be another sign that his love is eternal.

Being with Mikey is like being on cloud nine.

Because he’s always on cloud nine.

He’s a dreamer, a free spirit, someone who would rather see life through rose-colored glasses than face the harshness of reality. His mind is always drifting between ideas, jokes, and melodies only he seems to hear.

But don’t let his carefree nature fool you.

Mikey isn’t stupid. Not even close.

In fact, he’s extremely smart. A genius in his own right. But unlike Donnie, who channels his intellect into science and technology, or Leo, who applies it to strategy, Mikey just… doesn’t see the need to prove it all the time.

Because being smart also means knowing when to relax.

Sometimes he seems easygoing, like nothing can truly affect him. But when it comes to you… when it comes to protecting you…

Everything changes.

Because Mikey is protective. Extremely protective.

He knows where he stands.

He knows he lives in a world where people like him shouldn’t exist. Where villains lurk in every shadowed corner of the city, where darkness hides dangers most people don’t even realize are there.

Because every time he goes out on patrol, he sees firsthand just how cruel the world can be.

And it’s not his fault that he’d rather stay in the clouds than face that reality.

But then, there’s you.

You are his anchor. His connection to the real world.

Because when things get bad, when the city feels darker than usual, when reality weighs too heavy on his shoulders…

You are the one who reminds him why he keeps fighting.

Why he keeps patrolling.

Because every time he faces danger, it’s not just out of duty. It’s not just because he’s a hero.

It’s because he wants to make this world—this city—a better place. For you.

And on the nights when he comes back to the lair after seeing the worst the city has to offer—the fights, the crimes, the people suffering—he stays up, restless.

And he asks Donnie.

“Why is there so much bad in the streets, bro?”

For once, his voice is serious. His gaze, shadowed.

Because, even if he doesn’t always show it, deep down, he’s still a kid who wants to believe the world can be good. That people can be better.

And until that happens…

He’ll keep fighting.

For the city.

For his family.

For you.

But on nights like this…

On nights like this, reality seeps through the cracks of his optimism.

And it drowns him.

Knock, knock, knock.

At first, his persistence doesn’t surprise you. Mikey always knocks on your window with energy, his impatience buzzing in every tap.

But this time, it’s different.

There’s something in the rhythm, in the desperation of his knuckles against the glass.

Something that sends a chill down your spine.

When you rush to open it, you barely have time to react before he pulls you into his arms.

And Mikey has always been physical, always been drawn to touch.

But this isn’t his usual enthusiastic hug.

This one is desperate.

He holds you tightly, as if afraid you might disappear between his arms. He’s trembling. His breathing is erratic, his chest rising and falling too fast, and when he rests his head against your chest, you realize just how hard his heart is pounding.

He’s trying to hear yours.

He’s trying to make sure you’re still alive.

And when he lifts his head, when his blue eyes finally meet yours, you see something in them you rarely ever see.

Fear.

Real fear.

Not the kind he fakes when watching a horror movie just so he can pull you close and laugh. Not the playful fear when Raph threatens to smack him upside the head.

No.

This is deeper.

“Mikey… what happened?” you ask, your own voice shaking slightly.

He doesn’t answer right away.

His lips part, but nothing comes out. He just swallows hard and closes his eyes, as if trying to erase what he saw. As if trying to convince himself it wasn’t real.

But it was.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, unusually serious.

“A patrol…” he starts, but his voice breaks. He runs a shaky hand over his face, inhaling unsteadily before trying again.

“We were on the rooftops. I… I was messing with Raph. You know, the usual.”

He tries to smile, but he can’t.

“And then I heard it.”

A lump forms in his throat.

“A scream.”

Your body tenses.

Mikey bites his lip.

“I jumped to the next building. I looked around. And then…”

He pauses.

Clenching his fists.

Clenching his jaw.

Because he doesn’t want to say it out loud. He doesn’t want to relive it.

But he has to let it out.

“She had your hair,” he whispers.

A shiver runs down your spine.

“And my mind…” he grimaces. “My mind played tricks on me. I saw…”

He doesn’t say it.

He doesn’t need to.

Because his eyes, his broken expression, tell you everything you need to know.

For a second, in the darkness of the night, in that filthy alleyway… Mikey saw you in her place.

And it felt like his world was ending.

His hands tighten around you, as if—now that he’s here, now that he can see you, touch you—he needs to convince himself that you’re safe.

That you’re real.

“Mikey…” you whisper, gently running your hand over his shell, trying to soothe him.

But he just buries his face into the curve of your neck.

Because he knows that, yes, you’re safe now.

But he also knows how cruel the world can be.

Mikey feels too much.

He’s a storm of emotions trapped inside a shell that’s too small to contain them all.

And right now, those emotions are spilling over.

Because the thought of losing you, the mere possibility that something could take you away from him, is consuming him.

He would feel… betrayed.

Because the world gave him something so beautiful, so bright, so perfect—you. And then what? Would it just rip you away without a second thought?

No.

He wouldn’t let it.

So he buries his head in your hair and takes a deep breath.

Your scent soothes him.

And terrifies him all at once.

Calm, because you’re still here. Because when he wraps his arms around you, you can feel how strong his hold is—like he’s trying to fuse you to him, like simply letting go could make you disappear.

And terrifying, because… what if one day, he couldn’t protect you?

His mouth finds the exposed skin of your neck, and he lets out a shaky sigh. Kisses—soft at first. Slow. As if each one were a silent plea. As if every brush of his lips against your skin was an unspoken promise that he would never let anything happen to you.

And then… everything feels hot.

Too hot.

Need consumes him all at once, like a fire burning through everything in its path. His hand grips your waist too tightly, like he needs to make sure you’re real.

And suddenly, there’s too much clothing.

You feel it too.

But Mikey has never been impatient.

Not with you.

He likes to take his time, to savor every moment, every reaction, every little gasp when his fingers explore your skin. He loves the anticipation, the way your breath quickens as his lips leave a trail of kisses down your abdomen.

Down to your hips.

Down to the soft skin of your inner thighs.

His fingers grip your flesh, holding you in place, and his warm breath brushes against the most sensitive part of your body.

He devours you with the same passion with which he loves the world.

With the same devotion he pours into music, into his art, into the adrenaline of skateboarding.

And tonight…

Tonight, it’s even more intense.

Because he needs to remind himself that you’re still here.

That you’re still in his hands.

Mikey is touch and sweetness.

His fingers trace your skin like he’s sketching in his notebook, like every caress is a precise brushstroke on his favorite masterpiece.

It’s him who slides the fabric of your shirt down your shoulders, who unclasps your bra with an ease that proves he’s done this far too many times.

But he doesn’t rush.

Because he wants to savor every second.

His mouth finds your collarbone first, leaving kisses that are barely there. A whisper of contact that keeps you on edge, that makes your breathing heavier before you even realize it.

And when his lips reach your shoulder blades, when his tongue barely grazes the curve of your back, a sigh escapes your lips.

Mikey pauses.

He takes a second to close his eyes and take it all in.

Your sound.

Your reaction.

The way your body shivers beneath his touch.

And when he opens his eyes again, his chest swells with pride.

He’s got you.

He’s got you right here, in his hands, melting like clay molded by his touch.

His arm curls around your waist as he lifts you effortlessly, guiding you toward the bed with the same ease with which he’d take your hand at any other time of the day.

He lays you down gently. With devotion.

And before leaning over you, he presses a kiss to your forehead.

Softly.

Tenderly.

Because Mikey isn’t just passion and desire.

He’s love.

He’s devotion.

And it’s him who finds your neck again, who bites your skin with the same intensity with which he savors every moment by your side.

He feels it when you arch your back, when you cling to him instinctively.

He feels it when you become completely his.

And then he moves lower.

His warm breath glides over your skin.

His lips carve a slow, maddening path downward.

And in the midst of it all—between the kisses and the breathless sighs—his voice slips into your ear.

Muttering the most ridiculously cheesy lines he can think of.

Because if there’s something he loves more than this moment, it’s making you laugh.

And when you snort in amusement, when your laughter bubbles from your chest like the sweetest melody, Mikey knows there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

Than right here.

With you.

[tmntngl]

Number two of the overanalyzing headcannons. Thank you very much!