Tmnt Imagines

The glow of the screen illuminates Donnie’s cluttered workshop. He should be debugging a new tracking algorithm. But a random forum link touting ‘exclusive behind-the-scenes content’ has lured him off course. Another click, and a page loads.

The header image is a very familiar woman in a skimpy, futuristic soldier outfit, face obscured by a visor. Breasts swelling against the shimmering fabric, threatening to spill forth. And her ass, peeking out of a too-short skirt, possesses a lush curve that makes his throat constrict and his overworked brain stall.

He clicks through more pages—and there you are. Even with the filtered and edited face, he would recognize you anywhere. His hand freezes over a button that reads ‘Unlock My Private World.’ It can’t be. You, the girl who brings them pizza, who argues with Mikey about cartoons, who actually listens when he explains the nuances of quantum mechanics.

A furious blush creeps up his neck. His initial reaction is a spike of protective anger, but it’s immediately drowned by a tidal wave of something else. Something dark and curious coils tight in his gut. He locked his door. His brothers are topside. So he clicks the button. After creating an account named Binary_Spectator, he routes the subscription transaction through seven untraceable servers.

Then the paywall falls away, and he sees the plethora of content.

It’s undeniably you.

Even draped in a burlap sack, he would recognize that exact, subtle tilt of your hips. That one specific dimple just above your ass, a detail he’s only ever glimpsed fleetingly when you stretch languidly after a training session—when your tank top rode up just enough to offer a forbidden peek. And he’d definitely know those generous tits he’s failed to avoid staring at for months.

His mouse hovers, then clicks on a video thumbnail: Azure Striker’s ASMR Confessional. Azure Striker is his favorite character from the video game, Cosmic Combat Chaos VII. His stomach plummets, then lurches with a perverse thrill. The video loads.

And there you are, in a meticulously crafted Azure Striker costume—though armor plating is strategically missing in some places, revealing tantalizing expanses of your skin. The breastplate is also cut impossibly low. The armored skirt barely covers anything, promising an easy view of what lies beneath.

Your voice, usually so straightforward, is a husky whisper practically fucking the microphone as you narrate some imagined scenario of capture and interrogation by unseen alien captors. Your words drip with a feigned vulnerability that quickly morphs into throaty promises.

“They think they can break Azure Striker,” you purr, your eyes half-lidded, staring directly into the camera, directly at him, as if you can see him hunched in the darkness of his workshop. “But they don’t know how much she likes to be thoroughly … examined.”

You draw out the word “examined” as you shift, the skirt riding up your thighs. His breath catches, the sight going straight to his groin. He watches as you slowly, methodically, strip. You narrate your every action in that soft, ASMR tone, all in excruciating, sensual detail. His genius-level intellect that could engineer something amazing out of scrap metal blue-screens.

All that’s running now is the feral reptile part of his brain, completely focused on you.

He’s so relieved—a frantic and selfish kind of relief—that you’re alone. No one else touches you. This is a performance, just for the camera. Just for him. When your hand slips between your legs, his own is already there, gripping the thick, hard length of himself through his pants.

This is beyond anything he could have fantasized.

Your soft moans are a feedback loop of pure, uncut data streaming directly into the most primitive part of his brain. His pants feel like a cage, a pointless restriction he immediately remedies. He frees his cock, thick and painfully hard, the spade-shaped head already slick with precum. His thumb glides over the tip as he watches your fingers trace the swell of your breast. You describe the sensation, the way your nipple beads and hardens, and his own body mirrors the reaction, his erection pulsing in his hand.

“The interrogators are watching,” you whisper breathily. “I have to give them a show, don’t I? Have to make them think they’re winning.”

His grip tightens, his knuckles white; he’s winning, alright.

The video becomes a blur of skin and motion, of whispered filth and the wet sounds of your pleasure. He pumps his fist, his eyes locked on the screen, matching your rhythm. He imagines it’s his hand on you, his fingers you’re guiding. The fantasy is so vivid it’s almost painful, and he comes with a guttural groan.

His release is a hot, messy splash across his own stomach and the edge of his desk. He slumps in his chair, breathing hard, the aftershocks still rattling through him as your video plays on, your soft panting a torturous lullaby. A sticky, cooling mess coats his plastron, the evidence of his complete loss of control.

He should feel disgusted. He should scrub his desk with an industrial-grade solvent and purge his cache. Instead, his gaze remains glued to the screen, where your face, flushed with a convincing post-orgasmic glow, fills the frame. You offer a final wink before the video ends, replaced by a grid of other thumbnails.

Each tiny square is a different facet of you he never knew existed. And the hunger to see them all is a ravenous, gnawing thing.

His gaze falls on your upload schedule and cross-references it with his own mental calendar. Last Tuesday, you’d canceled pizza night, texting Mikey you were ‘feeling under the weather’. A lie. And that wasn’t the first time you’d made something up to get out of hanging out with Donnie and his brothers to make your content.

He wanders over to your wish list, buys you some bougie sex toys and outfits, and goes back to your gallery of filth.

It’s gonna be a long night.

This becomes his new, secret subroutine.

Days are spent in a haze of feigned normalcy, but nights are for Binary_Spectator. Donnie devours your content like a starved man, cataloging every video, every photo set. He knows the exact pitch of your moan when you’re close, the way you bite your lip just before you come. He knows your upload schedule better than he knows his own brothers’ patrol routes.

But the live streams—those are the chaotic, beautiful variables.

An alert flashes on his screen, a private notification just for subscribers: Going live! Feeling playful, taking requests ;). His heart hammers. Live. Real-time. Not a pre-recorded performance. He clicks the link, his hands suddenly clammy as he brings up the stream.

You fill the screen, not in cosplay this time, but in a simple, sinfully small black lace bra and matching panties. You’re sitting on your bed, knees drawn up, a coy smile playing on your lips. The live chat is a waterfall of usernames and emojis, a frantic scramble for your attention. A spike of primitive, territorial anger lances through him. These fucking morons, drooling over you.

They don’t know you.

Not like he does.

He watches as you laugh, reading the comments and fulfilling small requests for small tips. A kiss blown at the camera. A slow turn to show off your ass. He needs more. Needs to drown out the noise of the others. He takes a deep breath and types:

$500: Azure Striker costume. Now. And I want to see you get that plasma rifle REALLY dirty.

He hits send. The chat explodes into a frenzy of emojis and capital letters. Your eyes widen, scanning the flood of tips.

“Oh! Oh my goodness! Binary_Spectator!” You sound genuinely flustered, a blush creeping up your neck. “Wow! That’s a big one!” A delighted, slightly wicked smile plays on your lips. “Okay, okay! Azure Striker it is! And, uh … plasma rifle … really dirty? You got it, big spender! Your wish is my command!”

You disappear off screen for a few minutes. He can hear rustling, a muttered curse. Then you’re back, wearing the costume. You’re holding the replica plasma rifle, looking a little uncertain, but with a definite spark of challenge in your eyes.

“So … how dirty are we talking, Binary_Spectator?”

He types, a hefty $300 tip attached, ensuring your undivided attention:

I want you to deep throat the barrel. Slobber all over it. Make it shine. Then I want you to fuck those perfect tits with it. And when you’re done with that, hike up that pathetic excuse for a skirt and rub your clit raw with the stock until you scream. Use my name when you come. I want to hear you scream ‘Oh, Binary_Spectator, I’m coming for you! Make me your little space slut!’

You bite your lip, looking directly into the camera, a mix of embarrassment and excitement in your eyes.

“Well … Binary_Spectator,” you say, your voice a little breathless. “You certainly know how to make a request. And how to open your wallet.” You lift your chin and smile. “Alright. For you. For my top tipper.”

And then, God help him, you do it.

Every single filthy, degrading thing he typed.

You bring the rifle to your mouth, your eyes locked on the unblinking lens of the camera. The tip nudges your lips apart. You take it in slowly, your eyes fluttering shut as the first inch slides inside—then more. Your throat convulses, a violent, reflexive gag you suppress with a choked whimper.

Donnie watches, sees your jaw working, your cheeks hollowing as you deep throat the prop weapon. Saliva spills over your lips, a thick, clear stream that trails down the rifle’s casing. You make it shine for him.

With a final, desperate gag, you pull back, a string of spit connecting your mouth to the slick barrel. Your chest is heaving, a flush of red staining your skin from your neck to the tops of your breasts. Just as he commanded, you lower the rifle, positioning the long, spit-slicked shaft between the heavy swell of your tits. You press them together, sandwiching the weapon in your flesh, your low-cut breastplate framing the obscene union of soft skin and hard plastic.

“Mmm, just for you, Binary_Spectator,” you pant, your voice a ragged mess.

His own cock, slick with his fluid, pumps in his fist. He watches the heavy globes of your tits swallow the weapon as you move it back and forth. His grip on himself tightens, his knuckles white, his own thrusts becoming more frantic, a desperate attempt to physically connect with the fantasy he’s paying for.

You cry out and your hand dives down, hooking a thumb under the flimsy silver plates and hiking them up your hip. The scrap of black lace you wore before, now soaked through, clings to your slit. Your fingers tremble as you push the panties aside, baring your swollen clit for him.

You let out a soft, theatrical groan, eyes still locked on the camera, on him. “Is this what you wanted, Binary_Spectator?” you pant. “Is this dirty enough for you?”

You reposition the rifle, pressing the butt of the stock—a hard, textured grip—right against the glistening nub.

A sharp, electric gasp tears from your throat. “Oh! Oh, god … yes …”

You start to grind, a slow, torturous rhythm at first, then faster, more desperate. He watches the muscles in your thighs tremble, your toes curl. Your hips buck and writhe against the weapon, your head lolling back, mouth parting. This is no longer just for him; he can see it in the wild, unfocused look in your eyes.

This is for you now, too.

“Aaah … fuck … Binary … I’m getting so close …”

“Scream my name,” he whispers to the screen, his voice a low growl in the silent workshop. “Scream it.”

As if you heard him, your back arches, your body going rigid. Your head thrashes from side to side, your mouth open in a perfect, silent ‘O’ for a split second before the sound rips out of you. “OH, BINARY_SPECTATOR! I’M COMING FOR YOU! MAKE ME YOUR LITTLE SPACE SLUT!” You scream, a high wail, your body arching.

The sound, your voice, your scream, his name—it hits him like a kill-shot. He lets out a roar as he comes, a shuddering orgasm that spatters hot and thick across his knuckles.

He slumps forward, boneless, his forehead resting on the cool surface of the desk. On the screen, you are a trembling mess, your body still spasming with the aftershocks of your release. You let out a long, shaky breath and offer a weak, dazed smile to the camera.

“Thank you … Binary_Spectator,” you pant, your voice barely a whisper. “You really … you really broke me.”

It isn’t long before the stream ends.

That night, as he slept, images of your face contorted in ecstasy are still pleasantly burned into Donnie’s retinas.

One afternoon, you’re in the lair, making a protein smoothie after a sparring session.

Donnie walks into the kitchen, your back to him. You’re wearing leggings and a tight-fitting crop top, your hair in a messy bun. As you bend to get something from a low cupboard, the fabric of your leggings stretches taut—and he can see the full, round swell of your ass.

His throat goes dry. It’s a gut-punch of a sight, a real-world collision with the digital fantasy. His blood feels like static, a low hum of arousal that starts in his groin and radiates through his entire system. Seeing you now, solid and real and just a few feet away, makes the air in his lungs feel thick as syrup.

You straighten up, turning with a container of protein powder in your hand. “Oh, hey, Don,” you say, your voice bright and completely oblivious.

He leans against the doorframe, forcing a casualness he doesn’t feel, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to hide the reflexive clenching of his fists. “Smoothie,” he states, his own voice sounding rougher, deeper than he intended.

“The breakfast of champions,” you grin, dumping a scoop into the blender. The muscles in your arms flex, and his eyes follow the movement, cataloging it, filing it away with the terabytes of data—metaphorically and literally—he’s already collected on you.

“Productive session, then?” he asks, his tone carefully neutral.

“You have no idea,” you laugh, blissfully unaware of the double meaning that hangs. “It was intense. Really pushed my limits.”

His gaze drops to your mouth as you speak, to the lips he watched wrap around a purple silicone toy just hours ago. He remembers the spit-slick sheen, the pout of them after you pulled away, panting. The urge to close the distance between you is a physical ache. A violent, stupid impulse he crushes with the full force of his restraint.

He is Binary_Spectator. He is your top patron. But here, in the kitchen, he is just Donatello, the awkward turtle who fixes your laptop when it crashes.

Raph never thought he’d wake up like this.

The morning light streams in, past the edges of the curtains. It dusts over the tangled sheets and the gentle curve of your shoulder, and he can’t tear his eyes away. He watches the slow, steady rise and fall of your chest and the way your lashes rest on your cheeks. He just stares, afraid to blink, as if you might vanish like smoke.

He wonders if this is a dream—because you are simply too good, too sweet to be his.

But you’re real. Warm and solid beside him. Your hand is resting right over the center of his plastron, fingers curled loosely like it belongs there. Like he belongs here, with you. The thought is so foreign it almost hurts.

He doesn’t move. Not yet. He traces his fingers slowly down the delicate ridge of your spine, the pad of his thumb catching on the fabric of the t-shirt you’d borrowed. He’s careful not to wake you, even though every inch of him wants to haul you closer, wrap you up so tight nothing could ever get to you.

He’s taken hits that have cracked his shell, fought tooth and nail against aliens and ninjas to keep the people he loves safe. But nothing has ever undone him quite like this—like you.

The way you said his name last night like it meant something more. How you touched him like he wasn’t something to be feared, or pitied, or a secret to be hidden away underground.

You’d traced the nicks in his plastron, your fingers gentle on the network of old scars crisscrossing his arms. You gave yourself to him without an ounce of hesitation, like you’d never even noticed the rough edges or the fact that he’s a giant freakin’ turtle.

And the way you breathed, I love you against his throat. He closes his eyes, letting the memory wash over him again. He doesn’t know how he got here, how he lucked into this. But he knows one thing for sure: he’ll die before he takes it for granted.

He turns his head and presses a kiss to your temple. You stir, just a little, a soft sound catching in your throat before you murmur his name, a sleepy, slurred syllable. He never thought he’d get this, never thought love was in the cards for someone like him. Not this—waking up next to someone who knows everything about him and still wants to stay.

His chest gets tight in the best kind of way.

Your fingers twitch on his chest and he gently laces his much bigger ones with yours. He likes the quiet. The softness. The safety of it all. You sigh and shift closer, your face nestling into the curve of his neck.

He whispers, all reverence, “You’re too good for me, you know that?”

You don’t answer, just make this sleepy hum that turns into a smile. But even if you don’t hear it, he means it. He’ll probably say it a hundred more times. And a hundred more after that.

He doesn’t know how long he lies here like this. But eventually, the world has other plans. A loud bang comes from the hallway, followed by Mikey’s unmistakable voice.

“Yo! Lovebirds! You two alive in there or what? I’m makin’ waffles and I ain’t waitin’!”

Raph groans, dragging a heavy hand over his face as you let out a snort of laughter against his throat.

“He’s not gonna stop, is he?” you murmur, voice still thick with sleep.

“Nope,” he sighs. “This is what I get for having brothers.”

Another knock—louder this time—rattles the door. “Also, Raph, don’t forget we share walls! Soundproofing only does so much, bro!”

He nearly chokes and sits up, heat flooding his face. “I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna mount his shell on the wall.”

You’re laughing now, properly awake and grinning up at him. He looks down at you, and all the murderous rage, all the embarrassment, just … softens. Evaporates.

He leans in, presses his forehead to yours, the cool, smooth skin of his brow against your warmth. He whispers, his voice raw, “You’re mine, right?”

You nod without hesitation, your hand coming up to cup his jaw. “Always.”

Yeah. He’s done for. Utterly, completely done for.

“You okay?” he asks, the question automatic, a reflex honed from a lifetime of worrying.

You nod, then look up at him like you’re memorizing his face. “Better than okay.”

He swears his heart stutters, a wonderful lurch in his chest.

You press a soft kiss to the side of his jaw and rest your head back against his chest, and for a moment, he doesn’t move. He just holds you, breathes you in. He doesn’t say it out loud—not yet, the words too big, too new.

But he’s pretty sure this is what forever feels like.

You stay tucked against his side for a while longer, his big arm wrapped protectively around your shoulders as you both listen to the chaos outside the bedroom door. Mikey is loud, probably recapping everything to his brothers like it’s a damn soap opera. He groans and you just laugh, still smiling.

Eventually, you murmur, “Come on, tough guy. Let’s face the teasing head-on.”

He sighs like a man walking toward his execution. “Only ‘cause you’ll be there.”

He throws on his sweats, and you pull on a pair you brought in your overnight bag before he leads you to the kitchen, hand-in-hand. The moment the two of you cross the threshold, three sets of eyes swing towards you.

Leo, perched on a stool, sips his morning tea, a picture of smug calm. “Well, well. Look who finally emerged from the fortress of solitude.”

Donnie doesn’t even glance up from his tablet. “By the way, Raph,” he begins, his voice maddeningly casual, “your vitals were spiking all night. Thought you were having a heart attack until I remembered you let me monitor your heart rate.”

Raph scrubs a hand over his face in utter mortification as he guides you to the table, pulling out a chair for you. “Yeah, yeah. You done, Donnie?”

You sit, failing to stifle a giggle as Raph shoots his brother a glare that would make most people run for cover. But of course, this is Donnie, who just lifts a single eyebrow in mock innocence.

“I’m merely observing empirical data,” Donnie says dryly, finally glancing up. “And also suggesting you turn off your biometric sync before engaging in … strenuous cardiovascular activity again.”

Mikey slides a plate stacked high with waffles onto the table in front of you, beaming. “Don’t listen to them. I, for one, support this spicy new development. I even made heart-shaped waffles!”

You blink, staring at the golden stack. On top, strawberries and chocolate chips have been arranged in what is clearly an attempt at a giant turtle’s lips kissing a smaller, human-shaped figure. “Did you really cut these into shapes?”

Raph grunts, slumping into the chair beside you and mumbling, “I swear to god, I’m movin’ out.”

You lean toward him, hand on his thigh, a point of contact that grounds him instantly. “No, you’re not,” you whisper.

And just like that, the tension in his shoulders melts. Because yeah, his brothers are impossible, meddling pains in his shell, and this whole thing is turning into breakfast theater. But you’re here. Beside him. Laughing with his family. Wearing his shirt.

He leans over, presses a firm kiss just behind your ear. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he breathes. “Long as you’re here.”

Mikey fans himself with his hand. “Is this what real love looks like? I’m gonna cry. Leo, hand me a napkin!”

Leo just rolls his eyes, but you catch the tiny, genuine smile he hides behind his mug.

After breakfast, the brothers scatter. Leo disappears into the dojo with Splinter. Donnie retreats into his lab, and Mikey plops down in a beanbag chair to wage war on some digital aliens. You and Raph settle on the couch in the main living area.

His arm comes to rest on the back of the couch behind your shoulders. Though he’s still brooding.

“You’re still thinking about Donnie’s heart rate monitor comment, aren’t you?” you ask, leaning your head against his bicep.

He grunts in response, his gaze fixed on the TV screen without really seeing Mikey’s game.

Your fingers graze the inside of his wrist. “It’s not like they didn’t already know what was happening.”

He huffs. “Yeah, but still. Kinda different when your brother’s practically running a commentary on your private moments.”

You lean closer, brushing your lips against the hard line of his jaw. “Guess you’ll just have to make sure our next ‘private moment’ is completely off the grid.”

That gets his attention. His head turns toward you, his green eyes dark with a promise that makes your stomach flip. His mouth twitches with something smug and possessive. “You plannin’ on there bein’ a next time already?”

You smirk, feeling bold. “I’m counting on it.”

He lets out a quiet, rumbling chuckle. His fingers twitch behind you, then settle more firmly at your side, pulling you just a little closer. “Y’know,” he mutters, his voice dropping an octave. “Could go now. Sneak back to my room.”

You laugh softly into his shoulder. “Tempting.”

“Get a room, you two!” Mikey teases, his eyes still glued to the game.

Raph rolls his eyes, but a genuine smile finally breaks through. He looks at you, questioning. He wants to be with you, but the lair is never truly private.

“C’mon,” he says, his voice low as he stands, extending his hand.

You accept his offer without hesitation, letting him pull you to your feet. He doesn’t let go of your hand, his grip firm and sure as he leads you back down the hall to his room. Once you’re both inside, he closes the door behind you, shutting out his brothers, leaving just the two of you.

Turning, his intense eyes search yours. He takes a slow step toward you, then another, his size crowding your space until your back meets the door. He plants a hand next to your head, caging you in. “So … ‘off the grid,’ huh?”

Your pulse quickens, and you smirk playfully. “Just a suggestion.”

A corner of his mouth ticks up, but his eyes remain serious, smoldering. “I like your suggestions.”

He dips his head, his face so close you can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. “Donnie’s right about one thing,” he rasps, his gaze dropping to your lips. “My heart’s goin’ crazy.”

“Is it?” you whisper, your own voice barely working.

“Only when I’m with you,” he admits, before closing the remaining distance.

His mouth finds yours in a kiss that steals the air from your lungs and replaces it with nothing but him. Your hands find their way to his broad shoulders, then tangle in the worn tails of his red bandana, pulling him closer.

His other hand comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek with a surprising gentleness that contrasts the raw want in his kiss. He deepens it, his tongue tracing your lips before seeking entrance, and you grant it without a second’s hesitation. Before you can process it, his hands are on your waist, then sliding under your thighs.

He lifts you and carries you over to the bed. As he lays you down on the sheets, the sounds from the rest of the lair fade into nothing. There is only here. Only the two of you.

The chilly night air whips strands of hair across your face as you land, light and sure-footed, on the rooftop. Raph is not so graceful.

“Seriously? That leap was pathetic,” you jeer. “My great-aunt Agnes could’ve cleared that gap with more style, and she uses a walker.”

He rounds on you. “Yeah? Let’s see you top it then, Princess Pain-in-the-Ass.”

This is how it always starts.

Taunts, one stupid challenge tumbling into another, each more reckless than the last: a parkour dash up a crumbling water tower that almost sent you both plummeting. A game of chicken with the late-night subway train that left your ears ringing for an hour. You two are a powder keg and a lit match feeding off each other’s audacity, pushing each other to dizzier heights of recklessness until one of you gives.

Though tonight, the air crackles with something more than just competitiveness. Something that hums low in your belly and tightens your chest. It’s the dangerous, unspoken current that always flows beneath the surface of your verbal sparring, a magnetic pull you both pretend isn’t there. How his eyes sometimes linger a second too long, the way your breath hitches when he gets too close.

“I could do that blindfolded, backwards, and juggling chainsaws,” you say, your voice dropping a little. You take a step closer, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. “But I’m tired of these playground stunts. Think your tiny turtle brain can handle a real dare?” You move closer, your eyes locked on his. “Something that’ll prove if you’ve got actual guts, or if it’s all brawn and a bad attitude.”

A low growl rumbles from his chest, the intensity of his green eyes a physical force. “Spit it out before I decide to test how far you can fly from this rooftop.” Despite the threat, his gaze holds a spark of something beyond anger.

“So you in?” You smirk, knowing you always get under his skin. “Or are you scared of something you can’t just bludgeon into submission?”

The air between you practically sizzles. He’s close, the heat radiating off his plastron a tangible thing against your skin. The silence stretches, taut and electric.

“What’s the catch?” he asks, his voice gravel, rough and suspicious. “There’s always a catch with you.”

“The catch?” You raise an eyebrow, a slow, deliberate smile spreading across your lips. “The catch is you actually have to use that thick skull of yours for something other than a battering ram.” You lean closer. “I dare you … to eat me out. Right here. Make me scream your fucking name so loud the rats call the cops.”

Silence. He doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to breathe. For a heartbeat, the only sound is the distant rumble of a train, the skittering of a lone rodent below. You hold his gaze, unflinching, though your pulse thrums a frantic rhythm against your skin. Watching as a complex series of micro-expressions play across his rugged features.

A muscle feathers along his powerful jaw. He’s processing. Calculating. The insult, the dare, the sheer, brazen carnality of it. The flicker of his internal debate. His gaze drops, just for a fraction of a second, from your eyes to your mouth. Then lower, a swift, almost imperceptible sweep that makes your breath catch.

Still, he says nothing. The silence is his weapon now, trying to unnerve you, to make you break. But you don’t. You hold firm—because this is the precipice. One word from him, one move, and everything changes.

“You think I can’t handle a little taste, Princess?” he rumbles, his voice a gravelly caress that sends shivers down your spine despite the bravado you’re clinging to. “You think I’d back down from that?”

“And what if I don’t scream?” you manage, your voice a little breathier than you’d like.

His grin is wolfish, all teeth and challenge. “Oh, you’ll scream, Princess. Don’t you worry about that.”

Before you can retort, his large hand comes up to cup the back of your neck. His thumb brushes against your pulse point, an intimate gesture that sends your heart into overdrive. The contrast of his rough skin against yours is electrifying. He doesn’t give you time to think, to second-guess—

Because he’s guiding you down to the gritty rooftop surface. On your back, you see the star-dusted sky above and Raph’s silhouette eclipsing the moon. “Get your pants off,” he orders, voice thick with a raw hunger that matches your own.

You remove your boots and unbutton your jeans, fingers fumbling slightly. A delicious, thrilling tremor snakes through you, making your skin prickle and your nipples tighten to hard points beneath your tank top. He watches, his eyes dark, intense, burning holes into you as you slide both the denim and your panties down your legs, tossing them aside.

He kneels before you, his gaze dropping to your exposed cunt. You see his eyes fixate on the glint of metal nestled in your already slick, swollen folds. An appreciative growl rumbles from him. “Well, fuck me,” he mutters, a rough edge of surprise in his tone. “Always knew you had a wild streak.”

He brushes his thumb against your clit piercing, sending a jolt straight to your core. You gasp, your knees threatening to buckle despite being on solid ground. A flush creeps up your neck, a mixture of vulnerability and a strange, reckless pride. You issued the dare, after all.

And now, you have to see it through.

“Oh, I am definitely gonna enjoy this.”

His head dips lower. You can feel his warm breath ghosting over your inner thigh. Every nerve ending in your body is on fire, anticipating. Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, digging into the gritty concrete.

Then, he’s upon you. His tongue laves your slit, then your clit. He sucks hard, pulling the sensitive flesh, the metal of your piercing cold against his tongue for a nanosecond before it’s heated by his mouth. A strangled gasp tears from your throat. His hands clamp onto your thighs like vises, digging into your flesh, pulling your legs wider as he devours you.

“Fuck, Raph … oh god …” you moan, your voice already cracking, hips bucking instinctively.

He grunts, a satisfied, animalistic sound against your wet skin. And his tongue lashes harder, faster, circling your clit. Teasing the piercing with flicks and swirls, then diving lower to lap at your dripping entrance, tasting your readiness. He’s relentless, a force of nature intent on breaking you.

One of his hands slides between your quaking legs, fingers probing your entrance. “Holy shit, you’re soaked,” he growls, his voice muffled against your sensitive flesh. “Fucking dripping for me already.” He pushes a digit inside, stretching your eager pussy. Filling you in a way that makes you cry out.

He fucks you with it in a rhythm that mirrors the assault of his tongue on your clit. Then he adds another, stretching you further, making you whimper and squirm. The pressure builds—a tight, coiling knot deep in your belly. A volcano of sensation threatening to erupt, begging for release. Your nails dig into his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself as the world tilts and blurs.

“Oh god, oh fuck, Raph, I’m—I’m so close—” you stammer, words dissolving into choked sobs, your mind splintering into a million shards.

He hears the desperation, the imminent break in your voice, and attacks your clit with renewed ferocity. Sucking and licking and flicking that little bead of metal until you’re a live wire, every nerve ending screaming.

Then it happens, an all-consuming tsunami of pleasure crashing through you. Originating in your core and radiating outwards in scorching, unstoppable waves. Your back arches, a raw scream ripped from your throat. “RAPH!”

A torrent, hot and copious, bursts from you, gushing all over his face. Drenching his chin, soaking your inner thighs, running in rivulets down onto the concrete. Your hips buck and grind against his mouth. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. Just keeps his mouth latched on, growling his satisfaction into your spent flesh as he laps you clean. Your body convulses, aftershocks racking your frame, leaving you trembling, breathless, utterly undone—

And still wanting more.

He finally pulls back, his face slick and gleaming with your essence, a feral, triumphant grin splitting his face. The light catches the shine on his lips, the wetness smeared across his chin. He lets out a rough chuckle. “Fuck,” he rasps, his voice laced with a smugness that’s surprisingly hot. “You taste like goddamn victory.”

You’re a wreck, limbs trembling, core still throbbing with phantom pulses. A glorious, quivering mess. Each breath is a ragged, shallow gasp. Your fingers uncurl from his shoulders, leaving faint marks he’ll probably wear like badges of honor. His gaze is locked on your cunt, still swollen and glistening. With a thumb, he flicks the piercing, sending another jolt through you.

“Still think I ain’t got the shells?” His free hand comes up to wipe some of your squirt from his jaw, then licks the residue from his thumb with a slow, deliberate, predatory relish that makes your stomach clench anew. There’s no apology in his eyes.

Because he met your dare and fucking conquered it.

“Shut … up,” you manage, the words weak but still defiant. A shaky smirk plays on your lips, a pale imitation of your usual fiery confidence. “You just … got lucky.” Even now, soaked and spent, the urge to provoke him—to keep the game going—burns in your blood like an irresistible, addictive fever.

His grin widens. “Lucky?” He leans in close again, his hot breath fanning your ear, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial growl. “Luck ain’t got shit to do with it. That was just the appetizer.” He shifts his weight, his thighs pressing against yours. “Now,” he murmurs, his eyes boring into yours, “what’s the next dare, huh? Or are you all tapped out already? Gonna cry uncle?”

A low, throaty laugh rumbles from your chest, a sound that’s part exhaustion, part exhilaration, and all challenge. You meet his intense gaze, your own eyes glittering with a reckless fire. “Appetizer?” you scoff, pushing yourself up on shaky elbows. “Please. You barely made me break a sweat.”

A blatant lie, but the game must go on.

“Alright then, tough guy,” you say, your voice regaining some of its characteristic bite. “You think you’re so big, so bad?” You run a hand down your own stomach, over your still-quivering pubic bone, your eyes never leaving his. “I dare you to fuck me. Right here. Right now. Show me what that ‘victory’ really tastes like when you’re buried deep inside, when you’re stretching me to my fucking limits.” You smirk. “Or are you scared you can’t handle the main course, Raphie-boy?”

The air thickens, becomes almost unbreathable. Raph’s grin freezes, then slowly morphs into something harder, darker. His eyes narrow into dangerous slits, boring into you with an intensity that feels like a brand searing your skin. He doesn’t speak for a long moment. But you can see the muscles in his jaw working, the cords in his thick neck standing out.

And you know, with a certainty that sends a fresh jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs, exactly what his answer will be.

“You sure you can handle it?” he asks. “Don’t come cryin’ to me when I split you in two.”

You moan as you watch him free himself. His cock is a magnificent sight—thick as your forearm, heavily veined with a spade-shaped head that’s already weeping translucent precum.

“Legs open. Wider,” he commands, his gaze fixed on your drenched slit.

You obey, a tremor of anticipation making your thighs tremble uncontrollably as you spread them wider, offering yourself up to him like a sacrifice to an ancient, hungry god. Instantly, he’s between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against your slick folds, nudging your entrance. You gasp, barely able to comprehend the size of it—when he thrusts inside you.

A raw scream tears from your throat. It’s a burning, almost painful fullness that robs the oxygen from your lungs. He’s huge, filling you completely, stretching your inner walls to their absolute limit—and then some. Your eyes fly open wide, your fingers clawing at the concrete, trying to find purchase.

“Fuck … Raph … holy fucking shit,” you choke out, the words fragmented by the overwhelming invasion. “You’re so … BIG!”

He groans, a deep, animalistic sound ripped from the very depths of his chest as he sinks himself all the way to the hilt. He stays there for a moment, buried deep inside you, letting you feel every fucking inch of him. Letting the reality of what you dared him to do sink in. “Holy shit is right,” he growls, his hips already starting a slow, deliberate grind that sends jolts of agonizing pleasure through your overstimulated nerves. “You wanted it, you fucking got it.”

His movements, initially slow as if savoring the novel sensation of being sheathed within you, quickly escalate. Each thrust is a brutal claiming, driving deeper, hitting your cervix with a force that makes you gasp and see stars. He fucks you like he fights, with raw strength and a relentless, focused aggression. There’s no finesse, no tenderness, just the unadulterated force of his need crashing into yours. His fingers dig into your hips, leaving bruises you’ll feel for days, tilting you, angling you for his pleasure, for deeper penetration.

“Oh god, yes! Fuck me harder, Raph!” you cry out, your earlier bravado completely incinerated, your voice raw and shredded by the all-consuming pleasure. “Don’t you fucking dare hold back!”

Your clit, still sensitive from his tongue, becomes even more so from the grinding friction of his plastron. You meet his raw, savage force with your own desperate, bucking hips, trying to take him even deeper, if such a thing is even physically possible.

“Like that, huh?” he grunts, the smirk audible in his voice as he feels you clench around him, your inner walls desperately trying to accommodate his impossible girth. He slams into you again, harder this time, driving the air from your lungs with a punishing impact that elicits another high-pitched shriek from you. “You like it rough? Knew you fuckin’ would.”

His pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more frantic, more savage, each one a punishing delight that pushes you closer and closer to the brink of oblivion. He leans down, his face close to yours, his eyes blazing wildly, his pupils blown wide—black holes that threaten to swallow you whole. “Scream my name again. Louder. Let the whole goddamn city hear who owns that pretty pierced cunt.”

His words, filthy and possessive, are like gasoline poured directly onto the inferno already raging deep inside you. “RAPH!” you scream, his name ripped from your throat. “FUCK ME, RAPH! FUCK ME UNTIL I CAN’T FUCKING WALK! BREAK ME!” Your words are a desperate, shameless plea that feeds his lust.

He roars, his thrusts becoming a punishing rhythm. He’s a machine, driving into you with a brutal, single-minded efficiency that leaves no room for thought. Only sensation. Your legs are wrapped high around him, trying to pull him deeper.

“That’s it, scream for me!” He lowers his head, his teeth grazing your neck, then your shoulder, leaving possessive marks you’ll treasure. “You fucking asked for this. Every goddamn inch.” He pulls back almost all the way, making you whine in protest—before he slams back into your abused pussy with a force that makes your vision white out for a second.

The pressure in your core is unbearable, a tight knot of pure, agonizing bliss. A supernova on the verge of detonation. You’re starting to feel the telltale signs deep within your belly, the way your muscles are clenching and spasming uncontrollably around his cock. “Oh god, Raph, I’m gonna … I’m gonna come!” you sob, the words barely coherent.

“Yeah, you fucking are,” he growls, his own breathing harsh, ragged, and shallow, his control rapidly disintegrating. He feels your inner walls begin to tighten, to milk him, and it pushes him irrevocably closer to his own edge. He fucks you even faster, a frantic, desperate pace, his hips slamming into yours with a force that you welcome, that you crave. “Come for me, Princess.”

His cock hits your G-spot with a relentless, almost targeted precision, each thrust a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body convulses as a massive, shattering orgasm rips through you, more intense than the first. You scream his name again and again, a broken, keening litany as your cunt clenches around him. Fluids gush from you once more, coating his cock, spilling down your thighs.

Your cataclysmic orgasm seems to trigger his own. With a final, guttural roar, he drives into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he can go, and you feel his hot, thick seed flood your womb. He groans, a long, shuddering sound of pure, animalistic release, his face contorted in a mask of pleasure. His body trembles with the force of his climax, his hips still twitching, pumping weakly inside you as the last of his potent load spills out, painting your insides.

Then he collapses onto you. He’s still buried deep inside you, his now-softening cock a warm, comforting presence. You both lie there, tangled inextricably together. Breathless, boneless, spent. A reminder of the beautiful, glorious devastation he just wrought upon you.

He nuzzles his face against your neck, his rough chin scraping your skin, before he lifts his head just enough to look down at you. His eyes, still hazed with the afterglow, are surprisingly soft—though the usual feral spark, the glint of the untamed beast, lingers like embers beneath the surface. “Well, fuck,” he rasps, his voice still thick and gravelly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Didn’t actually break you, did I?”

There’s a hint of genuine concern in his tone, and you manage a weak smile, your eyelids heavy. “You wish, turtle boy,” you murmur. “Just … warming up.”

He chuckles, a deep, chesty sound that vibrates through you. “Warming up, huh?” He props himself up on his elbows, taking some of his weight off you, but he doesn’t pull out. His gaze drops from your face, down your sweat-slicked body, to where you’re still intimately joined. “Felt more like a goddamn inferno in there. You tryin’ to melt my shell from the inside out?”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Figured your outsides were tough enough, had to find a new angle of attack.” You lift a hand to trace the line of his jaw. “Besides, you started it with the whole ‘victory taste’ thing. Just returning the favor … with interest.”

“Interest, huh?” He lowers his head again, his lips brushing against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “You think you got anything left to pay with, Princess?” His voice is a low, intimate growl, laced with a possessive satisfaction that makes your toes curl. “Or did I finally drain that smart mouth of yours, along with everything else?”

“Never,” you murmur, stroking the nape of his neck. “You just … temporarily emptied the tank.” You take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of him. “Give me a minute. I’m sure I can think of something else to make you sweat.” Your hips give a small, involuntary buck against him.

His teeth nip at your earlobe. Not painfully, but enough to send a jolt straight to your pussy, which clenches around him reflexively. “You threw down the gauntlet. Don’t think for a second I’m letting you pick it back up until I say so.”

“Is that a dare?” you breathe, a wicked smile spreading across your lips, even as your body hums with a delicious, aching weariness.

The move from Florida to New York was jarring. The skyline swallows the stars, the cold air bites harder than you expected, and the city never stops buzzing. You traded palm trees and predictability for subway maps and a cramped dorm room. But although it’s only been a week, it already feels more like home than Florida ever did.

You moved away for college to study psychology, finally pursuing your dream of helping people untangle the knots in their heads. You miss your family, and you had promised to call at least every couple of days. Your mom always sounds a little too cheerful, your dad distracted in the background. They mean well.

They just don’t quite understand why psychology, why New York, why now. And you try not to feel the weight of their confusion pressing behind every “we’re proud of you.”

Then one night, on the way back from a late study group, it happens. You’re still memorizing the streets and directions, and you end up taking a wrong turn trying to find the quickest route back to your dorm, earbuds in and your thoughts drifting. You almost don’t notice the guy in the alley—until a sharp, desperate cry cuts through your music.

You yank your earbuds out. You hear heavy breathing, the scuff of shoes on asphalt, and a low, threatening voice: “Just give us the wallet, old man. And the watch. Don’t make this difficult.” Peeking around the dumpster that marks the alley’s entrance, your blood runs cold.

Two large, brutish men have a third, much older man pinned against the brick wall. His face is pale with terror, his hands raised in surrender. Your own hands begin to tremble. This is it. The New York horror story every out-of-towner is warned about. Your first instinct, a primal scream in your gut, is to run. To turn and sprint back to the well-lit street, dial 911, and forget you ever saw anything.

The man’s fearful eyes meet yours for a fleeting second over the shoulder of one of his assailants, a silent plea that roots you to the spot. The future therapist in you, the part that wants to help, wars with the terrified Florida girl who is way out of her depth. Before you can settle on a choice, it’s made for you.

There’s a metallic clang from above, like a dropped wrench on a fire escape. The two thugs look up, annoyed. “What the hell was that?” one of them growls.

Someone drops from the darkness above, landing in a low crouch, clad in armor. “You heard him,” a voice rumbles, low and gravelly, distorted by the helmet. “Don’t make this difficult.”

The thugs are momentarily stunned. Then one of them scoffs, pulling out a knife. “And who are you supposed to be? Some kinda bargain-bin Batman?”

The armored figure doesn’t answer with words; he moves. An elbow connects with the first thug’s jaw with a sickening crack. A metal-gauntleted fist slams into the second one’s stomach, doubling him over with a gasp. In less than ten seconds, both men are groaning on the ground, disarmed and incapacitated, the fight over before it truly began.

The armored vigilante turns to the old man, who is staring, slack-jawed. “Go. Get out of here.” The command is rough, impatient. The old man doesn’t need to be told twice. He scrambles away, disappearing into the night.

Then, the helmeted head turns to you.

You’re still frozen at the alley’s edge, your bag held to your chest like a shield. The heavy helmet tilts down, and you feel the weight of an unseen gaze sweep over you, assessing. You see your own wide-eyed, terrified reflection warped in the visor. For a heart-stopping moment, you think he’s going to come for you next, another loose end to be dealt with.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the voice rumbles. It’s not a question; it’s a statement of fact, laced with annoyance.

Your brain, which had shut down completely, reboots with a jolt. “I … I took a wrong turn,” you stammer, the words barely a whisper. Your knuckles are white where you’re clutching your bag strap.

He takes a half-step towards you, and you flinch, pressing yourself back against the grimy brick of the building behind you. “Go home,” he grunts, gesturing dismissively towards the street. “And forget you saw anything.”

He grabs the bottom rung of a fire escape ladder, preparing to haul himself up. He’s leaving. Just like that. The encounter is over. All you have to do is turn around and walk away. Go back to your dorm, lock the door, and pretend this was a nightmare brought on by too much caffeine and stress.

But you don’t move.

“Wait,” you call out, your voice steadier than you expect.

He freezes, one boot on the first rung of the ladder. He doesn’t turn around, but you can feel his entire body tense.

“You’re hurt,” you add, your observational skills kicking in despite the shock. You can see a wound on his arm, something that must have happened in the brief scuffle.

“I’m fine,” he bites out, the words clipped.

“It’s bleeding,” you insist, taking a cautious step forward. You point toward the gash on his bicep, where blood is slowly seeping through a tear in the fabric under his armor. “You can’t just leave that. It’ll get infected.”

He takes a step down from the ladder, and then another, until he’s standing in the alley again, looming over you. “What part of ‘go home’ did you not understand? Are you deaf, or just stupid?”

The insult stings, a sharp jab to your already frayed nerves, but you force yourself to stand your ground. You meet the visor of his helmet, refusing to be cowed. “Neither,” you say, your voice remarkably even. You hold up your hands in a placating gesture, letting your bag slide down one arm. “I’m a student. I … I have a first-aid kit in my bag. For emergencies. It’ll take two minutes.”

You watch as the helmet tilts down to look at the gash on his bicep, then back up at you. Through the distorted reflection, you can just make out the hard set of your own jaw. He’s weighing his options: the risk of infection versus the risk of trusting a complete stranger.

Finally, he lets out a sound that’s halfway between a sigh and a growl. “Fine,” he rasps. He points a finger upward, toward the roof. “Up there where no one can see us.”

You nod, your heart hammering against your ribs, not with fear anymore, but with a strange, jittery adrenaline. He turns and begins to climb the fire escape with a fluid, powerful grace, even with his injury. He moves with a silence that seems impossible for someone his size, his armored boots making only the softest of metallic sounds on the rungs.

You follow. Your hands are slick with nervous sweat as you grip the cold metal. The climb feels treacherous, your bag bumping awkwardly against your back. You don’t look down. You focus only on the rung in front of you and the broad, armored back of the strange vigilante above you.

When you finally heave yourself over the ledge onto the flat, gravel-strewn roof, you pause, hands on your knees as you catch your breath. He’s already standing by a low ventilation unit, his back to the sprawling cityscape. He watches you, his posture rigid. The helmet is still on, hiding everything.

“Well?” he prompts impatiently. “You wanted to play doctor. Get on with it.”

You slide your bag off your shoulders and kneel on the gritty rooftop, unzipping it with trembling fingers. You pull out the small, red nylon case of your first-aid kit. Your hands are shaking as you open it, revealing antiseptic wipes, gauze pads, and rolls of tape.

“You’re going to have to take that part of the armor off,” you state, looking at the pauldron covering his bicep. “And you’ll have to take off the helmet if—”

“No,” the voice rumbles, the single word sharp and final, cutting through the quiet. He takes a step back, putting distance between you. “The helmet stays on.”

You bite your lip, feeling a fresh wave of trepidation; you’ve pushed too far. But your logic, the student-in-training part of you, won’t let it go. “What if you have a head injury, and—”

“I don’t have a head injury,” he snaps, gesturing to his bleeding arm. “The problem’s here. Now are you gonna help or are you just gonna stand there making stupid demands?”

The insult lands, but it’s laced with something else. Like a frantic, cornered energy. He’s not just being difficult; he’s scared.

You don’t know of what.

“Okay,” you concede softly. “The helmet stays on. But the pauldron has to come off. I can’t get to the wound otherwise.”

He hesitates for another long moment. Then, with a grunt of resignation, he reaches up with his good hand. There’s a series of soft clicks and snaps as he unfastens the piece of armor covering his bicep, pulling it free before dropping it. He then works at the torn sleeve of the garment underneath, ripping it further to expose the gash properly.

And you stop breathing.

Your brain simply cannot process what you’re seeing. Under the dim glow of the distant city lights, the skin of his arm is not any of the tones you were expecting: it’s green.

For a second, you think it’s a full-body suit, some kind of advanced costume. But you see the texture of the skin itself, which has a smooth, almost leathery quality, with faint, subtle patterns like a reptile. And he’s massive, his bicep thick with a dense, powerful muscle unlike any you’ve ever seen on a human.

He notices your hesitation, your frozen posture. “What?” he growls, his voice low. “Gonna run screaming now?”

His question snaps you out of your stupor. He’s waiting for you to recoil, to confirm whatever fears he has about being seen. The part of you that wants to help—the part that is your entire reason for being in this city—overrides the part that is struggling with reality.

“No,” you say, your voice a little shaky. You clear your throat and force yourself to move. “No, I’m not.” You reach into your kit and pull out an antiseptic wipe. Your fingers tremble as you tear the packet open. “This is probably going to sting.”

He just grunts in response, watching your every move.

You take a deep breath to steady your hands and gently press the wipe to the edges of the cut. He flinches, a sharp intake of breath, but he doesn’t pull away. You work with a focused silence, cleaning the wound as best you can.

“Why?” he asks suddenly.

You pause, looking up at the helmet. “Why what?”

“Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me.”

You grab a sterile gauze pad and press it firmly against the gash to staunch the bleeding. “You saved that man. You got hurt doing it. Seems like a fair trade.”

He’s silent for a long time as you work, taping the gauze into place. Your hands are steady now, your purpose clear. When you’re done, you gently pat the bandage.

“There,” you say. “You should get that looked at by an actual doctor, but it’s clean and covered for now.”

He looks down at his bandaged arm. He seems … surprised. As if he didn’t actually expect you to go through with it.

“What’s your name?” you ask, the question popping out before you can stop it.

He tenses again. “Why?”

“Because I can’t keep calling you ‘the armored vigilante’ in my head forever,” you say, trying to lighten the mood.

A strange sound comes from the helmet; you take a second to identify it as a rough, choked-off chuckle. “Raph,” he says.

You offer a small smile and tell him your name.

“Right,” Raph says, standing up abruptly. He picks up his discarded pauldron, looking at it for a moment before deciding to just carry it. “Remember, you never saw me. Don’t come looking for trouble.”

He turns and stalks to the edge of the roof without a backward glance. With the same impossible grace as before, he swings over the side and disappears down the fire escape, his movements swift and silent.

You’re left alone on the roof, the cool night air raising goosebumps on your arms. Your mind is a whirlwind of green skin, a gravelly voice, and a single, reluctantly given name. You look down at your hands. A small smear of drying blood is on one of your fingers. His blood—the only proof that any of this was real.

After cleaning your hands, you slowly pack up your first-aid kit, moving on autopilot. Then you tuck it carefully into your bag before making your own, much slower, descent back to the world you thought you knew.

The memory of that night replays in your mind for days. You do your coursework; you attend lectures on behavioral theory; you text your family that yes, you’re eating enough vegetables. But a part of your brain is always on that rooftop.

A week later, you climb the fire escape again. It’s a foolish impulse, one that the logical part of your brain screams against. He told you to stay away. But the therapist-in-training part, the part that saw a flicker of profound loneliness behind that helmet, is stronger.

Your heart beats a nervous drum against your ribs as you reach the roof—but you find it empty. You sit for a while, watching the traffic as you work on some essays or read, and then you go home. You do this for three nights.

On the fourth, he’s there.

He’s not in his armor, just dark pants and a hoodie, the hood pulled low. He’s leaning against the same ventilation unit. As you approach, he doesn’t turn, but you know he heard you.

“Thought I told you to forget you saw anything,” he rumbles.

“You also told me your name,” you counter softly, stopping a respectful distance away. “Kind of a mixed message.”

He’s silent for a long moment. Then he turns his head just enough for you to see the strong line of his jaw in the shadows. “You’re stubborn.”

“I’m told it’s one of my defining traits,” you reply, a small smile touching your lips.

And that’s how it begins.

You meet on that rooftop, maybe once or twice a week. The conversations are stilted at first. You talk about your classes, the culture shock of moving from Florida, the pressure you feel from your family. He listens, though he rarely talks about himself.

About a month into your strange rooftop rendezvous, he finally trusts you enough. You’re talking about a frustrating professor when he reaches up and pulls his hood back. You’d prepared yourself, but it’s still a shock. His skin is green, his head bald and reptilian, his eyes a startlingly intense amber. You even see the peek of a plastron and—is that a shell?!

He’s a turtle. A giant humanoid turtle!

He’s waiting for you to scream, to run, to do anything but what you do—which is meeting his gaze and giving him a small, genuine smile. “Hi, Raph,” you say, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

The tension drains out of his shoulders in a visible wave. He gives a short, disbelieving huff of air through his nostrils. From that night on, the hood and armor stay off when you’re together.

Your late-night disappearances don’t go unnoticed. Your roommate, Chloe, a born-and-bred New Yorker with zero patience for nonsense, corners you one evening as you’re trying to sneak out.

“Alright, spill,” she says, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You’re not in a cult, are you? Because my mom’s cousin joined a cult and the first sign was him sneaking out at all hours to ‘commune with the moon goddess’ in Central Park. So if you’re doing that, just tell me.”

You laugh, the sound a little shaky. “No, definitely not communing with any goddesses.” You hesitate, chewing on your lower lip. You’ve kept this part of your life entirely separate, a secret world on the rooftops. But Chloe is your friend, and the lying is getting exhausting. “Look,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair. “It’s a guy. But it’s … complicated.”

“Complicated how?” she asks, her gaze sharpening. “Is he married? In a gang? Both?”

“No! God, no.” You lean against the wall, trying to find the words. “He’s just really shy. And he prefers … nighttime.”

As if summoned by your words, a soft, distinct tap-tap-tap sounds on your dorm room window. Chloe’s eyes widen and she swivels her head towards the sound. You close your eyes, a groan escaping your lips. Of course.

She stalks over to the window, yanking back the curtain. On the fire escape, illuminated by the glow of a nearby streetlamp, is Raph. He’s in his hoodie, but there’s no hiding the massive, three-fingered hand resting on the windowpane, or the sheer bulk of his frame. He sees Chloe, his eyes going wide, and he immediately pulls back, ready to bolt.

You rush to the window, sliding it open a crack. “Raph, it’s okay! It’s okay, this is Chloe. My roommate.”

She just stares. She takes in the green skin, the edge of the shell visible under his hoodie, the general impossibility of him. Her expression is utterly blank. You brace yourself for the screaming, the fainting.

Instead, she lets the curtain fall, turns back to you, and crosses her arms again. She’s silent for a long, drawn-out moment. Then, she asks, in a perfectly level tone, “So, is he why we’re suddenly out of frozen pizzas?”

The sheer, anticlimactic normalcy of the question sends a wave of hysterical relief through you. “Um. Yes?”

She nods once, as if this explains everything. “Fine. Whatever. Just tell your giant turtle boyfriend to use the front door from now on.” She uncrosses her arms and walks back to her desk, picking up her textbook as if nothing has happened.

And just like that, the biggest secret of your life is out, met not with panic but the resigned sigh of a city girl who’s apparently seen too much to be fazed by mutant reptiles.

New York, you decide, is even weirder than you thought.

You glance back out the window, where Raph still lingers on the fire escape, clearly caught between fight, flight, and full-on identity crisis. “You good?” you whisper.

His eyes flick between you and the curtain Chloe just dropped, and he mutters, “Didn’t think I’d be meetin’ your roommate like that.”

You stifle a laugh. “Yeah, well, she’s more chill than she looks.”

“She just called me your boyfriend,” he says, and there’s something new in his voice—half teasing, half stunned. His gaze locks with yours, and for a second, all the noise of the city fades.

Your stomach does a little flip. The way he says boyfriend, like it’s foreign on his tongue, like he doesn’t quite know if he’s joking or serious, makes your heart thud hard against your ribs.

You meet his gaze, searching his expression. “Well,” you murmur, “you do keep showing up at my window like a lovesick raccoon.”

That gets a low chuckle out of him, gravelly and amused. “I’m way cooler than a raccoon.”

“Debatable,” you say, smiling now. “You eat all my food, lurk in the dark, and have mysterious night habits. Sounds pretty raccoon to me.”

His head dips slightly, maybe in defeat, maybe to hide a grin. “Fine. But a buff raccoon.”

You lean on the window frame, looking at him. “A terrifying, buff raccoon who apparently gets flustered when Chloe calls him her roommate’s boyfriend.”

That earns a dramatic groan as he lifts a hand to his face. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

That hangs in the air between you for a beat. Then Raph shifts his weight, shoulders squaring, eyes warmer now. “So … still up for a run across the rooftops?”

You grin and reach for your jacket. “Always.”

Now, you’re two months into a relationship with Raph.

And over these past months, the pieces of his life have slowly slotted into place for you. You’ve met his family: Splinter, his father, calm and commanding, with a quiet strength that fills every room. Donnie, his tech-genius brother, whose mind moves at lightning speed. And Mikey, the youngest, a whirlwind of bright energy who immediately declared you his new favorite human.

And then there’s the missing piece, the ghost that haunts their home: his older brother, Leo.

You’ve learned about him in fragments, pieced together from Raph’s late-night rants. Leo had left months ago for a training mission in Central America. His departure left a gaping wound in the family, a fracture in their dynamic. And for Raph, it’s a wound that festers with a unique blend of resentment, grief, and a profound sense of abandonment.

Raph feels the weight of leadership now and the sting of his brother—his rival, the family’s rock—choosing to leave them behind. You understand now that much of his anger is just a shield for that deep, aching hurt.

You’re curled up on the couch in the lair, a psychology textbook open in your lap. But your attention is fixed on the old sci-fi movie playing on the TV. Raph is on the floor, his head resting against your knees, completely relaxed for once. This is your new normal, and you love it.

Then your phone buzzes on the cushion beside you. You glance at the screen; it’s your mom.

“Hey, Mom,” you say, keeping your voice low as Raph’s gaze flits to you.

Her voice on the other end is strained, artificially bright in that way she gets when she’s delivering bad news. “Hi, sweetheart. So, um, I’m calling because … well, your Great-Aunt Carol passed away last night.”

You blink. Great-Aunt Carol? You vaguely remember a stooped, stern-faced woman from a family reunion when you were six, one who smelled like mothballs and gave you a piece of hard candy that tasted like soap. You haven’t seen or thought of her since.

“Oh,” you say, unsure of what else to offer. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“The funeral is on Friday,” your mom continues, her voice cracking slightly. “I know it’s a long way, honey, and with your studies … but your father and I would really love it if you could be here. For support.”

You don’t care about the funeral, not really. But you hear the wobble in your mom’s voice, the plea behind the words. She wants her daughter. “Of course, Mom,” you say without hesitation. “I’ll book a flight. I’ll be there.”

After you hang up, Raph pushes himself up into a sitting position, turning to face you. His relaxed posture is gone, replaced by a subtle tension in his shoulders. “Everything okay?”

You close your textbook and set it aside. “A great-aunt of mine died. The funeral’s in a few days back in Florida. My parents want me to come home.”

“Oh,” he says, the word flat. “Right. Family’s important. You should go.”

His response is perfect. It’s exactly what a supportive boyfriend should say. But you’re fluent in Raph, and you see the flicker of something else in his eyes. It’s the same look whenever the conversation turns to Leo.

“I’ll only be gone for a few days,” you say, reaching out to touch his arm. “Just for the weekend, really. I’ll be back Sunday night.”

“Yeah, I know,” he grunts, not quite meeting your eyes. He stands up, a sudden, restless energy about him. “It’s fine. Go. Do your thing.” He turns away from you and pretends to be interested in a rack of weapons against the wall.

You know he’s not fine—because you know that ‘leaving’ is a loaded word with him. You get up and walk over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck from behind and pressing your cheek against his shell. “Raph,” you say softly. “I promise I’m coming back.”

He lets out a shaky breath, placing one of his hands over yours. “I know,” he says again, his voice a low rumble. But he doesn’t sound convinced; he sounds like a little boy trying to be brave.

The next few days are a blur of travel and stilted social obligations.

The funeral is as awkward as you imagined. You stand beside your grieving parents, holding their hands, offering tissues, and accepting condolences from relatives whose names you can’t remember for a woman you barely knew. You feel like an actor in a play you haven’t rehearsed.

You text Raph sporadically. ‘Landed safely.’ ‘Funeral was today.’ ‘How are you?’

He gives clipped, monosyllabic replies. ‘Good.’ ‘K.’ ‘Fine.’

It’s like talking to a brick wall, and it makes your heart ache. He’s closing himself off, retreating behind his anger because it’s safer than admitting he’s scared.

On Sunday evening, true to your word, you’re back in New York. The cab ride from the airport feels impossibly long. You don’t even bother going back to your dorm. You pay the driver and head straight for the lair.

You slip inside, your overnight bag still slung over your shoulder. It’s quiet. The main living area is empty, save for Mikey’s scattered comic books. You find Raph in the dojo, sitting on the floor, his back to the door. He’s not meditating. He’s just … sitting. The stillness from him is more worrying than any of his rages.

“I told you I’d be back,” you say gently.

His head whips around. His eyes widen, a storm of disbelief, relief, and something incredibly vulnerable washing over his face. He’s on his feet in a second, closing the distance between you in three long strides. He doesn’t say a word, just cups your face in his hands, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones as if to confirm you’re real.

“You’re back,” he breathes, the words full of emotion.

“I’m back,” you confirm, leaning into his touch. “I promised, didn’t I?”

He finally lets himself pull you against his plastron, his arms wrapping around you securely, protectively. You can feel the tension bleed out of his shoulders as he rests his head against yours. “I was worried,” he admits, the confession a low, gravelly whisper. His eyes finally drop from yours to the floor. “Stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid,” you say, sliding your arms around his neck. “Not when you’ve lost people before. Not when you’re still scared it could happen again.”

His arms tighten just a little, holding you like you might still disappear if he lets go. “I kept thinking you’d get down there, see how simple things used to be, and realize you don’t need all this,” he mutters. “All the crap that comes with bein’ with me.”

Your heart aches at the rawness in his voice. You pull back just enough to look him in the eyes. “I don’t want ‘easy,’ Raph. I want you. This. All of it.”

His expression falters, the fierce mask slipping for a moment. There’s something wide and uncertain in his gaze, something wounded and desperate for reassurance. You cradle his jaw in your hand, thumb brushing over the curve of his cheek.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper. “You don’t scare me. This life doesn’t scare me. But the idea of not being here with you? That does.”

He leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring the words, letting them sink in deep. When he opens them again, the storm has settled a little. Still there, but quieter.

“I missed you,” he finally says.

You smile softly. “I missed you too.”

He steps back and grabs your bag with one hand like it weighs nothing, gesturing toward the common room. “C’mon. You look dead on your feet. Let’s get you settled.”

“I’m not going to bed yet,” you reply, following him. “You’ve been sulking for three days. I think you owe me some quality time.”

That gets a grunt, but the corner of his mouth lifts just a little. “What, like a movie night?”

“You pick the cheesiest, most ridiculous movie you own,” you say, “and I get to use your shoulder as a pillow.”

“Deal,” he says, and the word is so immediate, so relieved, that you know you made the right choice.

You don’t go back to your dorm that night.

The next morning, you wake to the distant sounds of clattering and energetic yelling from the kitchen. You find Raph already there, leaning against a counter with a mug in his hands, watching Mikey attempt to flip a pancake the size of a manhole cover. Donnie is at the table, tinkering with some gadget and pointedly ignoring the culinary chaos.

“Morning,” Raph says, his eyes lighting up when he sees you.

Mikey, mid-flip, spots you and beams. “She’s alive! Dude, I thought you were gonna sleep forever. Want a pizza-sized pancake?” He gestures with his spatula to the monstrosity in the pan, which looks suspiciously lumpy.

“I think I’ll stick to coffee for now,” you say with a laugh, accepting the mug Raph offers you, and you lean against the counter next to him.

Later, you find him in the dojo, working out his remaining frustrations on a heavily worn punching bag. He moves with a brutal grace, every muscle in his powerful arms and shoulders coiled and released with explosive force. You don’t interrupt, just lean against the doorframe and watch until he finally stops, panting, his skin slick with a light sweat.

He turns, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, and finally says what’s been sitting between you. “Hey. I, uh … I was a jerk when you were gone.”

You push off the frame and walk over, picking up a water bottle from a nearby bench before holding it out to him. “You were scared,” you counter gently. “It’s okay to be scared, you know.”

He takes the bottle, his fingers brushing yours. He avoids your gaze, looking down at the scuffed floor mats. “Yeah, but I took it out on you. It wasn’t fair.”

“No, it wasn’t,” you agree softly. “But I understand why.” You reach up and place a hand on his cheek, turning his face toward you. “So I forgive you. On one condition.”

A hint of a smile touches his lips. “What’s that?”

“You let me win our next game of air hockey.”

He lets out a genuine laugh. “Not a chance.” He leans down and captures your lips. He pulls you flush against him, and you can feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your own.

The next day feels lighter.

You spend the afternoon on the couch, your legs thrown over his lap as you try to explain the fundamentals of cognitive-behavioral therapy to him using his favorite movie characters as examples. By evening, you feel the last of Raph’s anxious energy finally dissipate. So you tell him you have to go back to your dorm for clean clothes and textbooks.

He doesn’t retreat or tense up. “I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to,” you say, but he’s already grabbing his hoodie.

“I know. I want to.”

When you reach your dorm, you pause and look at the glittering expanse of the city out of your kitchen window. “It’s weird,” you muse. “When I first moved here, this all felt so big and scary. It felt … lonely.”

Raph comes to stand beside you, following your gaze out to the city lights. “And now?” he asks, his voice low.

It’s been a few hours since four alternate versions of your friends crash-landed into your lives. And the novelty, for most of your turtles, has decidedly worn off.

For you, it’s a different story.

You’re perched on the arm of the couch, watching the spectacle unfold. The 80s versions of the turtles are a mess of energy, laughter, and noise. Their Leo is trying to get them to focus on a “bodacious battle plan.” But their Mikey is more interested in constructing a ten-decker pizza-and-ice-cream sandwich. Their Donnie is trying to explain the finer points of trans-dimensional portals.

Their Raph, well … He’s currently trying to teach a bewildered Master Splinter a peculiar handshake and some 80s slang.

“It’s like living inside a Saturday morning cartoon,” your Leo mutters, rubbing his temples.

“A really, really loud one,” your Donnie agrees. “I can’t concentrate. All I hear are arguments about whether anchovies are ‘tubular’ or ‘bogus’.”

Your Raph is a statue of fury on the far side of the room. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed so tightly over his plastron it’s a wonder he can still breathe. His gaze fixed on the antics with a look of pure aggravation. Every time his counterpart lets out a boisterous laugh or makes a wisecrack, a low growl rumbles in your Raph’s chest.

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips; you find the 80s turtles adorable and funny. Their ceaseless optimism, their goofy slang—it’s hilarious. They’re a splash of joy in your often grim world.

Your Raph’s gaze flicks over to you, and his scowl deepens when he sees you smiling. He gives you a look that clearly says, This is insane. You offer him a small, sympathetic shrug, but the smile doesn’t leave your face. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t see the harmless fun; he only sees a mockery of everything he takes so seriously.

The 80s Raph, having finally given up on teaching Splinter, spots you. A wide grin spreads across his face, and he saunters over. “Hey there, good lookin’!” he says, leaning an elbow on the back of the sofa, invading your personal space with a cheerful lack of concern. “A dazzling smile like yours could light up this whole sewer. Tell me, did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

You let out a genuine laugh. It’s so corny, so unabashedly cheesy, that it’s impossible not to be endeared by it. “Wow. I’ve heard that one before,” you say, shaking your head.

“Yeah, but did you ever hear it from a hero in a half-shell?” he winks, pointing a thumb at his own chest. “Because I’m not just any turtle; I’m a lean, green, flirting machine! What do you say we ditch these guys and grab a slice?”

From across the room, you hear a sound. It’s your Raph, pushing himself off the wall and coming towards the two of you. “Alright, comedian,” he grunts, his voice low and dangerous. He stops beside the couch, placing a hand on your shoulder. His grip is firm and protective as he glares at his counterpart. “That’s enough. Go annoy someone else.”

80s Raph holds up his hands in surrender, his grin never faltering. “Whoa, touchy!” He gives you one last wink before heading back toward his own brothers.

Raph’s hand remains on your shoulder. You can feel the tension thrumming through his powerful muscles like a live wire. You reach up and place your hand on his, your fingers lacing through his, giving it a gentle squeeze of reassurance.

“Hey,” you say softly, turning to look up at him. His jaw is tight, a muscle twitching near his eye. “It’s okay. He’s just … like that.”

“He’s an idiot,” he mutters, his gaze still fixed on the other turtle’s back with a homicidal intensity. “And he was in your space.”

“I can handle a few cheesy pickup lines, Raph.”

His eyes finally meet yours, and for a second, a flicker of something else replaces the anger. Something raw and possessive that makes your stomach do a little flip. “Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have to.” It’s clear he doesn’t like anyone else looking at you or treating you that way, not even a goofball version of himself from another dimension.

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before stalking off toward the dojo, presumably to beat his frustrations out on a punching bag. You watch him go, a fond sigh escaping your lips. His jealousy is just another layer of his fierce, protective nature.

The very nature you fell in love with.

Later, the situation escalates.

As if one set of alternate turtles wasn’t enough, the dimensional portal stick whisks away the nine of you and you meet yet another set of turtle brothers. And these ones are different.

Much different.

Where the 80s turtles are bright and loud, these newcomers are monochromatic and stoic. No vibrant colored masks, no goofy grins. Just cold eyes and rigid sets of their jaws. The 80s turtles try to greet them with their usual “Cowabunga!” and are met with stony silence and suspicious glares. Your turtles are wary from the jump.

“Great,” your Raph grumbles, standing beside you as everyone sizes each other up. “More of us. Just what we needed. A turtle convention.”

But you’re not looking at them with annoyance or suspicion.

You’re looking at them with a kind of awestruck reverence. Their seriousness isn’t off-putting. You can see it in the way they stand, in the way their gazes automatically catalog threats and exits. They are protectors, honed to a razor’s edge by a life of relentless hardship.

They’re the Prime Turtles.

Even the 2003 team, usually the picture of control and professionalism, looks unsettled in their presence. It’s like staring at the ghost of who they could have become if things had gone just a little darker. Beside you, you can feel the storm of energy rolling off your Raph—his frustration, his protectiveness.

Then there’s a crack of energy, splitting the air like lightning.

It’s Ch’rell—your dimension’s Shredder.

Your stomach clenches. Even the Prime Turtles snap to attention. He doesn’t waste time. He strikes.

Everything happens too fast.

Ch’rell’s armor is a blur of red, black, and silver, his movements too swift to follow. You’re knocked off your feet by the sheer force of a blast that goes wide. You hit the ground, the air forced from your lungs in a gasp. Dazed, you try to get your bearings, but a shadow falls over you. You look up, and your heart stops.

Ch’rell raises his arm, aiming to kill. He’s not looking at you with anger or hatred. He’s looking at you with a blank, cold indifference, like you’re not even a person, just an obstacle. In the fraction of a second before his weapon descends, a thousand thoughts flash through your mind. This is it. This is how it ends.

A figure slams into Ch’rell, knocking him off balance. The force of the impact makes the metal armor groan, and the claws skitter a hair’s breadth from your face, sending a few stray sparks flying. You feel a hand grip your arm, pulling you back and away from the danger. You’re on your feet, being held tightly behind a broad, muscular frame.

It’s Prime Raph.

Your heart is pounding in your ears, so loud it almost drowns out the battle. Ch’rell is, thankfully, drawn away by the other turtles. Prime Raph turns his head slightly, his eyes piercing.

“You should be more aware of your surroundings,” he says. His voice is a low, gravelly rumble. It’s not a scolding. But a simple statement of fact from a man who has learned survival the hard way.

“I … thank you,” you say, your heart still hammering in your chest.

He gives a curt nod. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, a flicker of something unreadable in its depths. “You remind me of someone,” he says. “Our … friend. The one who looks after our lair when we’re gone. Stubborn, just like you seem to be. Always in the middle of things. We lost them once. For a long time.” The words are clipped, heavy with a history you can’t begin to imagine. “We don’t make that mistake anymore. There’s no room for it.”

He looks past you, at your Raph—and for a fleeting second, you see not judgment. But a flicker of something that looks like envy for a life that still has room for mistakes.

This hardened, grim warrior sees you, and in you, he sees someone worth protecting, someone who reminds him of his own home. It’s incredibly sweet in the most serious, heart-wrenching way imaginable.

You feel a presence at your side and turn to see your Raph. He saw the whole thing. He stands rigid, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles are white. The look on his face is no longer just simple aggravation. It’s a complex, painful mixture of shock and a new, sharper form of jealousy.

This other Raph—this darker, more serious version—didn’t just protect you. He did it with an instinctual, effortless grace that made your Raph’s own protective nature feel inadequate. He looks from his Prime counterpart back to you, his jaw working silently.

He doesn’t say a word.

Raph walks away slowly. As if every step is carrying something heavier than his body. Like if he doesn’t walk away right now, he’ll fall apart in front of everyone. You watch his retreating back, your breath caught in your throat.

You’ve seen him mad. You’ve seen him punch through training dummies and take down mutants twice his size. But you’ve never seen this look on his face.

You’ve never seen your Raph look small before.

You’re about to follow him when Leo comes up beside you. His voice is low, meant only for you. “Don’t,” he said, placing a steadying hand on your arm. “He won’t hear you right now. I’ve … never seen him look like that.” He gives your arm a slight squeeze. “Just be there for him when the storm passes. He’s going to need you.”

Leo rushes to rejoin the fray. And you don’t follow Raph. Not when he’s holding himself like that—like he’s hanging on by threads so thin you could tear him apart with a breath. You want to say something to him, anything. But what would you even say?

What do you say to someone who’s jealous of … himself?

Twelve turtles move against one overwhelming force. Even Ch’rell’s allies have joined in to assist them. Blasters fire, blades sing through the air, and the ground trembles with every impact.

And your Raph—he’s fighting like a man possessed.

Every time Prime Raph lands a devastating blow, your Raph pushes himself harder. He takes hits that aren’t meant for him, throwing himself in the path of a blast meant for 80s Donnie. He gets up, ignoring the smoking scorch mark on his plastron, and charges back in.

He’s trying to prove something. To them. To himself.

To you.

His eyes find yours across the battlefield for a split second. There’s a wild, pleading look in them, a desperate need for you to see him, to see that he is just as strong—just as capable. Just as worthy of being your protector as the hardened warrior who saved you minutes before.

The battle reaches its crescendo. And in that second, the three Raphs strike. It’s a beautiful, brutal trinity of force. Prime Raph is a sledgehammer, his blow cracking the armor with raw power. 80s Raph is a whip, his sai finding the joint with a bizarre, spinning leap that no one could have predicted.

And your Raph—your Raph is a spear point. All his pain, his fury, his desperate need to prove himself, is focused into one perfect, devastating strike.

Victory eventually comes.

The moment the threat is neutralized, reality begins to mend itself. The gray, muted world of the Prime Turtles bleeds back into its own dimension, while the vibrant, cel-shaded universe of the 80s Turtles asserts its physics. Cracks of light seal themselves, and the oppressive atmosphere lifts.

80s Raph saunters over, the cocky grin back in place. He winks at you. “Told ya we were heroes. But hey, if you ever get tired of Mr. Broody and Moody over there, you know where to find me.”

He starts to turn, but then pauses, his tone dropping the goofy act for just a second. He glances at your Raph, who is radiating misery across the way. “Hey,” he says, his voice surprisingly serious. “He’s a good turtle. A lot of passion, that one. Sometimes that stuff just gets tangled up. Don’t let him stay tangled.” With a final, more genuine smile, he’s gone.

You and your turtles finally return to your world, where everything has been restored. The usual post-battle banter is gone. Leo and Donnie are too exhausted, Mikey too subdued. And Raph … Raph is a ghost, moving with the rest of you but not truly there.

Later, the lair is quiet. Leo is meditating, trying to center himself after the dimensional chaos. Donnie is asleep at his desk. Mikey is curled up on the couch, watching a movie, seeking comfort in the familiar. Raph is in the dojo.

You follow the sound and lean against the doorframe, watching him. He’s slick with sweat, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. He’s hitting the bag like he’s trying to break not it, but himself. His knuckles are raw and bleeding.

You fetch a first aid kit and return, walking in quietly. You don’t say a word, just set it down on a nearby bench and wait. He ignores you for another full minute, pouring every ounce of his energy into the assault. Finally, his arms give out. He stumbles back from the bag, his chest heaving, and leans his head against the wall, his eyes screwed shut.

“You’re going to break your hands,” you say softly.

“Good,” he rasps, not opening his eyes. “Maybe then they’d be useful for somethin’.”

Your heart aches at the self-loathing in his voice. You step forward, picking up a clean cloth and a bottle of antiseptic from the kit. “Let me see.”

“I’m fine.”

“Raph.” Your voice is gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument. “Let me see.”

He hesitates, then lets out a long, shuddering sigh of defeat. He pushes himself off the wall and slumps onto the bench, holding out his trembling, bloody hands. You kneel in front of him, taking them carefully in yours. You work in silence for a moment, dabbing at the cuts with a tenderness that feels at odds with the violence that caused them.

“It was like lookin’ in a funhouse mirror,” he finally whispers, his voice cracking. “Every version of me was … better.”

You pause, looking up at him. He has his head bowed, his gaze fixed on the floor.

“The clown … he was a joke, a complete goofball,” he continues, the words tumbling out now that the dam has broken. “But you laughed. I saw your face. He made you laugh so easily. I just make ya worry.”

“Raph …”

“And the other one,” he chokes on the words. “He was everything a protector is supposed to be. Hard. Fast. He didn’t hesitate. He saved you, and I was just standin’ there, watchin’. I was too slow. I failed.” He finally looks at you, and the depth of the pain in his eyes is staggering. “He was the real deal. The hero. I’m just the angry, broken copy in the middle. Not funny enough, not strong enough. Just … angry.”

You finish wrapping his hands and then cup his face, your thumbs stroking his cheeks. “Look at me,” you command gently. “The first Raph was charming, in a ridiculous, over-the-top way. It was like watching a cartoon. Like it wasn’t real, if that makes any sense. My laughter was about the absurdity of it all. It had nothing to do with you.”

You lean closer, your foreheads almost touching.

“And the other … yes, he was an incredible warrior. He saved my life, and I will always be grateful for that. But did you see him? His world had burned away everything soft and everything that wasn’t about pure survival. He was hard because he had no other choice. There was no joy in him, Raph. No light.”

You press a soft kiss to his forehead, then pull back to look him in the eyes again.

“I don’t want the comedian. And I don’t want the soldier. I want the turtle who gets fiercely, stupidly jealous because another version of himself told me a cheesy pickup line. The turtle I want argues with his brother not out of hate, but because he’s terrified of losing him. I want the turtle who has so much love and loyalty and fiery passion inside him it spills out as anger because he doesn’t know any other way to let it out.”

A single tear escapes his eye, tracing a path down his cheek. You gently wipe it away.

“That’s the Raph I fell in love with. The one who is perfectly, imperfectly, wonderfully you. You aren’t the copy in the middle. You’re the one with heart. The one who gets to feel it all: the rage and the love. The pain and the joy. They were just echoes. You … you are the source. You are my Raph.”

He lets out a sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh, and then he collapses forward, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in the crook of your neck. His frame shakes with the force of his emotion, the tension and fear and inadequacy finally pouring out of him. You hold him tightly, running your fingers through the ties of his mask, murmuring words of comfort into his skin.

You hold him, a solid, trembling weight against you, absorbing the storm that’s finally breaking. You say nothing, just let him feel the safety of your arms, the solid ground beneath his spiraling thoughts. He stays there for a long time, his breathing slowly evening out, the sobs softening into shuddering breaths against your skin.

Finally, he pulls back, just enough to look at you. His eyes are red-rimmed and exhausted. He keeps his bandaged hands on your arms, as if afraid you might vanish if he lets go.

“I was so scared,” he whispers. “When Shredder went for you… and I froze. For just a second, I couldn’t move. And he—the other me—he didn’t.” His gaze drops to his own hands. “I’m supposed to protect you. I’m supposed to protect my family. It’s the one thing I’m good for. And when it mattered most, I wasn’t enough.”

“That’s not true,” you say immediately. You take one of his bandaged hands, lifting it to your cheek and holding it there. You want him to feel your warmth, to feel that you’re real and you’re safe. “And you know what happened after he saved me?” you say softly. “He looked at me, and he saw a memory. A stand-in for someone else. But when you look at me …” You trail off, letting him see the truth in your eyes. “You see me.”

His breath hitches. He searches your face, looking for any hint of doubt, any pity. He finds none.

“Why?” he asks, his voice thick. “Why me? The clown can make you laugh. The soldier can keep you safe. What do I do? I just get mad. Break things. I push you away when all I wanna do is pull you closer.” He shakes his head, a fresh wave of self-disgust washing over him. “It’s ugly. What’s inside me … it’s all sharp edges.”

“Then I guess I like sharp edges,” you reply without hesitation. “Raph, your anger isn’t ugly. It’s a shield. It’s a fire you use to keep the dark out, to protect the people you love. I’ve never feared your anger, because I’ve always seen what’s behind it. I see the turtle who would throw himself in front of a blast for his brother. I see the turtle whose heart is so big and so full of love that it has nowhere to go, so it comes out as a roar.”

You lean in, your voice dropping to an intimate whisper. “I don’t want the joke. I don’t need a perfect, emotionless soldier. I want the passion. The fire. I want the Raph who held me on a rooftop after a nightmare and didn’t say a word, just let me listen to his heartbeat until I fell asleep. I want the Raph who gets so jealous he can barely speak—because the thought of anyone else having me is something he can’t stand.”

He closes his eyes, a sense of peace settling over his features. The war inside him seems to have finally called a truce. When he opens them again, the vulnerability is still there, but it’s now mingled with a dawning certainty.

“I love you,” he says. The words aren’t loud or dramatic. They’re a quiet, simple truth spoken into the space between you, as real and as solid as the dojo floor beneath you. “I have for a long time. That’s why it all hurt so much. Seein’ you smile at him … seein’ the other me save you … it felt like I was losing something I didn’t even have the right to claim.”

Tears of your own well up now, tears of relief and overwhelming love. “You always had the right,” you whisper. “You always have.”

He looks from your eyes to your lips. You give the barest of nods, and that’s all the invitation he needs. He leans in and kisses you. His lips are gentle against yours, hesitant at first, as if he’s still afraid this isn’t real. You kiss him back with all the unspoken feelings you’ve held for him, with all the certainty he’s been lacking.

You bring a hand up to cup the back of his head, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his mask, pulling him just a little closer. He sighs into the kiss, his arms tightening around your waist until you’re pressed against his chest. His bandaged hands are careful not to grip too tight, but the gesture is clear. He’s not letting you go. Not now.

Not ever.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless. You rest your forehead against his, your eyes still closed, just soaking in the moment.

“So,” he says, his voice a low, rumbling murmur against your lips. “No more funhouse mirrors?”

You open your eyes and smile just for him. “No more funhouse mirrors,” you confirm. “Just you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He grins, one that lights up his whole face. It’s not the easy, goofy smile of his counterpart, or the grim smirk of a hardened soldier. It’s his.

And it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

He looks down at his bandaged hands, then back up at you, the grin softening into something more tender. “So,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Guess this means I gotta stop punching things so hard. Kinda hard to hold your hand with scraped-up knuckles.”

A laugh bubbles up out of you, full of relief and joy. You take his wrapped hand gently in yours. “I would hold your hand no matter what.”

He helps you to your feet, and for the first time since this whole mess started, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his arm settles around your waist, pulling you against his side as you walk out of the dojo together. The storm is finally over.