hello! just wanted to request bayverse boys (if not all of them then just Raphael) x exotic dancer reader! im happy with anything, from fluff to the more intimate side :) TYSM FOR YOUR SERVICE IN THIS COMMUNITY🫡
A/N: Thank you so much, anon! 😊
Originally, I was going to write for all the guys. But I loved Raph’s story with the reader so much, I decided to expand upon it and … well, it got pretty long 😂
I hope you enjoy it! 💖
Safer Where I Can See You (angst/action)
❤️ Bayverse Raphael/Female Reader ❤️
CWs: Canon-typical violence, workplace harassment (implied), mild swearing, threats of kidnapping & physical assault, home invasion, forced proximity, heated arguments, and kissing. All characters are aged-up.
The pulsing bass thumps through the soles of your seven-inch heels and vibrates pleasantly up your spine. Onstage, under the hot, colored lights, you are not you; you are a fantasy, all smoke and seduction wrapped around a steel pole. You move with a fluid grace honed through years of aching muscles and practice, performing for a room of hungry eyes.
It’s a job—and a damn good-paying one, at that. It takes care of the rent on your tiny apartment, keeps the lights on, and puts food in your fridge. You’ve learned to compartmentalize, to leave your real self in the dressing room and let this other, more fearless version of you take the stage. Because out here, under the gaze of strangers, you are untouchable and in control.
Tonight, the feeling in the club is different in a way you can’t put your finger on. Your boss, a sleazy man named Vincenzo, has been watching you with a new intensity. It’s not his usual greasy, predatory stare. This is sharper. Colder. He’s been having meetings in his back office with men who don’t look like they’re here for the entertainment.
Your final set for the night ends, the last note of the song fading into a smattering of applause and a few crude whistles. You retreat to the relative quiet of the dressing room and change your attire, pulling on a hoodie and jeans. You’ll worry about your hair and makeup later; you just want to get home.
You push open the metal door leading to the back alley. You start your usual hurried pace toward the street, keys clutched in your fist—just in case. But a heavy hand clamps down on your shoulder. You spin around, heart hammering, to see Vincenzo, face flushed, flanked by two of the men in black outfits from his office.
“Leaving so soon, sweetheart?” Vincenzo’s smile is a gash in his face, all teeth and no warmth. “We have a business proposition for you.”
Your blood runs cold. “I’m just a dancer. That’s the only business I’m in.”
“That’s the thing,” he says, stepping closer, his overwhelming cheap cologne acrid and suffocating, “our associates think you saw something you shouldn’t have the other night. Near the loading docks.”
You chew on your lip as the realization of who these ‘associates’ are sinks in: the Foot Clan, who have been on the news. You’d seen a crate with their symbol on it, along with another symbol you didn’t recognize, when you were walking home the other night. Immediately, you made yourself small and unnoticeable, pretending to see nothing.
“I didn’t see anything,” you say, your voice a thin, reedy thing that you barely recognize as your own.
One man lets out a dry chuckle as he takes a step forward, reaching for you. You brace yourself, a scream building in your throat, ready to fight, to run—to do something.
And then the world explodes into chaos.
From the rooftops above, four shapes—large and impossibly fast—drop into the alley. Your mind struggles to process what you’re seeing as you scramble backwards: green skin, plastrons, and shells that gleam under the sputtering light nearby. Turtles? you think.
Whatever they are, they aren’t human.
The biggest one, a mountain of muscle with a red mask, situates himself between you and Vincenzo’s thugs. “Pick on someone your own size.”
A flash of blue, and the one with twin katanas disarms the men with precise, non-lethal strikes. Their weapons clatter uselessly onto the grimy pavement. A taller, lankier one with a purple mask wielding a staff sweeps Vincenzo’s legs out from under him; your boss goes down with a choked gasp. Then a blur of orange zips past on a hoverboard, knocking the men over with nunchucks.
It’s over in seconds.
The thugs are groaning heaps on the ground, and Vincenzo is scrambling away into the night like the coward he is. You’re left standing there, breathing hard, staring at the giant turtles now looking at you. Your breath hitches, caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
The one in orange turns to you, his weapons tucked into his belt. “Whoa, are you okay?” He grins, a wide, surprisingly gentle expression on his face.
“Mikey,” the one in blue says, his voice a low, steady baritone. His gaze sweeps over you and the alley, assessing and cautious, nothing like Vincenzo’s predatory stare. “Give her a second.” He sheathes his katanas with a slick shing that makes you jump.
“We don’t have a second, Leo,” the red-masked one growls. His voice is a gravelly rumble that seems to vibrate in your bones. “The Foot will be back with reinforcements. We need to go.”
A series of holographic readouts flicker to life from a device strapped to the purple one’s arm. “Increased chatter on Foot comms. They know this unit has been compromised.” He pushes what looks like a pair of high-tech goggles up on his forehead, his intelligent eyes finally meeting yours. He looks away almost immediately, a flash of social awkwardness.
You finally find your voice, though it comes out as a shaky whisper. “What … what are you?”
Mikey puffs out his chest. “We’re heroes in a half-shell, the saviors of the city, the—”
“We’re a work in progress,” the one in blue—Leo—cuts in, taking a careful step toward you. He holds his three-fingered hands up in a placating gesture. “My name is Leo. These are my brothers: Raph, Donnie, and Mikey.” He introduces them, gesturing to each.
You stare, your mind catching on the names. “Like the artists?”
Donnie perks up. “An astute observation. The statistical probability of a human civilian making that connection so quickly under duress is remarkably low. It suggests an above-average—”
“Donnie,” Raph snaps. “Nerd out later.”
Leo ignores them, his focus returning to you. “The Foot Clan wanted you. Why?”
You swallow hard, the fear receding, replaced by the cold, sharp instinct of survival that gets you through your shifts and your life. “They think I saw something. A shipment. At the loading docks a few nights ago.”
Leo’s expression hardens. “Then they won’t stop looking for you. You’re a loose end.”
“So what now?” you ask, the question aimed at all of them. “You just … disappear? And leave me here for them to find?” A spark of your usual defiance flares up through the shock. You survived this long on your own; you won’t be a victim.
The four brothers exchange a look. It’s a silent, lightning-fast conversation that you are not privy to. Finally, Leo nods, his decision made.
“No,” he says, his voice firm. “You’re coming with us.”
Raph groans. “Are you serious? We can’t just be takin’ in strays.”
“She’s a witness, Raph. She’s seen them, and now she’s seen us. Leaving her is not an option. It’s our responsibility,” Leo counters, his authority unshakable. He looks back at you. “We can keep you safe. We have a place. But you have to trust us.”
Trust them?
You look at each of their faces: at the impatient, brutish protector; the awkward but brilliant nerd; the cheerful, friendly goof; the calm, resolute leader. They just saved your life, regardless of what they are—and sticking with them is infinitely safer than waiting for black-clad assassins to pick you off.
You give a single, decisive nod. “Okay.”
A grin splits Mikey’s face. “Awesome! You’re gonna love the lair. We got—”
“Alright, no time for a welcome wagon,” Raph grunts, grabbing a nearby fire escape ladder. “Up. Now.”
Leo offers you a hand. You hesitate for only a second before taking it. He helps you onto the first rung of the ladder. You scramble upwards, the turtles following. When you reach the rooftop, the city spreads out before you, a dizzying panorama of glittering lights.
Mikey flies past you again on his hoverboard, doing a flip. “Follow us! And try to keep up!” he calls back with a laugh.
“Mikey,” Leo calls out, his voice sharp, cutting through the night air. “This isn’t a joyride. Stay focused.”
Mikey’s hoverboard dips in a gesture of sheepish apology, and he falls into formation behind Leo, who is already running towards the edge of the roof. You watch, frozen, as he leaps across an impossible gap to the next building. Donnie follows, using his staff to vault across with an elegance that belies his lanky frame.
Your stomach plummets; there’s no way. You can barely handle a six-foot gap on solid ground, let alone a chasm dozens of stories in the air.
Raph seems to read your mind. “Alright, look. There’s no time for the scenic route. You’re gonna have to ride with me.”
Before you can protest, he crouches, turning his back to you. “Get on. And be careful with the shell.”
You hesitate, your mind reeling. This entire night has been a cascade of impossibilities. You take a breath, push down the panic, and do as he says, wrapping your arms gingerly around his thick, muscular neck. His skin is cool and almost leathery.
“Hold on tight,” he grunts, and then he launches himself into the air.
A scream catches in your throat as the rooftop falls away beneath you. You press your face against him, squeezing your eyes shut. You can feel the powerful shift of his muscles as he lands, the impact absorbed by his bulk. He doesn’t even stumble. He just runs, bounding from rooftop to rooftop.
The city is a smear of neon and shadow below. You can hear Donnie’s voice coming from a comms unit somewhere on Raph’s gear, a stream of technical jargon and directions. “Thermal signatures two blocks north, likely a Foot patrol. Let us reroute through the financial district.”
After what feels like both a lifetime and a few frantic seconds, the world stops moving so violently. Raph lands with a final, heavy thud on a flat, deserted roof dominated by a large water tower before he jumps down to join his brothers on the ground.
“We’re here,” he says, his voice still a low grumble. He crouches, and you slide off, your legs feeling like jelly. You stumble, and his hand shoots out, steadying you by the arm for a moment before he pulls away.
Leo is already prying open a manhole cover.
“Home sweet home,” Mikey chirps, giving you a reassuring thumbs-up before hopping down into the hole and disappearing.
Donnie follows, then Leo, who pauses at the edge. “It’s okay,” he says, his gaze steady. “We’ve got you.”
Raph just gestures with his head. “You heard him. Move it.”
Clinging to the rungs of a ladder, you descend into the gloom. As you go lower, the sounds of the city fade, replaced by the echo of dripping water. Your feet touch solid ground, and you look to the turtles who usher you into the tunnels.
The air is cool and damp, a stark contrast to the humid alleyway. The smell isn’t as foul as you’d braced for; it’s more earthy and ancient, like a deep cave. Donnie clicks a device on his gauntlet, and a series of small lights flare to life along the walls, casting a white glow ahead. The path is wider than you expected, a brick-lined artery running beneath the city you thought you knew.
Leo takes the lead, moving with a confidence that speaks of years spent navigating these subterranean tunnels. Raph falls in behind you, his presence a comfort; no one is sneaking up on you with him there. Mikey, ever the chatterbox, falls into step beside you, his hoverboard now magnetically clamped to his shell.
“So,” he starts, “you’re a dancer, huh? That’s pretty cool. I bet that takes a lot of skill.”
You manage a weak smile. “It pays the bills.”
“Mikey, give her some space,” Raph grunts from behind. “She ain’t here for an interview.”
“Just trying to be friendly, bro,” Mikey shoots back, though he quiets down.
You walk for what feels like another five minutes. You take a few turns, navigating a maze that would have you hopelessly lost in seconds. Finally, Leo stops before a section of wall that looks no different from the rest. He places his hand on a specific brick. A section of the walls slides inward, revealing not another tunnel—but something that looks like a residence.
You step through the doorway and stop dead, your jaw slackening.
They converted a sewer drain into a makeshift home. Your eyes land first on a sprawling bank of monitors and computer terminals, which Donnie heads straight for. To the left is a dojo, complete with a training dummy, weapon racks, and floor mats. To the right, a living area: a beat-up couch faces a screen displaying a video game’s pause menu. Beyond that, you can see a kitchen area cobbled together from stainless steel restaurant equipment.
It’s the most insane and strangely domestic scene you have ever witnessed.
Raph stalks past you, heading straight for a punching bag in the training area, which he strikes with methodical, bone-jarring force. Mikey makes a beeline for the kitchen, yanking open the fridge and pulling out a carton of orange juice, which he chugs directly from the container.
Only Leo remains with you at the entrance. “It’s a lot to take in,” he says, his voice measured.
“You could say that,” you breathe, finally tearing your eyes away from the scene to look at him. “You all live here?”
“It’s safe,” he says with a shrug. “And it’s home.” He leads you to the main communal area. “Donnie, we need to know what they were moving.”
Donnie, without turning from his screens, speaks in a rapid-fire cadence. “I’m cross-referencing shipping manifests from the docks against known Foot shell corporations.” He swivels in his chair, his intelligent eyes fixing on you. “I need specifics. Everything you can remember about the crate. Markings, symbols, anything.”
You close your eyes, forcing the image to the front of your mind, and you tell him everything you can remember about that night.
After a few minutes, Donnie’s fingers freeze over his keyboard. “Leo,” he says, his voice suddenly tight. “Get over here.”
Leo is at his side in an instant, Raph moving to loom behind them. Mikey approaches as well, his goofy demeanor gone. On the main monitor, Donnie has pulled up the symbol you described.
“That’s not their standard weapons insignia,” Raph says. “What is it?”
“I’m running the design through our database of known Foot iconography and cross-referencing it with TCRI archival data,” Donnie states.
“If this is as dangerous as I think it is,” Leo begins, looking at you, “you can’t go back to your apartment. Or your job. I’m sorry.”
You nod numbly, wrapping your arms around yourself.
Raph lets out a frustrated sigh. “So she just bunks with us? For how long? Forever?”
“For as long as it takes,” Leo snaps back, his authority silencing any further argument. “We brought her into this. It’s our responsibility to see it through.” His expression softens as he turns back to you. “We have a spare room. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s dry and it’s the safest place in the city for you right now.”
He gestures for you to follow, leading you away from the main area, past the dojo and down a hallway. He stops at a door and slides it open. The room inside is small, clearly a converted storage space. There’s a simple cot in the corner with a folded blanket, a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, and a small crate acting as a nightstand.
“We’ll get you some clothes and supplies tomorrow,” he says. “For now, try to get some rest.” He stands in the doorway for a moment. “I know this is … a lot. But you’re not alone in this.”
You look at him, and for the first time since that hand clamped down on your shoulder in the alley, a tiny sliver of hope cuts through the fear. “Thank you, Leo.”
He gives you a nod before closing the door, leaving you in the quiet solitude of the room. You sink down onto the edge of the cot and run a hand over your face, smearing the last of your stage makeup, before you stare at the door. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but the only thing separating you from being killed—or worse—by the group terrorizing New York is your four shelled protectors.
You lie back on the cot, pull the blanket over you, and feel your eyes drift closed. And before you know it, you fall into a restless sleep.
You awake.
And for a moment, you don’t recognize your surroundings. Then the night’s events come rushing back: Vincenzo, the Foot, the alley, the leap across the rooftops pressed against a mountain of muscle.
The turtles.
You sit up on the cot, the blanket pooling around your waist. The clothes you’re wearing feel dirty. You get up and leave the room. Donnie is at his monitors, muttering to himself. Mikey is in the kitchen area, flipping something in a pan that smells surprisingly delicious. Leo is in the dojo, moving through a series of katas.
And Raph—he’s the source of the rhythmic thudding, his powerful form unleashing brutal punches against a hanging bag.
Leo finishes his form and looks at you. “Morning. Hope you slept okay.”
“More than I expected to,” you admit.
“Scrambled eggs or pancakes?” Mikey calls out, pointing a spatula at you.
Before you can answer, Leo’s expression turns serious. “We can’t keep you in those clothes, and you’ll need your personal things. It’s a risk, but you need to go back to your apartment.”
Your stomach clenches. “Go back? But the Foot …”
“Will be looking for you,” Leo finishes. “Which is why you won’t be going alone. Raph.”
The thudding stops. Raph turns, sweat glistening on his skin. His eyes narrow. “What?”
“You’re taking her,” Leo says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “It’s daylight. You’ll need to stick to the sewer routes as much as possible. Get her in, get her stuff, get her out. No engagement unless absolutely necessary.”
Raph lets out a low growl, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Babysitting duty. Great.” He scowls in your direction, and you feel yourself shrink back a little. It’s not that you’re scared of him, exactly—he did save you—but his intensity is a physical force.
“It’s an order, Raph,” Leo says, his voice quiet but steely.
Raph grabs a towel and roughly dries his face and arms, his movements sharp and angry. He stalks towards you, grabbing a pair of sai from a weapons rack and shoving them into his belt. “Alright, let’s go. And try to keep up.”
The trek through the tunnels is a tense, silent affair.
After you tell him where your apartment is, Raph sets a blistering pace, forcing you to jog to keep from being left behind. He moves with certainty, never hesitating at a junction. When you finally stop beneath a manhole cover, he pauses, listening.
“Street’s quiet,” he mutters. He pops the cover with a grunt and peers out before hauling himself onto the pavement of a familiar alley. He reaches a hand down for you, his expression impatient. You take it, and he pulls you up with ease.
“Fire escape. Move,” he says.
You scramble up, Raph right behind you. He guides you across one rooftop to the one adjoining your building. You nearly slip on a loose patch of gravel, and his hand darts out, grabbing your bicep to steady you. His grip is like iron, and you can feel the heat of him through your hoodie. The contact lasts only a second before he lets go.
You slide your window open and slip inside. He follows and scans every corner of your apartment. His eyes flick over a stack of books, a half-finished drawing on a small easel, a photo of you and your sister on the nightstand.
“You got five minutes,” he says, moving to the window to keep watch. “Grab what you need. Clothes, toiletries. Nothing sentimental.”
You nod before retrieving a duffel bag from your closet and throwing clothes into it: jeans, shirts, underwear, socks. You rush to the bathroom, sweeping toiletries into a smaller bag. The whole time, you’re acutely aware of Raph.
That’s when you hear it.
A key fumbling at your apartment door lock.
Raph whips around, his eyes locking with yours, a finger pressed to his lips. Every muscle in his body is tensed for a fight. The key scratches against the metal, failing to turn. Then, a heavy thump against the door.
“She ain’t here,” a gruff voice says from the hallway.
“Vincenzo said to be sure,” another voice answers. “Check again. And if the key don’t work, the boss said to make our own way in.”
Panic seizes you. Raph’s eyes dart around the room, assessing. There’s nowhere to go. A splintering crack comes from the door as a shoulder slams into it.
“Where?” he murmurs as he comes over to you, his voice a pleasant rumble right next to your ear.
Your mind goes blank for a second before you point a trembling finger. “The closet.”
He shoves you towards it, pushing you into the cramped space before squeezing in behind you and pulling the louvered door shut just as your apartment door bursts open with a crash of splintered wood.
You are pressed back against Raph, his body a wall of heat and muscle. His thick shell is flush against the back of the closet, and his plastron is a solid plate against your back. The space is so tight his arm has to wrap around your front, and he instinctively claps his hand over your mouth to stifle your gasp.
You can feel the frantic beat of your own heart. But you can also feel the steady rhythm of his, a powerful thrum against your spine. You can hear the men’s heavy footsteps in your room, the sound of them overturning your mattress, pushing things off your dresser.
“Nothin’,” one of them grunts. “Looks like she did run.”
One of the men walks closer, his shadow falling across the closet door. “What about in here?”
Your breath catches. You can feel Raph’s muscles coiling, preparing to explode from the closet and tear them apart. You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable violence.
“Forget it,” the other man calls from the living room. “If she was in there, we’d have heard her. Let’s go. We’ll check her old haunts.”
The shadow moves away. You hear them rummage for another minute before their footsteps retreat. The apartment door slams shut, and then, silence.
Neither of you moves.
The immediate terror recedes, replaced by a dizzying, potent awareness of your proximity to Raph. You can feel every line of his powerful form, the sheer solidness of him. Slowly, he removes his hand from your mouth. His fingers brush against your cheek as he pulls away. He leans his head down, his face just inches from yours in the near-total darkness.
“They’re gone,” he whispers, his voice a low rumble that feels like it’s inside your chest.
You can only nod, unable to find your voice.
He shifts, trying to give you space, but there is none to be had. He has to lean back, and as he does, you turn your head slightly. For a heartbeat, in the dim light filtering through the slats of the door, your eyes meet. You see something in his gaze. Not anger, not impatience.
But a fierce, protective intensity that’s focused entirely on you.
He clears his throat, breaking the spell, and pushes the closet door open. He steps out and immediately puts distance between you, the gruff mask slamming back into place. “Grab the bag,” he grunts, not looking at you. “We’re leaving.”
You do as he says, your hands shaking as you quickly throw a couple more things into the bag and zip it closed.
You follow him back out the window and into the uncertain safety of the city. The air between you has changed, charged with everything that wasn’t said in the suffocating darkness of the closet.
The silence in the lair upon your return is heavier than the concrete walls surrounding it.
You drop the duffel bag by the door. Mikey, who had been about to offer you a plate of eggs, sees the look on your face—and the thunderous expression on Raph’s—and wisely stays quiet. Donnie glances up from his monitors, his brow furrowed with concern. Leo’s gaze flits between you and his brother, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.
Raph doesn’t say a word. He stalks past all of them, ignoring Leo’s questioning look, and goes straight back to the punching bag.
You still feel the phantom pressure of his hand over your mouth, the memory of his body near yours. “We … ran into some of Vincenzo’s men,” you manage, your voice unsteady. “They broke down my door. We had to hide.”
Leo is at your side in an instant, his expression grim. “Are you hurt?”
“No. They didn’t see us.” You look over at Raph. He kept me safe.
“Donnie,” Leo says, “I need intel. Vincenzo’s men are Foot puppets. If they’re actively searching her apartment, they’re getting desperate. Find out why.”
“Already on it,” Donnie replies, getting to work. “The symbol you described from the crate is … problematic. It’s not standard Foot weaponry or tech. It’s a modified biohazard marker. The trail leads to Baxter Stockman through a series of shell corporations.”
The name means nothing to you, but Raph stops punching. He turns, his chest heaving. “Stockman? I thought he was out of the game.”
“Apparently, the Foot made him an offer he couldn’t refuse,” Donnie says, pulling up a complex schematic. It looks like a double helix, but it’s warped. “From what I can piece together, it’s not just Mutagen. It’s a targeted retro-mutagenic agent. Unstable. It’s designed for the aggressive rewriting of genetic code. In theory, it could create powerful, disposable mutants for them in minutes. In practice …” He trails off, his expression sober. “On a creature like us, it could be … degenerative. Catastrophic.”
The terrifying implication hangs in the air. Because the crate you saw didn’t just contain a weapon.
It contained something that could literally unmake them.
Suddenly, a priority alert flashes across Donnie’s screen, a blaring alarm that makes everyone jump.
“What is it?” Leo demands.
“Foot comms just exploded. They’re not searching anymore. Their tactics have changed,” Donnie says, his voice tight with urgency. “They’re creating a public incident. A chemical spill at the City Hall subway station. It’s the agent. They’ve released some. It’s a trap, Leo. They’re trying to draw us out.”
“And a hundred civilians are caught in the middle,” Leo finishes, his face a mask of resolve as he grabs his katanas. “We’re going.”
“I’m going with you,” you state, the words leaving your mouth before you can think.
All four of them turn to stare at you.
“No,” Leo says immediately. “It’s too dangerous. You’re the one they’re after. You stay here, where you’re safe.”
“They left my apartment to check my ‘old haunts,’ Leo,” you argue. “One of those is the diner right above that station. What if they’re trying to lure me out, and you’re the bonus? I heard their voices. I might recognize them.”
“She’s a civilian; she’s not trained for this,” Leo insists, looking at his brothers for support.
“He’s right,” Donnie agrees. “The tactical disadvantages are enormous.”
But Raph steps forward, his eyes locked on yours. The memory of the closet—the shared breath, the silent terror, his body against yours—is a tangible thing between you.
“She comes with us,” Raph says.
Leo turns on him. “Absolutely not. You, of all people, should know better. This isn’t a place for bystanders.”
“And the lair is? What if they find a way in while we’re gone? What if they send someone else?” Raph stalks closer to Leo, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. “She’s safer where I can see her. They want her? They gotta go through me. That’s the only guarantee.”
“This isn’t about your new protective streak, Raph. It’s about the mission!”
“She is the mission!” Raph roars back, jabbing a finger towards you. “I’m not leaving her locked in a sewer to wait and see if we come back!”
The two brothers are nose-to-nose. You see the truth in Raph’s fury. This isn’t about tactics for him; he has decided you are his to protect.
And leaving you behind is something he won’t accept.
Finally, Leo backs down, letting out a frustrated breath. “Fine. But she’s your responsibility. She gets so much as a scratch, it’s on you.” He turns to you, his eyes hard. “You do exactly what he says, when he says it. Understood?”
You give a determined nod.
The subway station is in chaos.
People are screaming and running, fleeing a shimmering, foul-smelling mist that is slowly spreading from the platform. The turtles move through the pandemonium. Raph pulls you along, his hand clamped firmly around your arm.
“Donnie, analysis!” Leo commands into his comm.
“The agent is reacting with pollutants in the air. It’s not just a mist; it’s becoming corrosive! It’s eating through the concrete!”
As if on cue, a support pillar groans, twisted metal showing through dissolving stone. And that’s when you see them. Not Vincenzo’s thugs, but Foot Clan soldiers in black tactical gear, their faces hidden by masks. They drop from the ceiling.
Raph shoves you behind a ticket kiosk. “Stay down!” he bellows before launching himself into the fray.
You watch, heart in your throat. But then a Foot soldier breaks from the fight and makes a run for you. Raph, thankfully, sees it. He disarms his current opponent with a savage twist and hurls one of his sai. It spins through the air and embeds itself in the wall just inches from the soldier’s head, stopping him cold.
Raph is on him in a second, a primal roar tearing from his throat as he slams your would-be assailant into the ground. He turns back to you, his eyes wild with adrenaline, checking that you’re okay. But in that split second of distraction, another figure emerges from the mist behind him.
This one is different. Larger. Its movements are jerky, inhuman. One of Stockman’s new creations. It raises a clawed hand, aiming for the back of Raph’s head. There’s no time to think.
“RAPH!” you scream, pointing.
He turns, but he’s too slow. And you do the only thing you can: grab a metal trash can and hurl it with all your strength. It’s clumsy and desperate, but it works. The can clatters off the mutant’s shoulder, making it flinch and miss its target.
The distraction is all Raph needs. He spins, burying his fist in the creature’s gut and driving it back into a wall, which crumbles on impact. He rushes back to you, grabbing your shoulders, his eyes blazing. “Are you crazy? I told you to stay down!”
“It was going to kill you!” you yell back, trembling.
The world narrows to the space between you and Raph, a bubble of adrenaline-fueled fury and fear. But the station is still collapsing around you. His grip on your shoulders tightens for a second. He opens his mouth to say something, but he’s cut off by Leo’s voice.
“Raph! We have to contain the spill! Donnie needs cover!”
Raph gives you one last, unreadable look before turning back to the fight. He yanks his sai from the wall and dives back in, leaving you with a racing heart. He becomes a living wall between the remaining Foot soldiers and Donnie, who is frantically working on a device from his pack, its casing sparking as he makes adjustments.
You refuse to be a liability. You scramble over to Donnie’s side, making yourself small but keeping your eyes peeled. “What do you need?”
“Situational awareness!” Donnie answers, not looking up from the delicate wiring. “Raph’s a battering ram, not a sensor array. Call out anything he misses!”
You become his eyes. “Foot soldier, left flank, high!” you shout. Raph, without missing a beat, spins and hurls a discarded piece of rebar, knocking the soldier off a platform. “Another one behind the pillar!” He slams another soldier into that pillar, using the man’s body as a weapon to take out the hidden threat.
Then, the first mutant stirs. Its skin bubbles and distorts, the retro-mutagen rewriting its form in real time into something more monstrous, its claws elongating, its jaw unhinging as it stands. Its eyes fix on Raph—then rushes at him, letting out a shriek.
Raph meets the charge head-on, a brutal clash of titans. But the creature is stronger now, its rage making it unpredictable. It drives Raph back, its claws screeching as the tips manage to scratch his plastron.
“Leo! Raph’s in trouble!” Mikey yells.
Leo and Mikey break off their own fights to help, but the creature is a whirlwind of mindless destruction. As it slams Raph against the corroding remains of a subway car, you see it: the mist of the chemical agent. It’s thicker around the mutant, clinging to it, accelerating its grotesque transformation.
And just above it, frayed by the corrosive gas, hangs a thick bundle of power cables, sparking erratically.
“The electricity!” you scream over the chaos. “Lure it under the power lines!”
Raph hears you. He shoves the creature back with a grunt, then deliberately stumbles, putting himself directly beneath the sparking conduit. It’s a crazy, suicidal gamble. The mutant, sensing victory, lunges for him.
“Now!” Leo yells.
With perfect timing, Mikey whips his nunchucks, the chain wrapping around a dangling piece of metal signage and yanking it down. The sign crashes into the power lines, causing the severed live cables to whip down directly onto the mutant.
The creature convulses, its screams turning into a shriek as thousands of volts course through its unstable form. It collapses, smoking and inert.
Donnie slams a device onto the floor. “Neutralizer active!” A wave of energy pulses outward, and the corrosive mist evaporates, the air clearing instantly.
The fight is over.
Raph never leaves your side during the journey back to the lair. His hand stays on your arm, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. You can see the scratches on his plastron, a reminder of how close he came.
Back in their home, the adrenaline finally crashes, leaving you quaking. Donnie immediately goes to check on his equipment, and Mikey makes a beeline for the first aid kit.
Leo faces Raph, his expression unreadable. “You said you’d protect her.”
Raph’s jaw tightens. “I did.”
“No,” Leo says, his voice dangerously quiet. “You almost got yourself killed, and she had to save you. My order was to keep her safe. Your emotions made you a liability.”
“She’s not a liability!” he bursts out, stepping forward. “She was protecting Donnie!”
You and Raph stand shoulder to shoulder. Leo looks between the two of you, at the unspoken thing that has clearly formed in the heart of the battle, and lets out a long, weary sigh.
“Get yourself checked. Both of you, get some rest.” He walks away, the argument over, though nothing feels resolved.
Mikey comes over and gently starts cleaning the scratches on Raph’s chest plate with an antiseptic wipe. Raph barely flinches, his eyes fixed on you. When Mikey finishes, Raph turns and goes to his room without a word. You hesitate for only a moment before following, softly knocking on the door.
“Go away,” comes the muffled growl from within.
You push the door open anyway. He’s standing in the middle of the room, his back to you, his shoulders slumped.
“I said go away,” he repeats, not turning around.
“No,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to be angry at me for not letting you die.”
He whips around. “What you did was stupid!” he snarls, taking a step towards you. “That thing would have torn you in half!” He gestures wildly, his hands clenched into fists. “My job is to stand between you and things like that. Not to be watching my back, worrying if you’re gonna do something insane like throw a damn trash can!”
“So I should have just watched?” you shoot back, taking a step to meet his. “I should have stood there and watched it kill you? Is that what you wanted?”
“YES!” he roars, the sound echoing off the walls.
He stops, panting, the word hanging in the air between you like a wound. His fury collapses in on itself, leaving something raw and vulnerable in its wake. “Yes,” he repeats, his voice cracking, barely a whisper. “Because at least then I’d know you were safe.”
The confession sucker punches the air from your lungs. You see it all now. The anger is a shield against the terror. He’s not mad at you.
He’s terrified for you.
He runs a hand over his face, looking utterly lost. “I can’t fight them and worry about you at the same time. Having you out there—it splits my focus.” He finally looks at you, his gaze pleading. “But leaving you here, not knowing if you’re okay … that’s worse.”
He looks cornered, trapped by his own protective instincts. You close the remaining distance between you and gently place your hand on his arm, right over his bicep. The muscle is tense as steel beneath your touch. He flinches but doesn’t pull away.
“Raph,” you say softly.
He looks down at your hand on his arm, then up to your eyes. “I don’t know what to do with you,” he admits, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
You look at his face, at the storm of conflict in his eyes. At the way his powerful frame seems to sag under the weight of this new, terrifying emotion. “Maybe,” you whisper, closing the last step of distance between you, “you don’t have to do anything.” Your free hand comes up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Maybe you just … let it be.”
“Let it be?” he scoffs. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is,” you insist. You look directly into his eyes, willing him to see the truth. “You’re not weak because you were worried about me, Raph. What you did out there … it was the most incredible thing I have ever seen.”
His control shatters.
A sound that is half-growl, half-groan tears from his chest. And in a single, fluid motion, his hands come up to cup your face as his mouth crashes down on yours. He pours every ounce of his pent-up frustration and fear into the kiss. For a heartbeat, the force of it overwhelms you. But you don’t pull back.
Instead, you meet his intensity with your own.
You kiss him back with everything you have: the fear from the closet, the adrenaline from the fight, the staggering relief of seeing him alive. Your hands slide from his jaw up into the rough fabric of his mask, your fingers tangling at the back of his head, pulling him closer. As the kiss deepens, one of his hands moves down your back to press you firmly against him, the other weaving into your hair.
He breaks the kiss, breath coming in ragged gasps—only to press his mouth to your jaw, your neck. He whispers your name against your skin, and the sound is a prayer and a curse all at once. You tilt your head back, giving him access, your own hands exploring the massive expanse of his shoulders, the powerful curve of his neck.
He pulls back, resting his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. Then he opens them, framing your face with his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones.
“This …” he breathes. “This changes things.”
“I know,” you whisper.
“I can’t promise you it’ll be easy. Or safe.”
You look into his earnest green eyes and give him a small, unwavering smile. “I’m not looking for easy, Raph.” You raise a hand and place it over his heart, feeling the steady beat beneath your palm. “I’m looking for you.”
He leans in and gives you one last kiss. Then pulls back. But doesn’t let go.
You hope he never does.
