#sweatercrack

Leo walks into Donnie's lab.

Leo: "What's up D?"

Correct! Good observation!

1. Can I help fix your cracks?

2. Can I hug you?

3. Can I kiss you?

Raph’s crack runs jagged across his plastron, right through the thickest part, almost mocking his size and strength. He’s a snapping turtle, built for durability, but the crack reminds him every day that he’s not invincible—that he was made broken. His sweater is a muted, softer red, thick and reinforced so his spikes don’t tear it. The sleeves are snug, but the back is open to accommodate his jagged shell, stitched with loops that tie at the edges to keep it in place.

Unlike Leo, who hides with humor, Raph carries his pain in silence. The sweater feels less like protection and more like a shackle—every time he pulls it on, it’s a reminder that he has to contain himself. He worries constantly about his brothers, that one stray hit could split their cracks open, so he positions himself as their shield, standing in front, taking blows meant for them. He’ll gladly risk his own sweater tearing if it means theirs stay intact.

When it comes to the cracks, Raph doesn’t try to cover his with little inventions like Donnie. He doesn’t trust fixes. He trusts his fists, his body, his role as the tank. But inside, he’s terrified: what if someone lands a hit just right? What if he fails to protect the others and has to watch their hearts bleed out in front of him? He rarely admits it, but the thought keeps him up some nights.