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2/2 I wanted to make a request but I have zero ideas so I want to ask if you could do some headcanons for dating Raphael, either 2003 or Bayverse. Iāll appreciate if you started from the pining stage before the relationship and then when he is actually in the relationship! Thank you so much!ā¤ļø
A/N: I went with 2003 Raph for this š
Dating 2003 Raph (SFW)
ā¤ļø 2003 Raphael/Gender Neutral Reader ā¤ļø
CWs: Thereās maybe one headcanon that is sliightly suggestive. All characters are aged-up.
Raph doesnāt realize his feelings at first, writing off his sudden protectiveness as just ālooking out for you.ā Though youāre just a civilian caught in their world, the more youāre around, the more his tough-guy guard flinches.
You make him laugh in short, surprised bursts. He normally tries to hide it behind a smirk or a snort, but around you, he forgets to hold it back.
He shows his interest through protective rage. If someone gives you a hard time, he doesnāt offer comfort; he clenches his fists and snarls, āGive me their name.ā You constantly have to talk him down from retaliation, though you know itās his way of saying, āNo one is allowed to make you unhappy.ā
Heās sometimes gruff with you. Not out of anger, but because heās scared by how much heās starting to care. Raph isnāt used to wanting someone so much it physically aches.
He watches you with feigned indifference until someone flirts with you, then the tension is palpable. Heāll ask casually, āWho was that guy?ā When you reply, āJust someone I met,ā heāll scoff, āYeah. Whatever.ā His sharp tone canāt hide the jealousy in his eyes.
The confession is an accident, bursting out when you confront him about his hot-and-cold behavior. Cornered, his defenses crumble into a frustrated yell: āBECAUSE I LIKE YOU, ALRIGHT?! HAPPY NOW?!ā He immediately looks horrified, turning away to hide his sudden vulnerability, and the silence that follows is the most terrifying thing heās ever faced.
He shares his interests by challenging you. Heāll shove a controller in your hand and say, āBet you canāt even last one round,ā but he doesnāt actually care if you win. Itās just an excuse to be near you. After you lose, his smug grin is immediately followed by, āAlright, two outta three,ā just to keep you by his side.
He gives you a gift, and itās the most Raph-like gift imaginable. Itās not flowers or jewelry. Itās something practical and protective. Maybe itās a can of pepper spray, a portable flashlight for your keychain, or an enforced lock for your door. He presses it into your hand, muttering, āHere. Donāt be an idiot and actually use it.ā Itās his way of trying to keep you safe when he canāt be there.
Raphās idea of romance is adrenaline-fueled. His idea of a perfect date isnāt a candlelit dinner but speeding through empty city streets on his motorcycle or sitting on a ledge of a rooftop. He loves sharing the thrill of being alive and being on the edge with you.
He insists on teaching you self-defense. āHarder,ā heāll grunt as you practice, not because heās a harsh teacher, but because his worst nightmare is you being unable to defend yourself. Seeing you grow stronger under his guidance makes him incredibly proud.
He doesnāt call you ābabeā or āsweetheart.ā He calls you by your name, or some gruff nickname like ātroubleā or āsmartassā with surprising affection. But when he slips out a quiet, āHey, baby,ā it melts you.
You roast him constantly, and he lives for it. Call him a meathead and he grins. Call him a softie and he rolls his eyesāthen pulls you into his lap and purrs, āI dare you to say it again.ā
Physical touch is his love language. He is always seeking contact: a hand on your waist or pulling you into his lap. Heāll let you trace his scars, a history of his life that he only trusts you to touch. Your hand in his is his anchor.
He picks you up just because he can. Itās playful. You could be walking through the lair, and suddenly youāre over his shoulder. āPut me down!ā you say. His reply, with a teasing smirk: āSay please.ā
He introduces you to his version of a āspa day.ā It involves the two of you working on the Shell Cycle. Heāll hand you a wrench and give you simple tasks, explaining what each part does. Thereās grease, the smell of oil, and classic rock blasting from a speaker. Itās loud and messy, but itās his happy place, and heās letting you in.
Raph hates feeling jealous. When someone flirts with you, he goes quiet and broody. Then he pulls you closer, glaring daggers, making it crystal clear youāre taken. He doesnāt admit it right away, but itās fearābecause heās scared someone else will come along, someone ānormal.ā Someone who doesnāt live in a sewer or fight Foot ninjas. You have to remind him: Heās it for you.
Seeing you hurt unleashes his worst fears. āWhat the hell happened?ā heāll demand, his voice all panic. Heāll hover over you, his hands trembling as he scolds you through a cracked voice, āI told you to stay behind me.ā Even when you say, āIām okay, Raph,ā his fear remains: āYou couldāve not been.ā That night, he barely lets you leave his side. He sleeps on the floor next to the couch just to be near you. When you wake up, you find his hand still wrapped loosely around yours.
You are the only person he is truly soft with. He lets his guard down for you, sharing fears and thoughts that he even hides from his brothers, especially after a tough night.
He hides his pain by shutting down or relentlessly punching the training dummy, but you know the signs. You approach gently, promising, āYou donāt have to talk, but Iām not going anywhere.ā Thatās all it takes for his shoulders to drop. Heāll sit beside you and finally admit, āI hate how much I feel sometimes. But you make it better.ā
He only lets out his verbal affection at night. When his guard is down, heāll pull you close and whisper, āI aināt ever felt like this before. You get that, right?ā Heāll wait for your nod before kissing your head and confessing, āGood. āCause I donāt wanna feel it with anyone else.ā
He gets into fights for you, but only in secret. If he overhears someone catcall you, heāll circle back after youāre gone. That person might later find themselves hanging from a fire escape with a gruff warning to be more respectful and to stay away. You just notice that, after a while, creeps on your block give you a wide berth.
You become his reason. On the worst nights, when a mission goes wrong, and heās beaten and bruised, thinking of you is what gets him back on his feet. He fights harder, pushes himself further, because he has to make it home. You are not his weakness; you are a source of strength. To be loved by Raph is to be the calm center of his personal hurricane, the one person who makes the fight worth it.
Dating Raph feels like standing in a storm with someone who holds lightning in his hands but shields you from every bolt. Heās intense. Protective. Loyal to a fault. And once heās yours, heās all in.
He may not say āI love youā often, but he shows it in his actions, like dropping everything to fix your car or listening to you vent with a simmering rage on your behalf. To be loved by Raph is to have a hot-headed, devoted warrior who would take on the world for you without hesitation. You are his to protect, cherish, and fight for. Always.
AN: After making the 'Baby Bump' headcanons, idk, I just HAD to further develop Raph's worries in a conversation. Maybe I'll do the other turtles too but my honey in red needs this closure š
Raphael x Reader
All characters are aged up
The weight of the baby, predictably, has become a topic of contention. Not the actual weight, not really, though that is certainly present. Itās more about the symbolism. Each extra pound is a tangible reminder of the life growing inside you, a constant ticking clock hurtling towards a monumental, life-altering event that canāt be truly prepared for. For you, itās exciting; a little daunting, but ultimately a joyful anticipation. For Raph, it seems to be morphing into something else.
Itās the constant, subtle reminder in every movement, every ache, every breath; each day, you, both of you, are getting closer to having your lives changed. A change bigger than any heās ever had to take upon, which, all things considered, is saying something. The troublesome thoughts that come with this expectation only get louder, yet Raphael refuses to acknowledge them. Try as he may, the fact that he has been so riddled with more nerves than thrilled anticipation canāt be hidden. Not from you. You know him too well.
So, then, he compensates by upping the ante with his usual manners of looking after you. Occasional lifts out of bed turn into being carried to and from virtually everywhere and anywhere, provided heās around to do it. All instances are paired with flirtatious remarks to your objections, only thereās a subtle shift: the playful boasts are edged with something deeper, almost desperate.
āSee?ā he grunts, his biceps barely straining as he steals you from the kitchen stool. āSaid I could still handle ya.ā That grin is there as always, but the creases around his eyes suggest a weariness you hadnāt noticed before.
āIām getting too heavy for this,ā you oppose apprehensively.
āNah, youāre light as a feather.ā
You placidly swat his chest, fighting the smile on your face more than actually fighting him. āIām practically a watermelon, Raph. You donāt have to prove anything.ā
āWatermelons are sweet,ā he retorts, āand lucky to be held by me.ā
The way he smirks at you makes your cheeks tint the same colour as the inside of one, distracting you from how dense his voice is with this forced lightness. Huffing, you just bury your face in his shoulder, missing the fact that he ignores your statement between the hormones and his flustering you. For the time being, that is. The signs recur intermittently, regardless of how frequently he attempts to cosy the wool over your eyes with amorous one-liners and tender-stemmed indulgences.
He isnāt just overcompensating, heās trying to settle something, whilst, ironically, being unsettled.
Nights, too, experience the backlash of these inheld contemplations. You awake to find him staring pensively at the ceiling, bathed in the faint glow of fairylights you had insisted on when you first started staying here all those years ago. They do little to soften the sharpened bunch of his brows. He has an arm behind his head, the other around you, but heās miles away as he strokes your shoulder.
"Raph?" you murmur drowsily, trying to pick at his face against your heavy eyelids.
Startled, his gaze snaps down towards you. "Sorry, doll. Didn't mean to wake ya."
"You okay?"
"Yeah.ā He hesitates, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. āJust thinkin'."
"About?"
His hand moves from your shoulder to your hair. āDonāt worry about it. Go back to sleep for me, okay?ā
As his fingers push into the achiest parts of your scalp, your eyes droop, but you know what heās doing. Itās what heās been trying to do for a few weeks now, and frankly, youāre growing tired of it. In an act of defiance, you slowly jerk away from his hypnotising ministrations to look him in the eyes, your own blinking out of sync in an attempt to address him adamantly.
āBabe.ā
āPlease?ā He parrots your feathered urgency, spinning it back on you, much to your worry. āYou need your rest.ā
Stubbornness, it seems, is as intrinsic to his being as his very shell. He cups the back of your head and coaxes you into a more appropriate position, leaving it there for you to try and sleep on, but this wouldnāt be the last of it.
In one of your evening couch sessions, you embrace what has become a ritual: you perched at his front, the press of your back perfectly moulded against his chest, and his strong arms wrapped around just above the swell of your stomach. The rhythmic rub of his hand on your bump is a balm to your aching spine and swollen feet. You always melt, lulled by the warmth, the steady beat of his heart against your shoulder blades, and the low rumble of his voice as he occasionally mutters something unintelligible. Itās heaven personified. At least, it would be if it werenāt for the tension beneath the surface of his affection; moments of silence, even peace, that are unsafe from the belligerent anxieties he refuses to express. Whether itās the quiet deliberation in his eyes, a hesitant pause in his touch, he was thinking, and when Raphael thought too much, he worried. Youāve all but become privy to just how often heās gotten like this.
As his thumb runs over the same loosened thread of your shirt - likely loose because of the repetitive action - he ruminates. There are so many questions, too many unknowns, that he isnāt sure he has the strength to challenge. Weirdly, having that conversation with Mikey about it has helped. Leave it to him to come out with the unexpected and profound truths. No family is perfect, least of all theirs, but he wants this to be perfect. Itās the least you deserve, what your kid deserves. He knows he's going to have to talk to you about all of this. He just wishes he knew how to bring it up without sounding like an idiot.
"Something's on your mind,ā he suddenly hears you mumble. āI can tell."
You can always tell, he swears, even without trying. He should be thankful for that, genuinely he is, but thereās a lump at the base of his skull, and its main aim is to halt these thoughts from slipping past his tongue. You crane your head back to look at him, awaiting those very thoughts, holding onto the thin piece of thread in the hopes that itāll snap and allow him the space he needs to speak. For the courage heās been building up to drop into a moment like this, temptationās whisper urges him to back out. He knows he canāt, though. You wonāt let him, and his head folds back into the headrest as he rallies it all into something tangible.
"What if," he starts, low and treading, "the kid just, I dunno, hates me?"
You chuckle softly, but not with any intention to poke fun at him. "Raph, they're not even born yet. How could they hate you?"
"They could have a sixth sense or somethinā. What if they can already tell I'm not cut out for this?"
His brows furrow, a flash of insecurity jolting the upturned stare behind his mask that so hopelessly tries to hide it. Fatherhood may not come as naturally to him as he would like it to. āNaturalā isnāt a word that fits into his entire family and the system theyāve ridden on. Heās more used to patching up wounds, both physical and emotional, not wiping noses and reading bedtime stories.
You bite your lip to suppress a grin, finding his concerns both endearing and amusing. "You think our unborn child is judging you? I doubt theyāre sitting in there with a scorecard."
"You know what I mean,ā he grumbles, eyes slanting down at you satirically before flicking up again. The tucked groove of his cheeks eases, but not into a calm. Itās more like despondent resignation, and that just breaks your heart, though not nearly as much as the weakness in his throat when he speaks again. āI could mess this up. I know nothinā about kids. Spintaāll tell yaā, I was a handful. What if⦠theyāre like me?ā
"Then Iād feel lucky,ā you answer without missing a beat. āI would be so incredibly lucky knowing that I have two very strong, very passionate, and very loving people in my family.ā
You reach down for one of his hands, lacing your fingers through his, but he only hums in response, still unconvinced. The hold that is typically so soft towards you is tough and constrictive, as if any gap left between your skin will let these worries fabricate into the real world. Heās heard those observations before. More than he can count. You have and still always make a point to remind him of his desirable qualities, but theyāre not all good. Raphael canāt take them into account without first recognising the bad ones. He can see it so vividly, the grim likelihood of losing his temper with his own kid, and being feared as some monster rather than the father heās supposed to be. He knows logically that he'll be okay, that he'll figure it out, that he has you to lean on should things get difficult, but logic doesnāt always win against a lifetime of ingrained self-doubt.
You turn, pressing your palms into his plastron for leverage, and he holds his arms out for you with his full attention now, only proving the point you're about to make. "Raph, you're going to be an amazing dad. Maybe not perfect, but great. You care too much not to be." Smiling sweetly, you grab one of his knuckles and bring it up to your lips. "Just look at how you take care of me."
He softens at that, his expression becoming more thoughtful. "You really think so?"
"I know so,ā you confirm, pushing your scrunched nose against his. āDonāt forget, weāre in this together. You, me, and this little watermelon.ā
The corny joke gets a laugh out of him, finally, and he wraps his arms around you as best as he can with the āwatermelonā kicking about. Thatās the cherry on top: theyāre not even born yet, and already the small miracle growing inside you is demonstrating exactly what youāve been trying to preach. You know it, they know it, you just hope that Raph comes to realise it, too. He might not be completely convinced, the worry will still linger, but you knew you'd planted a seed of reassurance.
He exhales, and the strain of his body disintegrates beneath you, even just a little. āThanks, doll.ā
āFor what?ā you ask, grinning.
āBeinā you,ā he mumbles fondly. āMakinā me a dad.ā
A choked snort ripples in the back of your nose. "You really are just goo under all that tough shell, huh?"
"Yeah, yeah." He waves you off playfully, but betrays himself by leaning forward until your foreheads meet, eyes falling shut with an unguarded stillness for the first time in a while. āOnly for you two."