#rorywrites

Raphael doesn't remember the exact moment he started seeing you in a different light. For almost a year now, you've become a constant presence in his family's life. He finds you wandering around the lair more often than not. Not to mention — and he can't quite explain why — the fact that you seem to prefer spending time with him in particular. Which is odd because Michelangelo would be a much better company than him, and as much as Leonardo and Donatello are two nerds too preoccupied with their own solitary interests, they could converse with you much better than Raphael. Yet you keep circling around him, seeking him out, approaching him.

Especially when Raphael is working out in the room he's set up as a makeshift gym, which happens every evening at the same time because Leo has instilled in him the idea that having a daily routine is important. During these moments, you sometimes observe him sitting in the corner while he's lifting weights. And you talk to him. You tell him about your day, about the latest movie you saw, about something stupid Mikey did that made you laugh, and Raphael listens. Often he doesn't know how to respond, limiting himself to a few scattered comments, but you don't seem to mind. Or at least he doesn't think so, since you continue to keep him company despite his limited eloquence. In these cases, your voice becomes the new background music for his workouts, replacing his usual playlist. And Raphael will never tell you, but he's started to prefer the sound of your chatter to his favorite songs.

Other times you don't feel like talking and you stay in your corner reading a book or scrolling on your phone. Raphael enjoys these moments too, because just having you near him makes him happy. He's always had a turbulent and angsty soul, worsened by the silence and the lack of different stimulation that keep his thoughts occupied, but with you the storm in his head has learned to quieten. And when you're not with him during his workouts, or when he's not working on the Turtle Truck with Donnie — with you passing him the tools, or when he’s not together with his brothers watching TV — with you choosing exactly the spot closest to him to sit, Raphael has started to feel your absence like he's never felt with anyone else.

And to have thoughts. Thoughts he's never had before. He wonders what you're doing, if you've eaten, if you're happy, or if he needs to come and beat up someone who's wronged you. But they don't stop there, no. He doesn't remember when, but his mind has started to wander to corners he's never explored before. Raphael is a little ashamed, truth be told. He thinks he's doing you a disservice, tarnishing you with the fantasies that have recently begun to flood his mind. But at the same time, he can't help it; he can't stop.

And he thinks, he remembers, he dreams.

The memory of your scent clogs his nostrils even when you're not with him, and he imagines being able to smell it directly from the crook of your neck, rather than only fleetingly when you pass by.

The memory of your skin under his palms makes his hands itch, and he imagines feeling its softness under his fingertips as he clings to your bare hips, seeing the reaction his caresses and his touch elicit from you, rather than contenting himself with simply grabbing your shoulders when you stumble and he grabs you to steady yourself.

The memory of your lips curling into a mischievous smile when you team up with Mikey to play a prank on someone makes him wonder what your mouth tastes like, and he imagines what it would feel like if he ever kissed you.

He can't deny it, Raphael. He has fallen in love. Which is the worst thing that could ever happen to him, because he's a big, ugly, mutant turtle living in the sewers, while you're the most beautiful woman to ever walk on earth. He's already resigned himself to the fact that you'll never feel the same. It wouldn't make sense. It's impossible. And that's okay. As long as you continue to spend time with him as a friend, he's fine keeping his feelings locked away in a safe deep inside his heart.

That doesn't stop him from continuing his fantasies, from indulging in his dirty little secret when he's alone in his room.

Raphael, naked in his bed, slides his right hand between his legs and touches his already wet and puffy cloaca with a finger, caressing its edges before inserting it inside. As he does so, your image appears behind his closed eyelids. He imagines you naked, bare before him, kneeling on the bed in front of his private parts. He wonders what you would think of it. If him being different from human men down there would disgust you. Or if… you would be attracted to it. He grunts and imagines his finger being two of yours as he begins to slide in and out. How would you touch him? Would you be impatient and rough like him? Or slower and more delicate? Would you give him what he wants right away, or would you take your time until you've reduced him to a delirious begging mess? He inserts his other finger, leaving only his thumb out, while his other hand grips the pillow behind his head tightly, and he can't help but moan your name as they touch the head of his cock, almost ready to drop.

"Yes, Raph, I'm here. Are you okay?" Your voice reaches his ears along with the sound of the door swinging open. Raphael freezes as he opens his eyes and turns his head around. And you're there, wide-eyed, frozen in place by the sight before you.

Covering your eyes with your hands, you apologize, and Raphael wants to scream, sink into the earth, erase himself from the universe. But all he does is remain still like an animal in the headlights, ready to be hit by the car that caught him there, defenseless.

"I just got here and I was passing your room and I heard you call me, I'm sorry, I didn't think—" you continue to apologize sincerely. Raphael wants to cover himself, ask you to get out, to forget everything you've seen and heard, lie that he didn't say your name at all and that you misheard, that it's not what it seems, yet he can't do any of it. His lack of reaction makes you pull your hands away from your eyes, and Raphael sees them move from his face to his hand still deep into his cloaca and then back to his face again, your cheeks growing redder and redder.

"Shit, I—" Raphael snaps out of his shock. He sits up, the hand that was gripping his pillow now rubbing his face. It's too late to cover himself, so he doesn't even try, he just pulls out his fingers and keep the hand open down there, the stickiness on them the only visual evidence of what he was doing. "This isn't how I imagined things would go," he manages to sigh, looking at you apologetically, hoping it would be enough for you to take pity on him. He doesn't know what else to do. He guesses that your friendship is now irreparably ruined and that from now on you'll start avoiding him. He doesn't blame you, even though his chest hurts at the thought of not having you around anymore.

“Do you want me to… Do you want me to help you out?” You ask, bashfully, and Raphael thinks he must have died of shame and ended up in purgatory because there’s no way you actually said those words. Maybe this is a test, and if he can resist temptation and pull himself together, he’ll be forgiven for all his sins and allowed into heaven.

It’s at this moment that he notices your scent. Raphael can smell it, stronger than ever, a fragrance he’s never smelled from you before. You’re aroused.

Raphael is still processing what he heard and what his nose picked up, but you don’t wait for him to give you an answer before taking a step forward and closing the door behind you. You don’t move any further, though. You just stand there, a little unsure now, your glossy eyes never leaving his.

And oh, he's going to hell, alright.

ෆ an: i’m sorry for cockblocking you. i started this last night before falling asleep and i got back to it this morning, but i'm not completely happy with the result. i just couldn’t wait to post something for bay raph too, so i published it unfinished. but i plan on writing the sex part too, i swear i'm going to, sooner or later! if there are errors let me know, i didn't proofread and i have no beta! i also updated my wips and ideas post if you want to check what i'm working on and what i plan to write in the future!♡

-> tmnt masterlist ෆ tmnt wips and ideas ෆ tmnt requests masterlist ෆ tmnt requests rules

You try really, really hard not to play favorites. You’re terrible at remembering names, and the whole pseudo-relationship between barista and coffee drinker is a notoriously confusing one. Typically, you offer most of your customers an obligatory smile, and you remember their orders. A mom in a green SUV comes in every Thursday to order an iced chai latte, and she’ll gush to you about her daughter’s soccer games. There’s a prosecutor at the courthouse down the road who tips you double if you remember to sprinkle cinnamon on his coffee without being asked; when you told him you’re in law school, he winked and told you that you'd make a great lawyer.  A gaggle of teenage boys come in on Friday afternoons and order the caffeinated equivalent of milkshakes, and you watch them resist the urge to order coffee cake along with it. Occasionally, you’ll silently use your employee discount. Your boss doesn’t catch on, and in your quest to quit caffeine you don’t use the coupon much anyways. In your own way, you know them, and they know nothing about you.

But how can’t you play favorites? His name is Spencer, and he’s a cop, albeit the strangest cop you know. The gun on his belt, which thoroughly frightened you the first time you noticed it, sticks out like a sore thumb against his usual sweet, timid demeanor. He orders the same thing every time—one cream, two sugars—but you can never predict when he's going to come in, or how long he'll stay. He usually brings a book or three and perches at the bar, reading them quickly and offering you a genuine goodbye when he leaves. Every one of your coworkers has a crush on him, for obviously nerdy reasons, and you refuse to blame them for this. You’re usually not the one to pour his coffee, but you notice when he’s there and mourn when he’s not. He’s incessantly likable, and you desperately want to know him. 

Now, looking at him, he's taller up close. His hair, which is either slicked back intentionally or with the dampness of rain, is tucked behind glasses. You stammer, cheeks flushing with heat as you realize you’ve been staring. 

“Oh. Hey, Spencer. My bad.” 

"No worries. I’m pretty early.” He says, sneaking another glance at his watch. It’s on the inside of his wrist, and you suppress a smile as you push the door open, gesturing to let him know he can follow you inside. The sound of water dripping on the tile floor is a sad refrain, but you don't mind hearing it as he watches you hang up your raincoat.

“How long have you been waiting? I’m the one who's late." 

He's seated at the bar, now, and seems preoccupied with drying off the messenger bag he carries with him everywhere. You’re tying your apron at your waist, ignoring the reality that the coffee is nowhere near ready, when he meets your eye.

“Six hundred sixty seven seconds, and counting. But it’s no trouble, really. I like the rain.” The frown on his face as he rakes his fingers through his mussed hair tells another story about his distaste for rain, but you don’t call him on it. Instead of attempting mental long division to figure out how long he was outside, you busy yourself in flicking the coffee machines on, refilling the ice bin, then leaning on the edge of the counter. 

“The usual?”

He nods, a crooked smile playing on his lips, and you start pulling an espresso shot for his drink. It should be peculiar, to be alone with him, but it feels almost natural. He tells you about the origins of concentrated coffee as opposed to diluted mixtures, and his voice carries over the whir of the espresso machine. After stirring in sugar, you watch the creamer bloom across the top of the latte, handing it to him with a smile.

“Thanks.”

He tries it, a familiar grin spreading across his face. You try not to get your hopes up. In the past, he usually opens a book and you resume your tasks. Instead, he meets your eye, an unreadable glimmer in his eye.

“You know, I try to recreate this at home. The coffee. It never comes out right.”

You shrug, wiping at the counter absentmindedly. To be frank, the coffee isn’t that great, and you’re not sure you’re the best barista. Still, you smile.

“It’s just practice. I’m sure if you keep at it you’ll make something you like.”

The bewildered look on his face tells you that he is good at most things on the first try, which on anyone else is aggravating but on Spencer, endearing. You laugh as he sips the drink again, shaking his head.

“It’s just not the same as when you make it. I think I’ll stick with it.”

It’s totally impersonal. It’s just small talk. Yet you cannot quell the spark of excitement and pride in your chest at his compliment. You flush, averting your eyes, but before the silence can linger you pose a question. “How did you know that? About the espresso?” He takes a long pause before he responds, a little sheepish. 

“I read a lot,” He says, and you get the feeling that he is leaving something out. Instead of prying, you rest your elbows on the counter and cradle your head in your hands.

“Like, literature? I was an English major, in school. Do you have a favorite?”

His face lights up, and you make a mental note to somehow, someday see that expression again.

“Yeah, actually. The Sign of Four, by—“

“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I read it in my sophomore year.” You interject, hoping that your enthusiasm for British crime literature isn’t too contagious, but he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seems to do the opposite of mind—he jumps into a discussion of the book’s themes and characters, and how it’s his favorite of all stories involving Sherlock Holmes.

As he speaks, pausing every few sentences to confirm you’re following, you watch. Even as you poke around the cash register, nodding to let him know you’re listening, you watch through your periphery. His voice feels like something warm, something to cling to, and it wraps around you as you make your way through the morning’s tasks. Miraculously, both you and Spencer remain uninterrupted, the typical morning rush replaced with sweet solitude. It’s a few more minutes before he reaches the end of his train of thought, hands gesticulating wildly and expression bright.

“I mean, between juxtaposition of the obvious portrayal of wealth and opulence and the social commentary on class and imperialism, I think it’s a perfect story. Truly.” He pauses to catch his breath, fiddling with the empty cup in his hands, and reddens.

“Sorry. I got a little carried away.” 

“No, don’t say that. I like listening to you.” 

You mean it. Maybe that’s what scares you—the way the words slip out of your mouth, a quick aside as you count dollar bills. You freeze, trying to keep your cool as you watch him redden. 

You mention your favorite book, and of course he’s read it. It’s easy, this back and forth, and he sprinkles facts and statistics into the conversation like cinnamon, a welcome addition in anything sweet. It’s remarkable, how much he knows, how easily he works abstract conversations into the mundane. It should feel academic, philosophical, and while you’re a fan of both you’ve never been this innately interested in either.

Eventually, the moment has to end. A very frazzled yet relieved woman enters the shop and orders a triple-shot-double-caramel upside down latte, which you resist the urge to tell her doesn’t exist. Spencer carefully extracts a book from his bag, leafing through it ridiculously quickly as more customers trickle in. 

“Thank God you’re here. It’s busy.”

Anthony, your coworker and arguable best friend, emerges from the back room just as the lobby begins to feel like a can of sardines. You’re handing out croissants and americanos as quickly as you can, but the laundry list of orders shortens only marginally. When you look back towards the seat at the bar, your heart falls. He’s gone, but he’s left a book behind. 

Later, when things have calmed down and you have a spare moment, you take the book into your hands. It’s bruised, battered beyond belief, and you catch a glimpse of annotations inside. It’s a copy of The Hounds of Baskervilles. You grin into the empty lounge, a slight pep in your step as you return to the register.

Spencer Reid is many things, but he is not often late.

JJ and Derek notice first, his desk empty and coffee mug untouched even as the minutes tick past nine o’clock. Sure, maybe the metro was delayed, or his car wouldn’t start. There are hundreds of plausible explanations for his absence, and JJ desperately wants to believe them over the more grisly reasons for his absence.

“Where’s Reid?”

Hotch emerges from his office around nine thirty, case file in hand and appearing only slightly perturbed. JJ shrugs, trying to dilute the panic in her chest as the group grows more and more tense.

“Is he okay?”

“I should call him.”

Derek and JJ speak at the same time, their voices overlapping as they both reach for their phones. JJ dials him quickly, and Morgan crosses his arms over his chest. This is very strange; very out of character, and at worst very concerning.

“Voicemail.” It’s remarkable. A team with every crime statistic at their fingertips ignores the odds in favor of a quickly advancing panic. 

“He could just be—“

Emily seems calm, offering a suggestion from her desk. Derek shoots her a look—in other circumstances she’d object, but she falls silent in favor of joining the group in silently worrying, trying to avert their eyes from the bullpen’s entrance.

The elevator dings, and each head turns as if it’s on a synchronized swivel.

Spencer’s inside, looking a little drenched in rain but wearing a shit-eating grin like a badge of honor. He stumbles towards his desk, his face falling once he spots Derek’s expression. 

“Where have you been?” JJ is the first to ask, lightly punching him in the arm. He rubs the spot absently as he sets his satchel down, smoothing his sweater as the grin from before returns.

“Are you serious?” He asks, his voice low, almost a whisper. He needs to know that you really mean it, that you're not messing with him.

He sees you playing with the hem of your sweater as you lower your gaze and bite your lip, in your typical way of showing anxiety or embarrassment. Which almost makes him smile because he's the naked one who was caught masturbating, you have nothing to feel bashful about.

You nod, then look up at Raphael again. “Yeah, I mean. If you want."

Want? Wanting it doesn't even begin to convey how he feels right now. If he wasn't terrified of making the wrong move, if this wasn't the first time that a girl, that you, showed interest in him, he would have already grabbed you and pushed you onto the mattress like he did so many times in the safety of his dreams. He's always been impulsive; everyone in his family has repeated to him over and over again how much he lacks patience and how many times he messed things up because he acted without reflecting. Yet now he feels stuck, unable to do something. Raphael never lacked courage, and he has always been faster with his body than with his brain, but when it comes to you he's afraid. You can’t even begin to imagine how scared he is. More than when he had to fight Shredder alone, more than when he, his brothers and April were falling from the Sacks’ Tower, more than when he had to jump from that stupid airplane. Vin Diesel helped him that time, but he for sure can’t help him now. You are more terrifying than a leap into the void. And this time he doesn't even have a parachute.

“Of course I want it," he breaths out, his eyes never moving from you, waiting for you to rethink your decision and walk out the door or take another step towards him. Everything is in your hands: what happens next, his dignity, his heart. Do with it as you please; he has long accepted that if there's one person he'll bow his head for, it's you.

You hesitate for only a moment before approaching him. Every step you take toward him makes his heart beat a little faster. When you finally reach the bedside and sit next to his leg, Raphael feels that if it doesn't slow down, sooner or later it will explode.

"Were you... Thinking about me...?" You ask.

This time, he's the one looking away. “I… Yes, I was.” He wonders if you're thinking about how pathetic he is right now. The big brute who shouts at everyone and never backs down from the most dangerous threats is reduced to a small, weak, trembling man in front of the woman he loves. The fact is that, deep down, there's nothing more threatening to Raphael than the idea that you might think something negative about him, that you might realize how undeserving of your person he is and that you'll walk away. But he's also a selfish man, Raphael. He doesn't think that he's good enough for you, but at the same time he wants to keep you right by his side, all for himself.

"And what I was doing, in your imagination?" While you ask this, he feels your fingertips graze the skin on his leg, the most gentle touch. His eyes settle on the hand that you placed there, watching it. You pass every ridge, scale and texture that you can find, softly, slowly, exploring his skin with your palm, and the sensation makes him hold his breath. The complexion of your hand contrasts with the green of his, he notices, and your softness clashes beautifully with his roughness. He wonders if you like it, how different you two are. He knows that he does.

He says your name. "You're killing me, you know that?" He doesn’t have the guts to actually respond to your question, to tell you what you were doing in his mind while he was fingers deep in his cloaca. His guilty hand is still open in front of it, covering it from your eyes.

Your hand travels upward, towards the inside of his thigh, closer to where he needs it the most, unhurried. Will you remove his hand once you get there? Or will you wait for him to do so by himself? What will you think when you see up close what he looks like down there? Raphael now can really feel himself trembling, made small both by the sensations you incite in him with your closeness and by the realization that in real life, unlike his fantasy, you could reject him. You must feel it too, because you stop your journey without breaking the contact and you look up at him. You must have read every insecure and scared thought behind his expression because you feel the need to confess to him: “I thought you knew that I liked you. More than as a friend."

"… What?" It’s the only thing that he’s able to say, dumbfounded by your words. You like him? Like like him? You?

"Come on, I’m not really that subtle, I'm glued to you all the time." You chuckle a little. “I had the impression that maybe you didn’t feel the same or that maybe you were more comfortable with just a friendship at the moment, so I never pushed too hard. If I knew that you thought about me this way I would have tried to flirt better, to show you more clearly my feelings for you.” He almost wants to laugh at his own stupidity, because now, looking back on all the times you spent together, he can clearly see how much you craved his presence and his touch, how your eyes always lingered on him, how you always went out of your way to be in his personal space in a way that a simple friend wouldn't. He's always thought of himself as a good observer, Raphael, and he is when it comes to other people's business, but when he gets too involved, he has to admit, a veil of uncertainty clouds his vision. A veil that is not completely lifted, because he still struggles to believe what is happening right now and what you are revealing to him.

He sees you look down at his still-covered private parts, before returning your eyes to his face. Your expression maintains your mix of sweetness and amusement. “I also know what you look like down there, for the matter. I asked Donnie to give me a mutant-turtle anatomy lesson. And it doesn’t bother me, like at all. I’m actually-“ You pause, biting your lower lip before smiling with rosy cheeks. “I’m actually really curious about it.”

Oh.

“You asked Donnie about this? Why?”

Your face glints with a new light, almost sultry. You get a little bit closer to him, your hand on his thigh slides higher in turn. “Well, I needed to know how to picture you in my own fantasies.” Your voice is low, but it echoes in his ears louder than ever. You had fantasies. Fantasies about him. He pictures you naked in your bed, in the darkness of your room, your hand between your legs in the exact position you found him in before, as you moan his name, imagining he's the one making you feel good. A sound escapes his mouth at the sight. Did you really desire him just as much as he desired you?

“I still can't understand how, why.” He admits out loud. Your eyes soften.

With the hand that’s not on his thigh, you reach for his cheek. You place your palm there and caress him with your thumb. “You think too little of yourself, Raph. I wish you could see how amazing you are in my eyes.” Looking at the reflection of himself in them, Raphael begins to believe your words. He's never seen himself better, framed by the color of your irises, with the affection you poured into them swirling all around him. That's why he finally stops doubting, breaking free from his mental paralysis, and decides to take action. He brings his clean hand to the back of your neck, pulls you close to his face, and kisses you. And oh god, your lips are softer than he imagined. He doesn't know what he's doing, but he hopes all the rom-coms he's been secretly watching will help him move in the right direction. When you open your mouth and let his tongue in, he finally gets the answer he's been looking for. He finally knows what you taste like, how you feel. It’s way better than whatever daydreaming he had before. Nothing could have prepared him for this sensation, for the wetness and the warmth and the love that you’re pouring into him with your lips.

Not to mention the offer you made him earlier still echoing in his ears, when you opened the door and found him there, touching himself with your name coming out of his mouth. The thought of going all the way for real has him becoming lightheaded, but Raphael also thinks that if you decided to stop with just that kiss now, he'd be happy anyway. After all, you've kissed him, you've confessed your feelings, you’re his now — or at least he hopes so —, all of that is more than enough, more than what he thought he deserved.

But then you moan into his mouth, the scent of arousal he'd smelled from you before becomes stronger, harder to ignore, and your hand that was still on his thigh grabs the one still between his legs and moves it away. You pull away from the kiss and Raphael pathetically tries to follow you as not to break the contact. You slip away from his attempt anyway, getting up from the bed.

He doesn't have time to think about what you're doing because he sees you take off your sweater and realizes that you're undressing. That he's going to see you naked for real. You take off your shoes and pants immediately afterward, under his attentive gaze. He can't help but drink in all your curves, all that skin you're showing him, gulping down every detail like water after hours of dehydration. And when you also take off your bra and panties, truly remaining completely bare in front of him, Raphael can't help but hold in a breath, before exhaling heavily.

You join him again in bed, this time in the same position he was imagining you in before, kneeling between his legs. Your eyes rest on his cloaca, now in plain sight before you. Its slit is still open and puffy, showing you exactly where the green of his skin under the last scutes of his plastron becomes a dark reddish purple, glistening with the fluids of his arousal. He feels a little shy under your observation, but the look that you have painted on your face — pure and raw desire — helps him feeling more confident.

Your eyes move to his face again. You smile at him, then you push him down onto the mattress with a hand and sprawl over him with your entire body. Your breasts are pressed against his plastron, your arms are around his neck, your mouth on his again in a wet open-mouthed kiss. His hands come up and cling to your hips, and yes, finally, finally he can touch you the way he has always wanted.

“Tell me what to do, how you want to continue,” you say between a kiss and the other and, fuck, he can feel your pussy moving on top of his cloaca, humping him lightly, wetting him with your own fluids too.

Fuck, you’re wet. He made you wet. And you’re grinding over his sex searching for your own pleasure, using his body, and it feels good, so so good—

That would be more than enough to get off, but he wants, he needs, to feel your fingers inside him for real, before dropping his cock on your hand.

He tells you so, adding a please because he also needs to let you know how much all of this is affecting him.

You comply, sliding a hand over his plastron until you reach his folds. And then it happens: you insert two of your fingers deep into him. They are thinner and shorter than one of his, they don’t even fill him like one of his, but it feels so much better because it’s you, they’re yours and you’re touching him in the most vulnerable part of himself.

“Is it good?” You ask. Your breathing has become labored, demonstrating that you are not indifferent to what is happening either. He groans, letting his head fall into the crook of your neck, because ‘good’ doesn’t come close to what he’s feeling. He takes the opportunity to take a deep breath of your scent, there where it's strongest, and churrs begin to flow from him without him being able to stop them. “So good, so good. Don’t stop, please.” He feels your fingers pumping into him faster, rougher, just like he wished you to do.

He’s not going to be the only one to take pleasure, though. So he finds your pussy with one hand and he starts to rub your swollen clit with his fingertips. You moan at that and he revels in the knowledge that he is the one making you feel this way, the only one making these pretty sounds come out of your mouth, the only one who can touch you there.

His churrs become louder just as your fingers find the head of his cock. “Let me drop, please, I’m close.” You smile, kissing the side of his mouth with affection, saying that he doesn’t need to beg, not today at least, maybe another time, and Raphael can only think that fuck, you really want to do this with him again.

You remove your hand, stickiness clinging on your fingers, and his cock springs free from his casing, right between your bodies. You make him stop his ministration on your folds too, getting on your knees again to see. He watches you while you observe his cock: the same reddish purple of the inside of his cloaca, the spade-shaped head, the way it gets larger towards the base, the darker veins that run through it. He knows that he’s big, ‘difficult to insert without a lot of preparation’ kind of big, so he waits for you to decide what to do.

Your hand, the same one you used to finger him, wraps around his shaft, barely able to close around it. Raphael groans as you pump him a couple of times, slowly, like you’re testing both his reaction and how it feels on your palm.

Then you make eye contact with him and the vision of you there, disheveled but so so beautiful, jerking him off and looking directly at him, is almost enough to make him come on the spot.

“I don’t think I’m prepared to take you yet, but-“ You rest his shaft on his plastron, then you resume your initial position, straddling Raphael before lying on top. This time, however, your pussy is right above his cock. You rock your hips against it, one time, testing how it feels for both you and him. You both moan at the sensation and so you keep rocking against it, again and again. “I want to come and I want to make you come, Raph. My gorgeous, perfect, Raphael.” You end the sentence and he feels delirious at both your words and your movements.

As you start to grind over him harder, faster, he grips your hips again and pushes you even closer to himself. He starts to meet your moves with his own, churring right beside your ear, chasing his pleasure but, most importantly, making sure that it feels good for you too.

Raph Raph Raph, he hears you whine as you find the right angle that makes your clit rub perfectly over his cock and god, he doesn’t know what he likes more: the feeling of the impending orgasm he is about to have or the fact that you’re feeling good because of him.

“So good, Raph. You’re so good, so handsome, so perfect for me.” You praise him, wrapping your arms around his neck, clinging to him with all your might and please, please tell him more of those words, tell him that he’s good and pretty and enough because he only believes it when you’re the one saying it.

“I love you,” he let out, unable to stop himself. “I love you, I love you, I love you”. Your scent, your body, your wetness, he feels you all around him and it’s so overwhelming but also nothing has ever felt better and been more perfect. He holds you tighter and when he feels you arch your back and come before him, he loses it completely. He finds your neck with his mouth and bite there, hard enough to leave a mark but not enough to hurt, and he comes too, staining your belly and his plastron with white.

Now, the only thing that can be heard in the room is the sound of both of your breathing. Raphael stares at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling against yours to steady his heartbeat. All of this happened. It really happened. You and him, together. Fuck. Raphael only notices that his cheeks are wet when your hands press against them, wiping away his tears with your thumbs.

“Crybaby,” you call him, and he would be offended if the look on your face wasn’t pure honey, with that smile that makes all your features shine and those eyes that still look at him like he’s the best things that ever happened to you.

“I’m not,” he grumbles, nuzzling into your neck, even though he knows that is kind of true. He notices the mark that he has left there and his lips open to kiss it, not because it hurts but because it’s the proof of what you have done together.

You chuckle and then you settle more comfortably on top of him, showing no intention of moving from there, which is completely fine because if Raphael could, he would always keep you there in his arms, never letting you go away from him.

“What are we, now?” He asks, voice soft, because he needs to be sure where you both stand.

“I’m yours,” you whisper against the skin of his head, and it feels good hearing you say that. “You’re mine,” you add, and this feels even better. “We’re a couple.” One of your hands caresses his face, lulling him to dreamland. He falls asleep happy, Raphael, because he knows that when he opens his eyes, you'll be there, still with him.

ෆ an: i don't think i'm good at writing smut tbh, but i tried. i hope raphael is well-characterized. some might think that i made him too soft, but looking back at the movies: bay raph is soft. he's the softest of his brothers and he's the crybaby of the family, or at least that's my interpretation. some people tend to only see his anger but the truth is that bay raph (but every raph, really) is not the angry one: he is the emotional and the sensitive one. also, i think bay raph is the raphael closest to rise raph, personality wise. gosh i love him so much! it took me a week to write this second part, because writing smut is hard for me sigh, so i hope it's good enough and that you enjoyed it!♡

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Imagine your back resting against Raphael's plastron while he holds your legs open with his own. You're both on his bed, sitting near the edge with you in front of him, naked from head to toe. He has one of his hands on your breasts, the other on your sex as he works two of his fingers in and out, his palm brushing over your clit. The only things that can be heard are your heavy breathing and the slow plap plap plap that his movements cause on your wetness.

In front of you, Leonardo watches the scene — watches you — sitting on a chair, unable to move, because even though he's not tied up, the leader is not the one giving orders this time. His expression is serious, hardened by his barely maintained control; the hands on his knees tight around the fabric. His usual bright blue eyes are cloudy, darkened by the desire to touch himself or to touch you; the fly of his pants taut from the erection it holds, left there, neglected. The only thing he can do is watch Raphael as he touches you, as he makes you feel good, because that was the command he was given, and he must obey.

“Do you like seeing my girlfriend like this, Leo?" You feel the lips resting on the crook of your neck turn up in a smirk as Raphael speaks. “How long have you wanted to see her like this, huh? How many times have you imagined yourself in my place?” He keeps tormenting him with the questions, reveling in the power that he holds, in the notion that he has you, that you belong to him, and that the other brother who wants you can only watch, unless Raphael allows for something more. He's enjoying it a lot more than you expected, having Leonardo in the room with the two of you. You are enjoying it more than expected.

He grazes the skin near your pulse with his teeth before biting down, giving you another mark, another way to show Leonardo who owns you. “Answer me.” You moan after a thrust of his fingers harder than the previous ones, accompanied by Raphael's commanding tone.

“Since before you two got together.” It’s the answer given after a breath. Leonardo is talking to Raphael, but his eyes are fixed on you, observing how your body trembles, shaken both by the stimulation that your boyfriend is giving you and by the weight of his own gaze on your body. He sounds pained by the admission, the words pulled out from his throat almost by force. What hurts him more? Knowing that Raphael got to you before him, that the years of friendship you shared pushed you into his brother's arms? Or feeling guilty because he shouldn't have had these thoughts about you in the first place, that he should have put his desire for you in a drawer as soon as you told him that you were dating Raphael? Or maybe... Maybe it's the knowledge that he doesn't really care about all of this right now and just wants the chance to have you, for the hands that are on your body to be his own, to be the one giving you pleasure, to receive it in turn. Even if it's just this once.

“And you didn’t stop after that? It doesn’t seem honorable to think like that about your brother’s girlfriend, or am I wrong?” Raphael hooks his fingers inside you, finding the right spot, the most sensitive one, the one that makes your eyes roll and arch your back as you mewl. His other hand squeezes one of your breasts, passing the thumb over your nipple, adding to the feeling. “Raph~” you whine, gripping the arm that hugs your torso because you need to hold onto something.

“I kept my distance, I kept control. I ignored my fantasies as much as I could.” The words come out quickly, a waterfall spilling from his tongue, just justifications for his impure thoughts. When your eyes lock on Leonardo again, you can see the effect this vision of you has had on him. He seems delirious as he watches, his chest expanding as he takes big gulps of air with his nose. He’s trying to calm himself, years of training on discipline and restraint helping him keep his composure, but you can see the impatience behind every twitch of his body, the burning craving for you that lights up his icy irises.

“And now you’re here.” You can’t see Raphael’s face, but you know that he’s looking directly at Leonardo, that he too has noticed the mask of control that his brother usually wears falling from his face and shattering on the ground. “Tell me, what would you prefer, Leo? Touching yourself or touching her?” This question makes you shiver with anticipation, the same one you see reflected on Leonardo’s face. You hope he decides to touch you; you hope that Raphael will let him.

“…Her.” You can feel the hunger he has for you in his tone, in those eyes that never stopped staring at you for even a moment. You can feel the way touching himself wasn't even an option for him, that all he really wants is you.

Raphael removes his hand from between your legs, his fingers exiting from your entrance, leaving you clutching at nothing. You try to protest, because he's been edging you for half an hour without making you come and just now you were so close to the climax that it almost makes you angry that he stopped, but he silences you by bringing those same fingers to your mouth. You open up without thinking twice, wrapping your lips around them, tasting your own flavor on your tongue. Leonardo stands there, transfixed as you suck them clean, first one, then the other. You can read his thoughts, you can visualize what he’s imagining is in your mouth instead of Raphael’s digits. That’s why you maintain the eye contact with him until you pop them out, gloating internally when you see him exhale harder.

“What do you say, sweetheart? Want to give him a taste?” Raphael asks you, his tone is now soft, sweet, like it always is when he’s speaking to you. His face is next to yours, touching your cheek with his own, nuzzling into you, breathing in your scent and basking in the softness and warmth of your skin.

You turn your head to kiss him on the lips, one of your hands going to cup the back of his neck to bring him even closer. You look him in the eyes, those clear jewels where yellow and green mix together to create what has become your favorite color, love and affection painted in every streak of them, when you whisper: “Yes, please, please~”

His attention shifts back to Leonardo. “Come then.”

Leonardo stands up, almost knocking over his chair from the force of his movement. He's there in two strides, as quick to approach you as he is to kneel before you. Raphael takes your thighs with his hands to spread them wider, to give more access to Leonardo who doesn’t wait another second to place his mouth on your cunt. And it's at this moment that true pleasure explodes from the deepest part of you. Leonardo eats you out as if it were his first meal after decades of hardship, as if he'd never tasted anything better before this moment. He slides his tongue — thick, rough, hot — from bottom to top, repeatedly, mixing his saliva with your juices. His blue eyes, so blue, so so blue and shiny, rest on your face from below once his lips decide to attach themselves to your clit and suck. You push against Raphael, spreading yourself further over his plastron as you moan loudly, eyes rolling back. Raphael's hands tighten on your thighs, his fingertips digging into your skin, while his mouth attaches itself to your neck again. You feel his cock twitching on your lower back, and you're relieved that he's enjoying all of this too, that’s it’s not jealousy or possessiveness what resides in his heart right now.

The bedroom fills with both of their churrs, and the vibrations from Leonardo hit your core directly. You curl your toes as one of your hands goes to grip his head and the other goes back to grab Raphael's neck, the need to be anchored to something as strong as the need to let yourself be enveloped by the two men who are giving you the best night of your life.

You look down at Leonardo again and find his eyes still fixed on your face. You can't describe the way he's looking at you now as he continues to suck and lap over your pussy. He seems intoxicated by the taste in his mouth, as if he'd tasted something that opened his eyes — the fruit of the tree of knowledge that gave Adam wisdom but also damned him forever.

“Leo~” you cry out, and you calling his name makes him whimper on your sex. Who knows how many times he imagined you saying it this way? You don’t have the time to wonder that as you feel two of his fingers entering you. The access is easy, aided by all the time Raphael spent stretching you earlier. You feel him searching for the spot that almost made you come before, exploring your insides, walking for the first time in the steps that Raphael has already taken a hundred times, and when he finds it, when he feels you tighten around his fingers and mewl in the same way he heard earlier, when you arch your back pushing your pelvis even closer to his face, he begins to hit that spot with his fingertips while increasing the suction on your clit.

“Leo, oh god, Leo, Raph, I’m going to-“ It’s ecstasy as blood rushes to your head, making you hot and dizzy with pleasure. You don’t understand anything anymore, everything around you has dulled out except Leonardo still sucking and pumping on your cunt and Raphael’s voice reaching your ear as he murmurs “yes, baby, like this. Come like this, I got you.” All your body shakes as your orgasm finally explodes, Raphael’s arms now tight around your hips the only thing keeping you from falling down his lap.

When you find your reason again, when the fog in your eyes and your mind has lifted, you look down again. Leonardo has pulled away from you, but he's still looking at your face. His lips are swollen, his chin wet, his breathing as labored as yours. You want to take his face in your hands and bring it close to yours to kiss him, both as a thanks for what he did and because he looks so beautiful and kissable right now, the affection for him that flutters inside your heart and turns into something close to what you feel for Raphael, but you haven't discussed this with your boyfriend yet, so you don't. You just keep looking at him as you feel Raphael's weight all around you and his lips peppering kisses on your nape.

When Leonardo stands up, you notice a dark, wet stain in the front of his pants.

ෆ an: i have nothing to say except that i wish this happened to me for real, bye. (it's short and just a glimpse of what happened between them in my imagination, but i hope you enjoyed it!♡ maybe one day i'll expand it into a larger fic because leo pining after raphael’s girlfriend us and then raph asking him to join — first in their sexual life, then as a poly relationship — it’s a juicy scenario ngtl!)

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Sometimes you hate the image your mirror reflects of you.

You think this as you look at yourself standing in front of it, wearing only your underwear, scrutinizing the way your belly protrudes from the edges of your panties and the light marks they leave on your skin because they’re too tight around your pelvis. Then you set your eyes on your thighs, too close together, no space to prevent them from touching and rubbing against each other, and the dark stretch marks peeking out from within. You pass one of your hand on top of them and you picture your fingertips being erasers and those marks just a bad sketch made with pencil. Everything would be easier if this were the reality and you could correct the wrongness of your body, cancel and redraw everything the way that you like from head to toe, with just the swipe of your palm.

Summer has always been your enemy: the unbearable heat, the mosquitoes, the sweating with every movement, all things that you hated. And on top of all that there was this: having to show off that body of yours that you just didn't like, but that at the same time you couldn't make it change.

You turn to the right, trying to see how you look from the side and then from behind. You sigh as you see your belly getting even bigger and rounder and the way your back hasn't been spared from accumulating fat either. If at least it had gone towards your butt instead of the shoulders you would have been a bit lucky, instead your ass was still small compared to the rest.

You turn around again, in the same position as before, and as you stare at your chest, you think about what you can wear so you don't die because of the heat but also without showing your wrong curves too much, a frown painted on your face. The only consolation is that at least your tits are great.

Two large hands that caress your hips and then interlace above your navel lead you outside your head and back in your room. You look up and now the mirror also reflects that hulking boyfriend of yours behind you. “Are you admiring how beautiful you are?” he asks, his voice sweet as ripe peaches, as it always is when he talks to you. His chin drops to rest on your shoulder and a smile spreads across his face. The softness in his eyes, pure affection and admiration intertwined among their colors, is almost enough to lift your mood. Almost.

“I wish. I’ve never seen myself uglier than today…” You close your eyes for a moment and let your head fall onto the hard planes of his plastron, leaning against him, searching for the comfort that only his presence can give you. You feel his arms tighten around you, and then his hands return to your hips to spin you around. Now you're face to face with those eyes that made you fall in love so much and that, incredibly, always sent the same love back at you. It's funny: your reflection there, surrounded by the brilliance of those irises, seems so much more beautiful.

“Hey. Don’t say that about my girlfriend.” The warning in his tone is held hand in hand with a hint of amusement. Then his real hands cup your face, caressing the skin of your cheeks with the thumbs. He’s serious now. “You’re gorgeous. You always have been and always will be. You’re perfect for me. I need you to believe this.” There’s a pause. He waits for your response, but you don't know what to say, because in the voice of this handsome turtle-man who for some reason gave you his heart, there's not a single shred of deceit or courtesy, but only what he truly believes in. And if he's convinced of this, what's stopping you from starting to think the same way? The fact is that, shedding years of insecurities and comparisons is never that easy.

He reads the uncertainty in your gaze, because you're not really an open book, but his favorite for sure, the one he’s read a million times, memorizing every lines, and can now recite without even opening the pages. "I can prove it to you, if you let me." His hands move from your face to your hips again, and just a moment passes between him pushing you against his body and his mouth latching onto yours. You know where he wants to take you, you know how he wants you to learn to love yourself, and you can't wait to let him do it, to abandon yourself to the care and devotion he's offering you. Knowing that this body of yours that you really don't like makes your beloved's head spin, is perhaps enough to make you like it more, enough to not want to change it anymore.

bonus headcanons! how each of them would react if you told them you wanted to lose weight (cw: mention of dieting, working out and sex):

ෆ leonardo: he doesn't have a preference for your physical appearance; he's attracted to you and loves you, and he'll continue to do so regardless of your weight. that said, he'd hate it if you wanted to lose weight because you didn't like yourself, but he'd be very supportive if you simply wanted to learn to live a healthier lifestyle. in the latter case, he's already willing to drag you to his workouts (running, stretching, self defense training etc), even the 5am ones, especially because that way you'll become stronger and be able to stand up for yourself. he's already on a pretty strict diet (not counting pizza) because he's one of those people who considers his body a temple, so he'll stick by your side and make sure you stick to your diet plan, too. be careful! If you give him the okay at the beginning, he'll be very strict and controlling and will constantly keep an eye on you. very useful if you're someone who gives up easily and with little to none discipline (like me cough), but can be exhausting and create tension. the sex will be bomb though cough.

ෆ raphael: the idea that you don't like your body devastates him. he's very insecure about himself, and the idea that you, his favorite person and the girl he considers the most beautiful in the world, might feel the same way about yourself eats him up inside. and he loves the fact that you're chubby, why do you want to change it!? does he need to remind you how perfect you are, how much he likes every single piece of you and how lucky he is!? he'll also want to know if someone specific caused you to not be comfortable in your skin. if that were the case, it wouldn't end well for that person, he can assure you of that. that said, starting to work out and eating better is never a bad idea, so he'll be there to help you. like leo, he'll drag you to his workouts and will be your personal trainer, guiding you through every exercise, especially to make you stronger and build your muscles. unlike leo, however, he'll be much more permissive about everything. or rather: he can't say no to you. so you better have an iron will, because as soon as you give in to temptation (like skipping a day or more than one for no reasons, for example), he'll let you. i mean, sex can be cardio too no? you did train after all, hah! cough. if you want, he'll cook all your meal!

ෆ donatello: he has the same opinion about leo, so if you're confident in your decision and you promise him to never tell something bad about yourself ever again because you're perfect and he loves you, you'll have his support right away. he's ready to be your personal nutritionist, creating a diet tailored just for you that allows you to eat well without giving up anything. it's important to eat the right foods and the right portions, but it's also important to leave room for the foods you love! donnie has one of the biggest sweet tooths, and if you are like him, he'll understand your pain in having to limit sweets. and, i'll tell you more, he's willing to make the effort to limit them himself for your sake. he'll look for delicious, healthy recipes to make your sacrifices more bearable (raph will cook them), and he'll remind you that you can still eat your favorite snacks when you really crave them! don't rely on him for physical activity though; aside from the obligatory ninjutsu training he does with his family and all the patrols topside, he doesn't move his ass from the chair in his lab.

ෆ michelangelo: screaming, crying, throwing up + falling to his knees, begging you not to do it. i'm mostly joking, but he hates the thought of you not liking yourself and losing weight, for real. he genuinely prefers you if you're chubby. he loves all your curves and your softness, not to mention the fact that your boobs are bigger this way (pardon him, he's a simple man). he doesn't understand how could you not like the way that you look. but if you're sure you want to lose weight, he'll obviously support you in the end, but sometimes he will look at you with puppy eyes hoping that you'll change your mind. mikey is a very active person, so he'll be more than happy to get you to exercise, play sports, or work out with him. and most importantly he'll make sure those will be fun activities used to spend more time together, activities that you'll want to do because he'll make them enjoyable, and not just boring exercises that you’re forced to do. but don't rely on him to help you go on a diet: he'll tell you he wants to start one too for moral support, but ultimately he'll fail and start snacking and eating junk foods again, and he'll be a bad influence for you too lol.

but the most important thing with each of them is: if you get tired, change your mind, or don't get the results you hoped for (because sometimes dieting and being active is not enough), each of them will be there to remind you that you're beautiful just the way you are, that they love you, that in their eyes you're perfect, and that being healthy and pretty doesn't mean being skinny.

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