My personal tmnt fic archive

Now I've read to chapter 10 of Dog Days of Summer. @adebauchedsloth wtf. chapter 9 was, how to put it:

Your writing of Donnie is absolute perfection! His humor, awkwardness and growing feelings are on POINT. I love the chapters of his pow. So much pining, fluff and muchy feelings make me:

I could have been happy with just this. A bit of fluff and pining.

But you have cranked out sooo many chapters for this beast. It just keeps building. I will be back when I can peel my eyes off it again...

I am feeling things. Wondrous, sappy, things. This f-ing fic is ruining my life 😭 (in the best ways). It is fluffy, steamy, but oh so deadly. This you? @adebauchedsloth :

AN: Almost a year after its initial publishing date, we finally have a part two omg. Better late than never, ay? XD Now the boys can finally make up for their mistakes

Part 1

Bay Turtles x Reader

Is this what painters feel as their brush strokes bring the oils on flat canvas to life?

Is it the rush that long distance runners describe as a high after they've gone long eough that the anguish in their fatigued muscles suddenly morphs into immeasurable strength?

The breath of awe that steals an explorer's air as they emerge from dense overgrowth to a pristine waterfall, untouched by the perversion of man?

Is it the warmth and security that blossoms inside a child's heart when wrapped up in their favorite blanket, snuggled against their favorite stuffed animal?

Leo didn't know for sure. But what he did know, gleaming cerulean orbs drinking the image of you in, was that he would keep this moment etched forever in his heart.

Standing at your bedside, he calmly stripped off his gear. All the while tracing your delicate curves, bathed in silvery moonlight, with his heart. Threading bits of his own soul and devotion as he went.

Slipping into the plush comfort of your bedding beside you. Wrapping his muscular arms around you. Pulling you close. Holding you tight. Nuzzling his snout in against your neck until finally feeling like he was one with you - Leo let's out a sigh.

Fingers brushing small circles against your bare skin, bringing his love for you to life.

The rush of your body reacting to his touch, suddenly replacing the tired ache of his limbs with a weightless synergy.

His breath stolen by the awe of your loyalty and affections given so freely to him. Your fingertips trailing paths across his scales with a reverence that rivaled his own.

A warmth blooming in his chest as your love blanketed him with a comfort - a security - he thought he'd never know.

The sleepy smile breaking across your silken lips setting every nerve in his body on fire in such a way that he never wanted to the relief of water again.

It's what he feels in this moment. Right here, right now. That in all the chaos and turbulence that dictated so much of he and his brother's lives, you were his guiding light. His beckon to call him home.

That so long as he was with you, he would always be exactly where he belonged. With you, he was whole.

@luckycharms1701 @yorshie @justalotoffanfiction @definitely-canon @writinandcrying

@donniesgirlie @gornackeaterofworlds @thelaundrybitch @sophiacloud28 @iridescentflamingo

@the-cauldron-witch @redsrooftopprincess @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @ninnosaurus @tmnt-tychou

@thepinkpanther83 @akari180 @milykins @citruswriter @jenuinely-speaking

@androidships007 @chicchanmooshy @peachesdabunny @msjadamatthews @ahhhhhhhhhfuck

RaphaelxReader

Warnings: Amnesia, Angst

(this is so tropey and self indulgent that I was almost too embarrassed to post it, thank you @the-cauldron-witch for giving me the stones. Apologies in advance. 😅)

"What are you to me?"

You freeze, your pen stopping mid-letter. For the last week you'd been trying to figure out how to answer if he asked, and you were still at a loss. 

Don't think for him, Donnie'd said, the memories are there, he just has to form the connections. They'll be stronger, and this will go faster, if you let him do that on his own.

He knows he shouldn't be asking, but every time he looks at you he feels like he's missing something important, and the way you look at him sometimes... he can't bear it. 

He doesn't miss it. The way your eyes light up when you hear his voice. How there is a slight flush dusting over your cheeks when your gaze meets his. The faint, but undeniable flutter that quickens your heartbeat when he comes near.

In the beginning, he thought he was just imagining it. Projecting what he felt his own body doing out onto you. Fabricating supporting evidence to justify the hopeful wish. Simply validating the near compulsive need to do whatever was within his power to recreate the phenomenon.

But that was then. When he was sure there wasn't a chance in all the world that you could find him the least bit attractive. Before he knew you weren't just being kind and welcoming.

He'd noticed it once while training alone, putting his all into each deliberate flex, every calculated exertion. It was fleeting. So quick he really had to dissect the event second by second to be sure it had truly happened before he could fall asleep that day. After all that examination though, he was certain, you had been aroused by his display.

Could that really mean it was possible? Could he really have a chance?

Every time you were around from that moment forward, he gingerly tested his hunch. He'd allow his touch to linger on the back of your arm. You didn't flinch or pull away. Soon he carefully allowed his fingers to dip to the small of your back. You'd slightly lean into his touch. During movie nights, he'd drape his arm behind you across the couch. It didn't seem to bother you at all, so each time he'd drop his arm bit by bit until his arm was wrapped around your shoulders. You only ever inched closer within his embrace.

He found his actions encouraged those of your own. As he was working his arm towards pulling you into him, your hand was working its way up his leg. At first, you'd just touch every now and again, before pulling back to fold your hands in your lap. Then you allowed your hand to rest on his knee. Each night you spent sitting next to one another, the placement of your hand working back bit by bit, until the top of his thigh was the spot it'd stay the whole movie.

And your hugs hello and goodbye became longer. Soon, your touch would remain on him after the hug had ended. You'd even lean into him, as if seeking another hug, sometimes throughout your visit.

This all had to mean something. Right? He had a chance. He knew he did. With all the cues you were sending each other, surely you wouldn't reject him. Right?

The secrets you two shared. The way he let you in. The way you opened up to him. How your eyes would linger on one another. The laughs and jokes that now felt natural. How you sought him, as he sought you, finding a comfort together neither of you had known before.

He couldn't keep pretending he wasn't crazy about you. He couldn't fake not wanting you one more night.

So no, he doesn't miss it. The brightness swirling within your eyes as you watch him draw near. The pink flush that deepens across the apples of your cheeks as the intensity of his gaze subconsciously backs you up against the wall. The slight hitch to your breath as his finger curls around the ball of your chin. The flitter to your long lashes as he tips your face up and dips his head down low. Your heartbeat as it pounds rapidly inside your chest as he tenderly presses his lips against yours.

He doesn't miss it. The breathy sigh you let slip free.

Whispering, "Finally."

Prompt - Those nights when they come home late and see you asleep on the couch and they come, pick you up and tuck you into bed with a kiss on your forehead" from me-writes-prompts

Character - Bayverse raph x reader

The dim light of the lair greeted Raphael as he returned from a night of patrolling the city. His muscles were tense, and exhaustion weighed heavily on him, but the sight that awaited him in the living area instantly softened his demeanor.

There you were, sprawled out on the couch, a book forgotten in your lap as sleep claimed you. Your features were softened by the gentle embrace of slumber, and a small smile played on Raphael's lips as he approached.

He watched you for a moment, his heart swelling with affection at the sight of you so peaceful and vulnerable. Despite the dangers they faced, moments like these reminded him of what was truly important in life.

With silent steps, Raphael moved closer, careful not to wake you. Gently, he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch feather-light as he marveled at your beauty.

"You should be in bed," he muttered softly to himself, his voice barely more than a whisper.

With a sigh, he reached down and scooped you up into his arms, marveling at how small and delicate you felt against his muscular frame. He cradled you close to his chest, feeling a sense of warmth and contentment wash over him at the thought of having you safe in his embrace.

The journey to your shared bedroom felt like second nature to Raphael, his steps sure and steady as he navigated through the familiar corridors of the lair. He couldn't help but feel a sense of pride knowing that he could protect you, even in the darkest of times.

Finally, he reached your bed, the soft glow of moonlight spilling in through the window casting a gentle glow over the room. Carefully, Raphael laid you down on the mattress, tucking the blankets snugly around you to keep you warm.

Leaning down, he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin for a moment longer than necessary. "Sleep well, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice filled with love and tenderness.

With one last lingering glance, Raphael turned to leave the room, his heart lighter knowing that you were safe and sound, where you belonged. And as he made his way back to the living area to unwind, he couldn't help but feel grateful for moments like these, when he could come home to you, his anchor in a chaotic world.

Those descriptions of him, being safe and warm. That is what I would want to convey if I ever start writing. I think Raphs biggest trait is his protective trait 🥰

Prompt - Those nights when they come home late and see you asleep on the couch and they come, pick you up and tuck you into bed with a kiss on your forehead" from me-writes-prompts

Character - Leonardo(bayverse) x Reader/Yn

Exhaustion painted your eyelids heavy. You'd drifted off on the couch, the flickering light of the television the only companion to your slumber. A gentle creak of the fire escape startled you awake, and you blinked blearily to find the room cloaked in darkness.

"Y/N?" Leo's voice, a soft rumble in the silence, brought your focus to him. He stood silhouetted against the moonlit sky, weary but concern etched on his face.

The exhaustion hit you like a wave then. You remembered waiting for him, worry gnawing at you with every passing hour. Now, seeing him safe and sound, relief washed over you, pushing back the weariness.

He saw the sleepy smile grace your lips and a tender smile mirrored his own. "Didn't mean to wake you, love," he said, approaching cautiously.

You shook your head, the couch feeling suddenly uncomfortable. "No worries, Leo. I just..." you trailed off, a yawn escaping you.

He understood your unspoken words. His blue eyes, usually sharp with focus, softened with understanding. He knelt, the concern in his gaze melting into something warmer.

"You should be in bed," he said gently.

Without another word, he scooped you up effortlessly, his strong arms cradling you close. You rested your head against his warm chest, a sense of safe haven engulfing you. The familiar scent of leather and disinfectant, unique to him, grounded you.

He carefully carried you to your room, the moonlight casting silvery shadows on the walls. He gently laid you down on the bed, pulling back the covers. You were already halfway to sleep, lulled by the rhythm of his footsteps and the soft weight of his hand on your cheek.

Just before you drifted off completely, you felt a soft touch on your forehead. It was a feather-light kiss, filled with a thousand unspoken emotions.

"Sleep well, Y/N," he whispered, his voice laced with affection.

He didn't stay long, disappearing back into the night like a phantom, leaving behind the warmth of his kiss and the lingering scent of his cologne as the only evidence of his presence. You drifted off to sleep, a smile gracing your lips, feeling safe and loved in the quiet sanctuary of your room and the unspoken promise of his return.

possibly showing off a new swimsuit in front of the turtles in hopes it gets Raph's attention because every other hint you've dropped has gone wayyyy over his head (...or so you assume) 👀

showers you in love and sparkles!!! ✨️💕🫂

Kkkkkeeeeeiiiiisssshhhhhhaaaaaaa. *clings to you like a wet noodle*

I scrolled all the way down to the bottom of my requests and gasped when I saw your name. >:3. I gladly shower in the love and sparkles, and hope you forgive me for the amount of silent pining I’m about to shove down everyone’s throat. lol.

Bay Raph x fem reader (I think the only gendered terms are two pieces bathing suit but idk does that count in 2025? Question mark? Idk I’m tired)

SFW

Raphael x Fem!Reader

I really REALLY don't like my writing but thanks to @turtleweens I have like six new 'Spring Fever' wips. So here is a gift! Go check out their blog 😭 it's one of my favorites

Warnings: 18+, angst and fluff

-----------

"I need to go-"

"No."

"And you need to go, too."

"No."

Her sigh was hardly heard over the rain against her windows. Struggling against the large turtle's grip to get out of the numerous pillows and blankets, it was to no avail.

RaphaelxGN!Reader

No warnings, light angst

He lands softly on the rooftop and makes his way down the fire escape. He's late. Caught by a stupid gang scuffle, it's already almost dawn. He still needs to see you.

He grips the window, sliding it open almost silently. The apartment is dark, and he can only see by the ambient light of the city. He slides the window shut and turns to find you, asleep, on the couch. His movements practiced and silent, he's probably the only person in the world who can move around without waking you up, his brothers included.

He looks down at you, a velvet affection filling him. A whisper of gratitude so soft he can't help but just stare for a moment. You are so beautiful. He inhales, deeply, and reaches for the blanket laid across the back of the couch, one of his, in a deep forest green. Unfolding it, he drapes it gently over your sleeping form. It settles into the peaks and valleys of your body. In the almost-year he's known you, you've become his whole world.

He really wanted to see you this morning. Not for any particular reason, it's just been a few days, and he accepted a while ago that he can't go more than a few days without seeing you. He needs you like a junkie. Every moment with you destroys him, but he'd cross oceans.

He adjusts the blanket gently as it slips down your shoulder, his cold scales brushing your warm skin, and almost shivers. His hand passes over a broken line of light that slashes across your back, and his focus shifts from you as it glints off a few scales on the back of his hand. The rest is marked by scar and injury, and what isn't is stained by the city. His jaw tightens as he turns away. He should have at least washed his hands before touching you, but he couldn't help it. He was drawn to you, like always, like a sun.

A small hand slips into his as he takes a step toward the window, and he stops. His hand instinctively closes around yours, and he turns to find you looking up at him sleepily, your hair slightly disheveled. As the warm, ambient light of the city glitters in your soft eyes, he's caught in them, and lost.

Your lips part, and you soundlessly whisper one word.

"Stay..."

His breath seizes in his chest. He glances toward the window, seeing the pitch dark of pre-morning shifting into slate blue at the horizon.

"I can't..." He whispers, painfully, turning his gaze to yours. It hurts, having to say no. Having to say he can't. Having to flee from the sunlight like some horrifying nightbound monster.

Your only response is a gentle pull on his hand, and he has to swallow down the sudden desire to fall to his knees beside you and stay forever. By some miracle, he manages to hold his ground.

"Y/N, it's almost morning," he says, every word a shard that sinks deep into his chest. I'm sorry...

His resolve almost breaks when your soft hand slips from his and slides under the couch cushion you've been using as a pillow. Your eyes close and you settle under the blanket. He watches you for a few moments as the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest deepens and you drift back to sleep.

When he can finally pull himself away, he stands outside the window, hands braced on the fire escape, and draws a shuddering breath. He looks up into sky, now shifting from light pollution to simply light, as if it might hold some kind of clarity. There's a need in him like nothing he's ever known, but there no where to go with it. It just eats at him like acid, and some nights, it feels as though, by morning, there will be nothing left.

But the slate blue has consumed the black and a new spectrum begins to bloom, slowly, above. He was supposed to be underground half an hour ago.

His eyes fall closed and he draws another deep breath, pulling himself together for the run home.

...

Tag list

Author’s Note: So—sorry for not posting in weeks, but I had a massive writer’s block, and well… I’m back! I was heavily inspired by THAT Robbie Williams song. Yes, I watched his biopic. Yes, I cried. Yes, I recommend it. And… surprise?! There will be a whole chronology with the others, all themed around Robbie’s songs! Yayy <3!! Consider it a gift? from me for taking so long 🥺. Love you all.

Pairing: Bayverse!Donnie x female reader

Tags: Intense fluff, nerd having an emotional crisis, extreme overthinking, unexpected kisses, Donatello’s mental breakdown, romantic panic, “oh no I messed up” but in HD, happy ending.

The sound of the keyboard echoed through the room—a rhythmic, steady tapping that blended with the low hum of the monitors. The bluish glow from the screens cast irregular shadows across his face, reflecting off the lenses of his glasses with every line of code appearing and disappearing on the monitor.

Donatello was there, as always.

The work was easy. Thinking was easy.

It was like a well-structured algorithm: receive information, process it, execute a plan of action. The world had rules, patterns, probabilities—formulas that predicted outcomes with near-absolute precision. No matter how chaotic a situation seemed, there was always a logical solution waiting to be uncovered.

Computers don’t lie.

Data has no biases, no whims. It doesn’t suffer irrational fluctuations. It doesn’t beat faster without reason. It doesn’t have to remind itself to breathe.

But then…

There’s you.

And everything falls apart.

Not immediately. Not like a fatal error shutting down the system in the blink of an eye. It’s more subtle. Like an unexpected variable in an equation that had, until now, been perfect. Something that doesn’t fit into the rigid structure of his world—but something he can’t ignore either.

He thinks about it often. About how his brain operates like a well-calibrated machine, each thought clicking into the next like the teeth of a moving gear. Logic is his native language. Reason, his compass.

And yet, when it comes to you, all that logic becomes blurred.

The gears grind.

The code becomes erratic.

The equation fills with unknowns.

Because when you step into his space, when your voice disrupts the steady rhythm of his keyboard, when you lean over his desk without a second thought for the scattered circuits and switch off his monitor without warning…

His first instinct is to think. Analyze. Quantify.

What does this mean?

Why does his heart react this way?

Why does his skin register the shift in temperature more intensely when you’re near?

But thinking doesn’t give him answers.

Feeling does.

And that is terrifying.

Because feeling isn’t predictable. Feeling has no neatly arranged lines of code, no graphs to chart behavioral patterns, no equations with exact solutions.

Emotions, in themselves, are a chaotic system.

And you…

You are the anomaly he still doesn’t know how to decode.

Nights shouldn’t feel this short when spent alone in front of a screen. And yet, when his mind drifts to the memory of a laugh, the fleeting image of a glance, the echo of an accidental touch… time dissolves in a way not even quantum physics could explain.

When he feels the weight of his name on your tongue. Like an access key to a system he never thought anyone would try to hack.

And he watches you from the corner of his eye as you lean closer, and in that instant, every variable in his mind shifts. Every equation rewrites itself.

A shiver runs down his shell.

Feeling.

He knows because his chest tightens with an undefined pressure, a sensation he can’t attribute to any specific physiological variable. His heart rate isn’t elevated from exertion. He’s not under attack. He’s not in danger.

So why does his body react as if he is?

There’s no equation to explain this.

Because if there were, he would have solved it long ago. He would have identified the problem, broken it down into its components, eliminated any errors. But every time he thinks he’s close to an answer, another unknown appears, shifting all previous solutions out of place.

Music filters through his headphones, slow and melancholic.

“I just wanna feel, real love…”

A shiver runs down his spine.

His body reacts to the sound before his mind does. It’s absurd. It’s ridiculous. There is no logical reason why a progression of chords and a set of words arranged in a certain way should have this effect on him.

And yet, here he is.

Fingers hovering over the keyboard, motionless—caught between the instinct to keep working and the strange, undeniable realization that… he can’t.

Not because he’s tired.

Not because he lacks information.

Not because there’s a problem that requires more processing.

But because, for the first time in a long time, the data isn’t the most important thing.

The screen flickers with information he should be absorbing, but he isn’t. His glasses reflect numbers and graphs that would normally hold his full attention, but his gaze is empty, unfocused.

The room remains unchanged—draped in shadows, illuminated only by the bluish glow of his monitors and the faint blinking of LED lights from his equipment.

The mission had been difficult. The margin of error had been higher than he liked to admit.

It wasn’t often that his calculations failed.

But sometimes, calculations weren’t enough.

Sometimes, reality simply… refused to adhere to logic.

“Feel the home that I live in…”

His jaw tightens.

He doesn’t know how that song ended up on his playlist.

But he has a reasonable theory.

One that involves Mikey, his blatant disregard for personal privacy, and his insistent need to “help him connect with his emotions.”

(Sure. Right.)

And yet…

The lyrics hit him harder than he’d like to admit.

It’s not the melody itself. It’s not the chords or the rhythm. It’s the way the words seem to slip through the cracks in his mind, seeping into the spaces that logic has never quite managed to seal shut.

“I just wanna feel, real love…”

Donnie exhales slowly, his fingers still hovering over the keyboard, motionless.

He thinks about the battle.

The mistakes.

The risks they took.

Numbers flash through his mind like a simulation running in reverse—impact probability, the margin of error in his calculations, the reaction speed needed to avoid damage. Fractions of a second where the difference between victory and absolute disaster depended on decisions made under pressure.

But more than anything—he thinks about you.

He thinks about the way, at the end of the fight, you rushed to check if he was okay.

About how, without even thinking, your hands—warm, alive—ran along his arm, searching for injuries he had already identified and dismissed milliseconds before with his visor.

He could have told you it wasn’t necessary.

That he was unharmed.

That he had concrete data to prove it.

But he didn’t.

Because logic dictates that worry should be extinguished by facts.

But feeling…

Feeling dictates that your touch lingers, even after you’ve gone.

That the sensation of your skin against his stays beyond his capacity for reasoning.

That the light pressure of your fingers on his forearm still burns in his memory, like an unsolved equation looping endlessly in his mind.

“Come and hold my hand…”

Donnie closes his eyes.

He could turn the song off.

He could erase the anomaly from his system.

He could rewrite the equation, adjust the variables, find a way to rationalize what he feels.

But… he doesn’t want to.

Because for the first time in his life, the result of a problem doesn’t matter as much as the unknown.

He doesn’t just want to think.

He wants to feel.

He wants to understand why being with you feels like the only constant that truly matters.

And then—you arrive.

Without warning, without fanfare, without the slightest idea that the world inside Donatello’s mind is teetering on the edge of a collapse even he can’t explain.

The lab door slides open smoothly—barely a whisper against the silence, thick with static electricity and the faint murmur of music in his headphones.

He notices everything.

The shift in air pressure.

The sound of your footsteps, softened against the floor.

The faint scent of shampoo and fabric laced with the chill of the night.

The way the temperature in the room rises by just a fraction of a degree when you step inside.

But he doesn’t turn around immediately.

Because he doesn’t know what to do with the anomaly that you are in his equation.

He doesn’t know where to place you within the rigid parameters of his logical, structured world.

His operating system slows, his brain—so used to processing information with the precision of a surgeon—stalls in an endless loop, searching for a resolution that refuses to exist.

And then—your voice.

“Donnie?”

Soft. Not because you’re hesitant, but because you know him. Because somehow—through a method he can’t quantify—you can read the tension in his shoulders. You can see the way his fingers have stopped typing, even though the screen is still waiting for input.

He closes his eyes for just a moment, as if that alone might be enough to reboot him, to restore the control that feels like it’s slipping through his fingers.

He knows he should say something.

He knows he should act normal.

But his normal means efficiency, speed, precise answers delivered at the exact right moment.

And right now, every command in his mind is failing.

You watch him with quiet curiosity, tilting just slightly toward him—just enough for the air between you to feel heavier, more tangible.

“Everything okay?” you ask, voice soft in that way that completely disarms him. Then your gaze sharpens slightly, scanning him with quiet scrutiny. “Are you hurt?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he looks at you.

His mind runs an automatic analysis of your expression—eyes slightly narrowed, lips barely pressed together, the faintest crease in your right brow, as if you’re already calculating the probability that he’s lying.

Logic dictates that he should reassure you with data. That he should tell you his visor has already run a full diagnostic scan and that his physical condition is optimal. That there is no rational reason for concern.

But then his gaze drops.

And he sees his own hand, still resting on the desk—still tense.

And for the first time in a long time, he chooses to do something without overthinking it.

He looks at you again.

His throat feels dry. Without realizing it, he wets his lips—a quick flick of his tongue over skin cracked from hours without proper hydration.

Then, in a voice so quiet it barely sounds like his own, he asks:

“Can I… hold your hand?”

It’s not the kind of question anyone would expect from him.

And he knows it.

Because it doesn’t fit his usual patterns. It’s not something that makes sense in any logical context.

But right now, logic is utterly useless to him.

Your lashes flutter in subtle surprise, as if the words take a few extra seconds to fully register.

“What?”

His instincts scream at him to backtrack, to rephrase, to find a way to explain what even he doesn’t fully understand.

But he doesn’t.

“I want to…” He inhales, trying to reorganize his thoughts. “I mean, just—”

He shuts his eyes for a second, frustration flickering across his face. He has never felt this clumsy with words before.

When he opens them again, you’re still there. You haven’t moved. You haven’t looked away.

And somehow, that alone gives him the courage he’s lacking.

“I just… want to feel it.”

The truth escapes him so easily, so quietly, that it almost embarrasses him.

Your expression shifts.

It’s not amusement.

It’s not rejection.

It’s something softer. More intimate.

And without questioning it—without hesitation or unnecessary words—you let your hand slide over his.

Not hurriedly.

Not hesitantly.

Just with the quiet certainty of someone who understands exactly what he’s asking for.

And when your fingers intertwine with his, Donnie feels every equation, every algorithm, every carefully structured rule in his mind… simply dissolve.

As if they had never really mattered in the first place.

“Well?” you ask, your voice carrying a faint attempt at lightness.

Donnie knows you’re trying to sound casual, that you’re masking your uncertainty behind a relaxed tone. But he notices.

He notices the delicate dusting of pink on your cheeks, the almost imperceptible tremor in your lower lip, the way your thumb brushes against the back of his hand—like you’re adjusting to the contact just as much as he is.

And something inside him… softens.

His lips curve, at first unconsciously—a smile, small and barely formed. Then, from deep in his chest, a quiet laugh escapes, unbidden and genuine, as weightless as the air after a storm.

It’s not mockery. It’s not disbelief.

It’s something purer. Something real.

—Nothing, —he murmurs, his thumb moving awkwardly against your skin— Just… this is nice.

The confession catches him off guard.

Because he hadn’t planned it.

Because he hadn’t filtered it through his logic before speaking.

Because it simply happened.

And then, you look at each other.

Maybe for too long.

Maybe just long enough for the world around you to blur into a distant murmur, as if nothing else exists except the space you occupy together.

He finds himself mesmerized by you.

Fascinated.

But not in the way he is fascinated by a new equation, by an unexpected pattern in the data, by the perfect symmetry of a well-designed structure.

This is different.

This is raw.

This is visceral.

This is feeling.

His other hand, trembling in a way he doesn’t understand, lifts with a slowness that borders on reverence.

And when his fingers brush against your cheek, the touch is so light it feels like an experiment in itself.

He feels.

He feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the way it molds so effortlessly to his touch, the way your body leans ever so slightly toward him—responding to an equation he hasn’t yet written but, for the first time, doesn’t feel the need to solve.

He feels the erratic pounding of his own heart, too fast, too unsteady, as if it has forgotten its natural rhythm.

He feels the heat gathering in his chest, expanding outward like a shockwave, defying all logical explanation.

And then, he hears you sigh.

Small.

Soft.

Almost imperceptible.

But he feels it.

He feels the warmth of your breath against his skin, the subtle vibration of your exhale in the nonexistent space between you.

Feels,

feels,

feels.

As if every one of his senses—once so meticulously calibrated to process information—has now been repurposed for a single objective:

You.

Your warmth seeping into his skin.

Your quiet, rhythmic breathing.

The barely-there weight of your gaze resting on him.

The familiar scent of you, imprinting itself onto some hidden corner of his mind he never thought necessary.

Just you.

Only you.

Nothing else exists.

Nothing else matters.

And then—without thinking, without calculating, without rationalizing it into exhaustion like he always does—

he kisses you.

It’s brief. Just a brush of lips.

A moment suspended between doubt and need, between impulse and fear.

A single heartbeat contained in a single point of contact.

And then—

He hears you gasp.

His entire body locks up. Every muscle goes rigid with a tension so sharp it’s almost painful.

His brain—so efficient, so precise, so relentless in its ability to analyze every variable in a situation—enters a total shutdown.

He stares at you, eyes wide, pupils blown.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

He misread everything.

What the hell was he thinking?

You don’t see him that way.

Why would you?

Why would you ever?

Shame crashes over him like an unstoppable wave. His stomach twists, his skin burns, his heart clenches into an invisible fist that threatens to crush it from the inside out.

He pulls back, his hands loosening, his voice catching in his throat.

—Oh, God, I didn’t mean to— —he stammers, his voice cracking under the weight of his own panic. His thoughts are a mess of unsolved equations, of probabilities collapsing into a singularity of pure dread— I just… I thought it was a good moment, I—

—Yes.

Your voice cuts through his spiral.

His brain short-circuits.

—It was.

…

What?

His breath halts.

The air thickens, pressing in from all sides, as if the entire universe has stopped—right here, right now, in these words, in this reality he never accounted for.

And then—

You close the distance.

You are the one to bring your lips back to his.

And his mind—his brilliant, overanalyzing mind—

for the first time in his life—goes completely silent.

It's a simple thing. Really it is. But he can't deny, seeing it floods him with what feels like liquid lightning.

He was sad at first if he's perfectly honest with himself.

You were shivering so hard. And the hoodie tied securely around his waist was really more for fashion than function, since, let's be real, he wasn't getting that particular garment stretched over his shell. And you were cold. Looking small and vulnerable in such a way that it made his heart ache; even when he knew you were in no immediate danger. So of course he was going to offer you his hoodie! No way he was going to watch you shake with chattering teeth like that on his watch.

The way you'd smiled so appreciatively back at him as he offered it to you made his heart warm. You looked cute too! So stinking cute in his oversized grey hoodie with his signature orange accents. It was like for a second, you were his. Or at least he could pretend that.

He had parted ways with you that night with a giddy swirling in his gut. Much like humans described having butterflies. But he was Mikey - super badass mutant ninja turtle with the brains, the brawn and dazzling personality! He didn't get butterflies. He got swirls. Much like how he fantasized about twirling a lock of your hair around his finger while gazing passionately at the stars trapped in your eyes.

He chastised himself. That was a fantasy. One he didn't even dare let manifest into a hopeful wish. You were special to him. And if he dared give his longing a foothold, he'd be done for.

Despite how much he'd willing fall into that permanent abyss for you, he knows it would be one sided. And he couldn't do that to himself.

Reluctantly, he decided to just wait for you to return his hoodie. Where maybe he could wad the material in his nose, savoring the lingering hint of your scent, and pretend it was you beside him one last time before packing the longing away. Before he had to come back to reality.

But then the odd part. You came down for a movie marathon night with he and his brothers. No borrowed hoodie with you. Perhaps you'd forgotten it. No big deal. Next time.

Except, next time came. And still no hoodie. Time and time again, you were around them or meeting up with them in one capacity or another. Yet each time, you made no acknowledgement of having his hoodie.

And Mikey, honestly, is feeling hurt. He knows he couldn't actually wear that hoodie. But he really liked it. It was still soft. It went with his style perfectly. Maybe it was even sort of like a security blanket for him. That hoodie was an extension of him. He was happy to share it with you. Honest, he was. But he hadn't meant for you to keep it.

An uncharacteristic sense of... of something. Some emotion he's unfamiliar with begin to grow inside of him. Like a splinter festering into a painful sore.

Why wouldn't you bring him back his hoodie?

It was true. There had been something hurting inside. He might even venture to say he was a little mad at you.

That was before now though. As he stood transfixed on the fire escape of your apartment, his mouth slightly agape, eyes unable to blink. And a swirling spinning faster beneath the heart shaped mark on his navel.

There you are. Gorgeous as always. Nestled on your couch with sketch book in hand. Your attention consumed in a world of the music playing in your ears and the image coming to life at your pen strokes. Hair cascading down your shoulders. Legs, lean and toned and glowing with a freshly darkened tan. In nothing but his hoodie.

HIS hoodie. The same unassuming, worn grey hoodie, accented in his shade of orange, that normally adorned his hips. The simple garment that now suddenly meant so much more.

Your eyes flicker his way. Spy him at your window. You giggle. And the swirling inside catches fire. Slipping from the spot you've been nestled you saunter his way. Coming to open the window and invite him inside.

He's feeling breathless as you open the glass and lean out to him. The smile gracing his face isn't his usual one. It's one he can't help, looking at you, his heart screaming to tell you how he feels. To please accept him. To let him love you in all the ways he doesn't let himself think in depth about.

That's not what he says. He chuckles and compliments how good the hoodie looks on you.

It's a simple thing. Really it is.

Until -

Until you tell him, "Only because it's yours."

And now he's sure. It is liquid lightning swirling inside him.

Coming close to you, feeling your warmth and your weight leaning into him as his fingers stroke your lower back. His chin tilted down, yours tilted up. Lips brushing so slightly against each other.

It is liquid lightning.

And he can't wait to pour some of it into you.

@luckycharms1701 @yorshie @justalotoffanfiction @definitely-canon @writinandcrying

@donniesgirlie @gornackeaterofworlds @thelaundrybitch @sophiacloud28 @iridescentflamingo

@the-cauldron-witch @redsrooftopprincess @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @ninnosaurus @tmnt-tychou

@thepinkpanther83 @akari180 @milykins @citruswriter @jenuinely-speaking

Okay, lol, I really needed to let all of this out and just vomit all the ideas I’ve been hoarding about this man. I love him. I’ve adored him ever since the 2012 series, and that made me realize—I definitely have a thing for nerds. And glasses. Dear god.

I hope you guys like this!! Do you think I should do the same for the other brothers? Or maybe for the other characters? (I wouldn’t mind taking the risk and making headcanons like this for Rocksteady, hehe.)

Alright, bye!!

warnings: sfw & nsfw ( but not so explicit?) :p

- He’s a genius with confidence… until he isn’t.

Donnie is incredibly self-assured when it comes to his intellect and skills. He knows his worth and never doubts his ability to solve problems. Jumping out of a plane without a parachute? Easy. Hacking government security systems? A piece of cake. But confessing his feelings to you? That’s a whole different challenge.

This is where his anxious side kicks in. His brain, used to solving any equation, completely short-circuits when it comes to emotions. What if he misinterprets your signals? What if he ruins the friendship? What if you like someone else? Sure, he can design an exoskeleton in less than 24 hours, but love is a field where variables don’t always make sense.

If you think you can hide something from him, think again. Donnie notices everything. From the slight shift in your expression when you’re tired to the pattern of songs you repeat when you’re feeling down. (And no, he absolutely did not hack your Spotify, ahem—)

- That’s why, when you start falling for him, he already knows. In fact, he probably figured it out before you did.

He won’t tell you right away. Inside his head, there’s a storm of chaotic thoughts, organizing themselves into an ultra-detailed data table with every relevant piece of information. Give him a few days, and once his mind has fully processed everything, he’ll come back to you as a renewed Donnie—determined, confident, and ready to make you his.

- Donnie doesn’t just plan things; he breaks them down into a thousand strategies of action. His trash bin is living proof of the number of ideas he discards and reworks over and over.

Gifts? He’s not the type to grab something generic at the last minute. His gifts are so deeply personalized that they’ll make you feel like he knows you better than you know yourself.

Example: If you ever casually mentioned that you’d love to learn to play an instrument, he’ll build one for you—customized with enhancements. If you said you love the stars, he’ll create an interactive star map with the exact alignment of the sky on the day you were born.

Your birthdays, anniversaries, and any special dates are planned years in advance. It doesn’t matter if you’re not officially together yet—he already has ideas saved for when you are.

- Romance in his brain is an equation far too complex.

Donnie isn’t clumsy because he lacks intelligence; it’s because his brain moves too fast. His emotions and logic are in constant conflict, creating an ongoing battle between Confident Donnie and Nervous Donnie.

You’ll see him go from saying something with complete confidence to, “Uh, well… what I meant to say is… no, wait, forget it—” and then getting frustrated with himself because that definitely wasn’t what he had in mind.

But when he manages to organize his thoughts, he’s one of the most direct people you’ll ever meet. Once he crosses the mental line of “I’m doing this,” there’s no turning back.

- Gifts

He doesn’t believe in generic presents. Everything he gives you has a specific purpose. A bracelet that’s actually a disguised tracker (“For safety. Just for safety.”), or a stuffed animal that can record voice messages.

One day, you wake up and find a new app on your phone with your name on it. You open it, and it’s a virtual assistant designed specifically for you, complete with personalized reminders for the little things Donnie knows you always forget.

- Once he has you, you are his priority.

Once Donnie accepts his feelings and takes the step to be with you, he becomes the most devoted boyfriend.

He’s not excessively clingy or jealous like Raph, but his love is obvious in the time and effort he invests in you.

No matter how many projects he’s juggling, if you truly need his attention, he’ll give it to you without hesitation.

- Donnie needs physical contact, but his intellectual pride won’t let him admit it outright. Instead, he prefers to justify it with overly precise scientific explanations.

“Well, you see… my body temperature tends to drop faster than that of the average human, so it’s biologically beneficial for me to share contact with an external heat source.”

Translation: “Hug me. Now.”

If you confront him with something like, “Why don’t you just say you want cuddles?” he’ll turn bright red and start stammering, scrambling for excuses.

Don’t listen. Just climb onto him.

- Donnie can plan everything, but he cannot predict your spontaneous displays of affection.

If you surprise him with a kiss, his brain completely shuts down for 3-5 seconds before he can process it.

Unexpected gestures—hugging him from behind while he’s working, cupping his face in your hands, or kissing his cheek out of nowhere—leave him frozen, recalculating.

Sometimes, his first reflex is to adjust his glasses, only to realize that they have nothing to do with the fact that his vision just blurred from sheer shock.

NSFW

- He’s patient… but only to a point. Donnie will never pressure you. He’ll wait as long as you need, always making sure you feel safe and comfortable.

However… he’s already undressed you with his eyes a million times.

His mind is a machine of ideas and theories, and when it comes to you, he has imagined everything. Everything.

He tells himself he can be rational and controlled… but if you take too long, his thoughts will become a little more persistent.

- He’s not innocent. Don’t even think it for a second.

He may seem shy or awkward about relationships, but when it comes to this, his mind is a laboratory of hypotheses he’s dying to test.

He has analyzed you with surgical precision. He knows exactly how you blush, how you react to certain touches, which words make you tremble.

Do not underestimate him. He has read, he has researched, he has learned.

But nothing compares to the real thing. With you.

When he finally has you in his hands, his brain short-circuits.

No matter how many times he imagined this moment, nothing could have prepared him for the feeling of your skin beneath his fingers.

His jaw clenches, he exhales sharply, and his pupils dilate as if he’s just been electrocuted.

His entire expression changes—from his usual nervousness to something darker, more intense, starving.

- He becomes obsessive about memorizing every single reaction of yours.

He’s analytical. He will learn what you love and make sure to do it better every single time.

Eye contact and sounds. His drug.

Look at him. Don’t look away. Don’t ignore him.

If you dare to hold his gaze while he’s above you, he will completely lose himself in you.

Your voice, your moans, your gasps—they ruin him.

He needs you vocal. He needs to know he’s doing a good job.

If you get shy and try to cover your mouth, he will ask (or demand) that you don’t.

Kinky? Oh, absolutely.

Donnie lives to experiment. It’s in his nature.

Positions? All of them. But his favorites are the ones where you are on top of him.

He loves being dominated.

After spending his entire life controlling every aspect of his world, it’s a relief for his mind to surrender completely to you.

“Set the pace, beautiful. I’m in your hands.”

Toys? Oh, yes.

You can be sure he has researched every single thing about them.

But he won’t settle for the ones that already exist. No.

He will build his own. Upgraded. With precisely calibrated speeds and optimized materials.

“This one has five vibration levels, but if we increase the frequency by 15%, we could—”

May God help you if you walk into his lab at the wrong time.

May God help his brothers if they ever find out.

Dedicated and obsessed with you.

Donnie doesn’t do anything halfway. If he gives himself to you, it’s completely.

No matter how much time passes, he will always give his all to make you feel incredible.

He’s not a casual lover.

He is yours. And you are his.

“You are my greatest discovery.”

This is why I love this old stupid site. How can people be so GOOD at depicting the tmnt boys in just the right way. You hit so many great points for me, perfect!

Parenting: Raph x Female Reader

Warnings: Low self-esteem, body dysphoria, this is more serious, sorry, yeah nsfw

This man is the definition of “I’m a mess, but if someone even looks at you, they’re dead.”

In the Bayverse movies, Raph carries a deep-seated resentment toward himself. It’s not just his aggressive attitude or his constant need to fight—deep down, he’s convinced that he doesn’t deserve anything good. And when it comes to love… God, it’s even worse.

In his mind, it’s impossible for someone to see him as anything other than a monster. Not a mutant, not a warrior, not a man—a monster. And even though he’d never say it out loud (because, to him, admitting it would give it power), every time he sees you—every time you smile at him, every time you talk to him like he’s not some freak of nature—his brain just short-circuits.

Because what could he possibly offer you?

Donnie has intelligence and could talk to you about a million fascinating things. Mikey would make you laugh and shower you with love without hesitation. Leo… well, Leo has always been the strong one, the one who makes the right decisions, the one who is everything he isn’t.

But him? He’s just Raph. Impulsive, hot-headed, stubborn, and with a track record of messing up at the worst possible moment.

And the worst part is that even though he loves you in silence, even though he wants you more than he’d ever admit, he would never dare to do anything about it. Because… what if you realize he’s not worth it? What if you snap out of it and realize you could have someone better? What if one day you look at him and see what he sees in the mirror?

That’s why Raph would never make the first move. He’d never stare for too long, never dare to cross that line. But his possessiveness would betray him. The way his brow furrows when you talk to someone else. How his jaw clenches when someone gets too close. How his knuckles go white when he feels like someone else has what he’ll never be able to have.

And if you do return his feelings… God, Raph won’t process it. He won’t believe it. He’ll convince himself it’s a mistake. That he’s going to ruin it. That he doesn’t deserve this—that you deserve better.

But if you prove him wrong—if you stay, if you choose him every single day—he’ll be the most fiercely loyal and protective person you could ever have by your side.

Because even if he never says it out loud, even if he never fully admits it, even if he still doesn’t quite believe it himself… knowing that someone sees him as more than a monster is the only thing that could ever heal the wounds he’s carried his entire life.

Raph doesn’t know how to love halfway. He doesn’t know how to be lukewarm, how to be indifferent. His love is a wildfire—one that consumes and leaves scars if left unchecked. And that’s exactly why he hides it. Because he’s afraid that if he lets it out completely, he’ll end up burning the thing he loves the most.

He’s a passionate lover. But not the kind who sweetens his words or whispers promises in hushed tones. No. Raph loves through actions. He loves by protecting, by holding on, by remembering every little detail, by always being there even when you don’t ask. His love is something you feel in the tension of his muscles when someone gets too close, in the way his gaze darkens when someone makes you laugh a little too much, in the way his hand—his massive hands—grip your waist as if you might disappear at any moment.

But as fiery as his love is, his insecurity is just as cold as a bucket of ice water. He’s not the type to throw tantrums or make a scene just because someone else talked to you. No. His jealousy is quiet, internal, corrosive. Not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he doesn’t trust himself.

Every time he looks at you, every time his eyes land on you, his mind is flooded with the same whirlwind of thoughts:

“God, she’s so beautiful.”

“I love her.”

“Mine.”

“Incredible.”

“I don’t know how she chose me.”

“She could have anyone else.”

…

“I don’t know how she chose me.”

“There are better men than me.”

That last thought is the one that hurts the most. Because no matter how many times you prove him wrong, no matter how many times you stay, no matter how many times you choose him over and over again—deep down, the idea that you could leave never fully leaves him.

That’s why he holds on, even if you don’t notice. Not in a desperate way, not in an obvious way. But it’s there. In how he always walks in a way that keeps his body between you and any other man. In how his fingers sometimes grip the fabric of your clothes just a little too tightly when you’re around others. In how his gaze turns sharp and lethal, even without saying a word.

Because Raph is a warrior. A soldier. A fighter.

But when it comes to love, he doesn’t fight with the same confidence.

Not because he doesn’t want to—

But because he doesn’t believe he has the right to.

Raph isn’t afraid of many things. Not of pain, not of fighting, not of facing an enemy who could kill him at any moment.

But he’s afraid of heights.

And he’s afraid of himself.

Sometimes, on the darkest nights, when the world is silent and there are no distractions to keep him occupied, that fear eats him alive. It burns through his chest like acid. Because he knows what he is. He knows he’s not like Leo, who can think before he acts. He knows he’s not like Donnie, who can analyze things without letting emotions cloud his judgment. He’s not like Mikey, who can let things go with a smile.

He is rage.

He is fire.

He is violence contained within a body too big and a mind too tormented.

And if that rage were ever directed at you…

That thought alone is enough to make his stomach twist. It sickens him, makes him want to throw up, to punch something just to distract himself from the possibility. Because Raph knows what it’s like to lose control. He knows what it’s like to feel his vision go red, to not realize what he’s doing until it’s too late.

But never, never could he allow that to happen to you.

And yet… he’s human. (Well, as close as he can be.) And he makes mistakes.

If you ever fight—if his emotions ignite like an uncontrollable wildfire, if the heat of the argument blinds him, if his voice rises until it becomes a roar—God, he doesn’t even realize what he’s saying. The words spill out like daggers, sharp and unfiltered, filled with frustration and things he doesn’t mean. And deep down, as every syllable poisons the air between you, his throat tightens, his tongue tastes foul, like he’s chewing on something rotten.

But that’s not the worst part.

The worst part is when, in an impulsive act—because he’s always impulsive—his fist slams into the wall right beside you.

The sound echoes. A sharp, heavy thud.

Loud. Too loud.

And when the dust settles, when the echo of his own fury stops ringing in his ears, that’s when he sees it.

Your eyes.

Wide open. Shocked. Scared.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

That fear in your gaze hits him harder than any enemy he’s ever faced. It’s like a punch to the chest, a bullet straight to the heart. His breath catches. His entire body freezes, and the fire inside him—the one that fuels him, the one that’s always raging—suddenly dies out.

There are no words to describe what he feels in that moment.

Shame. Guilt. Self-loathing.

He’s not afraid that you’ll hate him. He’s afraid that you’d be right to.

That you’ll finally see what he’s always known: that he’s not good for you. That he’s dangerous. That no matter how much he loves you, his own nature will always be his worst enemy.

And if he ever loses you because of that…

He doesn’t even know if he’d be able to keep breathing.

Your footsteps fade into the distance, echoing against the damp concrete of the sewers, and Raph stays right where he is.

Still.

Not moving.

Not doing what every fiber of his being is screaming at him to do—run after you, stop you, grab you, tell you he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to scare you, that he didn’t mean to make you cry.

But he doesn’t.

Because he can still see it in his mind. Your expression, that look in your eyes that wasn’t anger, wasn’t sadness—

It was fear.

God.

He clenches his fists and lowers his gaze. He wants to convince himself that he’s not following you because he’s too proud to apologize, because he hates admitting when he’s wrong (and he was wrong—he always is when it comes to these arguments). He wants to tell himself that it’s because he was already in a shitty mood from arguing with Leo earlier, that it’s not his fault his temper is a ticking time bomb.

But deep down, he knows the truth.

He doesn’t follow you because he’s scared.

Because what the hell is he supposed to say? What words could erase what just happened? How could he possibly fix this without making it worse?

So he does the only thing he knows how to do—

He hits.

His fist collides with the wall again, pain shooting through his knuckles like a reminder of what he is.

Of what he can’t change.

And yet, hours later, there he is.

Standing outside your window.

From out here, he can hear you. Not loud sobs, not heart-wrenching cries, but enough. Shaky breaths, the faint sound of your sniffles. And he—he almost turns around right then, almost runs because he doesn’t know if he can take it.

But he doesn’t.

Because he fucked up. And if anyone deserves to carry the weight of this, it’s him.

Slowly, he opens your window (locked, but you gave him a key). He makes no sound as he climbs inside, though the floor creaks slightly beneath his weight. He finds you sitting on your bed, gaze lowered. And when you finally lift your head and your eyes meet his—

It’s like the air is knocked right out of his lungs.

He doesn’t know what to say.

He’s never been good with words. Never known how to express what he feels without his tongue getting tied, without his voice betraying what he really means to say.

So when he finally speaks, his words are clumsy, short—

A failed attempt at explaining the unexplainable.

But you see it.

You see the way his shoulders slump, the way his eyes avoid yours like he’s not worthy of looking at you. You see the tension in his jaw, the war between his pride and his regret.

And then—he does it.

A step forward. Then another. And another.

Until he’s right in front of you.

His massive hands take hold of you with an impossible gentleness, and in one swift motion, he pulls you against his chest.

It’s firm. Warm. Encompassing.

There are no words that could say what this says.

His breathing is heavy, his heartbeat pounds against your ear. One arm wraps around you completely, the other cradles your head against his neck—like he’s making sure you can’t leave, like he can’t lose you again.

And then you feel it.

A faint touch against your hair.

A kiss.

He doesn’t say “I’m sorry” out loud. He doesn’t need to.

His actions say it all.

And you know it.

So yeah. Reconciliation.

But as he holds you, his forehead pressed against yours, his hand still gripping onto you like he’s terrified to let go—

Raph can only think one thing:

“I just hope I don’t fuck this up again. And if I do… God, please let her forgive me.”

Loving Raph is complicated.

Not because he isn’t worth it, but because he makes it difficult. Because every day is a battle against his own fears, against the thought that maybe—just maybe—he’s not enough for you.

But if you’re wondering about the… intimate side of things.

Well.

We all know Raph isn’t exactly innocent.

In his mind, he’s already had you in every way possible. He’s already imagined you gasping his name, cheeks flushed, breath ragged, looking at him like he’s the only thing that exists. He’s lost count of how many times he’s had to slip away, lock himself in the bathroom, and let his hand do the work while his mind recreates you in vivid detail—every little thing he’s memorized about you.

And when he really can’t take it, when the need is unbearable and his body begs for any kind of release, he just tells Mikey to sleep on the couch.

It’s selfish. He knows that. But he doesn’t care.

Because that night, he needs his space.

He needs your scent still lingering on his pillow, needs to bury his face in it and close his eyes while his hand moves at a frantic pace—imagining it’s your skin he’s touching, your mouth around him instead.

But outside of his mind, outside of his most desperate fantasies—

Things are… different.

So far, the farthest you’ve gone is mutual masturbation. And God.

He thought he was going to die when he felt your lips around his length, when your tongue slid along his shaft and your eyes met his. His back hit the wall, and he let out a groan so deep he swore someone in the lair must have heard him.

And when he had you riding his fingers, gripping onto his arm as you unraveled in his hand, he swore his self-control was hanging by a thread.

But he always stops there.

Because Raph is big.

Not just in size, but in strength, in intensity, in everything. And no matter how much you want him, no matter how many times you assure him that he would never hurt you on purpose, that fear is still there.

That damn fear of hurting you.

Because if he were human, he already would’ve had you. He would’ve taken you the way he’s supposed to, given you everything you want—everything he craves with every fiber of his being.

But he’s not human.

And even though his hands were made to protect you, he can’t stop thinking about what would happen if he ever slipped up. If he ever lost control.

Loving him is complicated, huh?

But if there’s one thing for sure—it’s that you could never get bored of him.

Because there’s something incredible about the way he holds you when he jumps across rooftops, the cold air hitting your face and the night sky reflecting in his golden eyes. There’s something addictive about the feeling of being in his arms, adrenaline rushing through your veins as he moves with lethal precision, like the city belongs to him.

And if you train with him… well, that’s a whole different story.

Because Raph loves seeing you strong, seeing you challenge him, seeing you throw punches at him with all the determination in the world. And even though he’d never admit it out loud, he enjoys it way too much when you sit on his shell while he does push-ups.

Not just because he likes the weight of you on him, but because every time he pushes up and down, he can feel your laughter against his neck, your presence wrapping around him like a second skin.

Pairing: Mikey x female reader

Warning: Mentions of ADHD, mentions of sexual assault/rape, slight emotional dependency, slight NSFW

Dating Mikey is a special case.

Canonically, he has ADHD. His mind is a constant whirlwind of ideas, movement, impulses, and words. But when it comes to you… God. He does everything in his power to focus. To center all his attention on every word you say, every gesture you make, every little expression that flickers across your face.

Because even though his brain is always racing, even though his energy seems endless, there’s one certainty that keeps him grounded: you.

And Mikey… Mikey is flirty.

It’s not that he tries to be—it’s just who he is. It’s in his blood, in the way he moves, in the way compliments slip from his lips so naturally, it’s like he doesn’t even think before saying them. He proved it in the first movie when he saw April and blurted out that thing about his shell being tight. So no, he’s not the type to keep quiet when he likes someone. Not at all.

Mikey will make sure you know.

And not in a subtle way.

He’ll tell you with over-the-top words, with lines that sound straight out of a bad rom-com but, coming from him, somehow feel genuine and even adorable. He’ll tell you with cheesy nicknames, with grins so wide they could light up the room, with eyes that sparkle like you’re the moon itself, illuminating his entire world.

And he’s expressive. God, he’s so expressive.

He has no filter. If he thinks you look amazing, he’ll say it. If he finds something you did adorable, he’ll mention it. If he’s hopelessly in love with you, he’ll make sure the entire world knows.

Mikey doesn’t love in silence.

He loves loudly, with excited shouts and sudden hugs, with happy jumps and improvised dances right in the middle of the lair. He loves with every fiber of his being—fearlessly, unapologetically.

And if that means that sometimes his love is too intense, that sometimes it’s a hurricane of words, laughter, and exaggerated gestures… well.

That’s only because he can’t help it. Because you’re his girl. And he’ll never let you forget it.

And if he ever hears that yes slip from your lips… brace yourself.

Love him the way he loves the world, please. This man has so much love to give. I truly believe he’s incredibly affectionate deep down. But he knows you, and he’s learning to control himself. Still, sometimes… sometimes, all that sweetness slips through the cracks.

Because he loves you the way he loves the world.

He loves you the way he loves music.

He loves you the way he loves skateboarding.

Too much sweetness? Eh. I hope you have a taste for sugar.

Mikey is an outpouring of love in its purest form.

He’s a man who feels too much, who lives too much, who loves too much. But when you enter his life, everything he thought he knew about love suddenly isn’t enough anymore.

And if he ever hears a yes from you—if you ever confirm that you love him just as much as he loves you…

Brace yourself.

Because this man falls apart. He melts like ice cream under the summer sun. His heart bursts into a thousand colors, like fireworks lighting up the New Year’s sky. He hugs you, lifts you off the ground, spins you around, laughs, yells, probably runs off to tell his brothers, then rushes back just to make sure it wasn’t a dream.

Please, love him the way he loves the world.

Because Mikey has so much love to give—more than his own body can contain. And yes, deep down, he’s overwhelmingly affectionate, though he tries to hold back. Not because he minds being that way, but because he knows you. Because he’s learning to manage his intensity, to not overwhelm you with everything he feels all at once.

But sometimes… oh, sometimes he just can’t help it.

Because he loves you the way he loves music—with passion, with energy, with every cell in his body vibrating in sync with his own rhythm.

He loves you the way he loves skateboarding—with the thrill of speed, with the adrenaline of knowing that every moment with you is a new trick to master, a new challenge that excites him.

Too much sweetness? Eh… you’d better have a sweet tooth. Because this man is a never-ending sugar factory.

And beyond all that, Mikey is an artist.

An underappreciated artist, yes, but an artist nonetheless.

There are probably walls in hidden corners of the sewers covered in his mark, in designs that tell his story. He may not say it out loud, but every stroke, every explosion of color, is a piece of his soul imprinted on concrete.

And if you share his love for body art? God.

If you love the idea of tattoos, or if it’s your first time and you decide you want him to be the one to do it… Mikey is going to lose his mind. He’ll squeal with excitement, hug you, and before you even realize it, he’ll already be showing you sketches, ideas, and designs he probably drew long before you ever even brought up the topic.

Because deep down, all Mikey wants is to leave his mark on the world.

And if you ever let him leave his mark on you…

Well.

That will only be another sign that his love is eternal.

Being with Mikey is like being on cloud nine.

Because he’s always on cloud nine.

He’s a dreamer, a free spirit, someone who would rather see life through rose-colored glasses than face the harshness of reality. His mind is always drifting between ideas, jokes, and melodies only he seems to hear.

But don’t let his carefree nature fool you.

Mikey isn’t stupid. Not even close.

In fact, he’s extremely smart. A genius in his own right. But unlike Donnie, who channels his intellect into science and technology, or Leo, who applies it to strategy, Mikey just… doesn’t see the need to prove it all the time.

Because being smart also means knowing when to relax.

Sometimes he seems easygoing, like nothing can truly affect him. But when it comes to you… when it comes to protecting you…

Everything changes.

Because Mikey is protective. Extremely protective.

He knows where he stands.

He knows he lives in a world where people like him shouldn’t exist. Where villains lurk in every shadowed corner of the city, where darkness hides dangers most people don’t even realize are there.

Because every time he goes out on patrol, he sees firsthand just how cruel the world can be.

And it’s not his fault that he’d rather stay in the clouds than face that reality.

But then, there’s you.

You are his anchor. His connection to the real world.

Because when things get bad, when the city feels darker than usual, when reality weighs too heavy on his shoulders…

You are the one who reminds him why he keeps fighting.

Why he keeps patrolling.

Because every time he faces danger, it’s not just out of duty. It’s not just because he’s a hero.

It’s because he wants to make this world—this city—a better place. For you.

And on the nights when he comes back to the lair after seeing the worst the city has to offer—the fights, the crimes, the people suffering—he stays up, restless.

And he asks Donnie.

“Why is there so much bad in the streets, bro?”

For once, his voice is serious. His gaze, shadowed.

Because, even if he doesn’t always show it, deep down, he’s still a kid who wants to believe the world can be good. That people can be better.

And until that happens…

He’ll keep fighting.

For the city.

For his family.

For you.

But on nights like this…

On nights like this, reality seeps through the cracks of his optimism.

And it drowns him.

Knock, knock, knock.

At first, his persistence doesn’t surprise you. Mikey always knocks on your window with energy, his impatience buzzing in every tap.

But this time, it’s different.

There’s something in the rhythm, in the desperation of his knuckles against the glass.

Something that sends a chill down your spine.

When you rush to open it, you barely have time to react before he pulls you into his arms.

And Mikey has always been physical, always been drawn to touch.

But this isn’t his usual enthusiastic hug.

This one is desperate.

He holds you tightly, as if afraid you might disappear between his arms. He’s trembling. His breathing is erratic, his chest rising and falling too fast, and when he rests his head against your chest, you realize just how hard his heart is pounding.

He’s trying to hear yours.

He’s trying to make sure you’re still alive.

And when he lifts his head, when his blue eyes finally meet yours, you see something in them you rarely ever see.

Fear.

Real fear.

Not the kind he fakes when watching a horror movie just so he can pull you close and laugh. Not the playful fear when Raph threatens to smack him upside the head.

No.

This is deeper.

“Mikey… what happened?” you ask, your own voice shaking slightly.

He doesn’t answer right away.

His lips part, but nothing comes out. He just swallows hard and closes his eyes, as if trying to erase what he saw. As if trying to convince himself it wasn’t real.

But it was.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, unusually serious.

“A patrol…” he starts, but his voice breaks. He runs a shaky hand over his face, inhaling unsteadily before trying again.

“We were on the rooftops. I… I was messing with Raph. You know, the usual.”

He tries to smile, but he can’t.

“And then I heard it.”

A lump forms in his throat.

“A scream.”

Your body tenses.

Mikey bites his lip.

“I jumped to the next building. I looked around. And then…”

He pauses.

Clenching his fists.

Clenching his jaw.

Because he doesn’t want to say it out loud. He doesn’t want to relive it.

But he has to let it out.

“She had your hair,” he whispers.

A shiver runs down your spine.

“And my mind…” he grimaces. “My mind played tricks on me. I saw…”

He doesn’t say it.

He doesn’t need to.

Because his eyes, his broken expression, tell you everything you need to know.

For a second, in the darkness of the night, in that filthy alleyway… Mikey saw you in her place.

And it felt like his world was ending.

His hands tighten around you, as if—now that he’s here, now that he can see you, touch you—he needs to convince himself that you’re safe.

That you’re real.

“Mikey…” you whisper, gently running your hand over his shell, trying to soothe him.

But he just buries his face into the curve of your neck.

Because he knows that, yes, you’re safe now.

But he also knows how cruel the world can be.

Mikey feels too much.

He’s a storm of emotions trapped inside a shell that’s too small to contain them all.

And right now, those emotions are spilling over.

Because the thought of losing you, the mere possibility that something could take you away from him, is consuming him.

He would feel… betrayed.

Because the world gave him something so beautiful, so bright, so perfect—you. And then what? Would it just rip you away without a second thought?

No.

He wouldn’t let it.

So he buries his head in your hair and takes a deep breath.

Your scent soothes him.

And terrifies him all at once.

Calm, because you’re still here. Because when he wraps his arms around you, you can feel how strong his hold is—like he’s trying to fuse you to him, like simply letting go could make you disappear.

And terrifying, because… what if one day, he couldn’t protect you?

His mouth finds the exposed skin of your neck, and he lets out a shaky sigh. Kisses—soft at first. Slow. As if each one were a silent plea. As if every brush of his lips against your skin was an unspoken promise that he would never let anything happen to you.

And then… everything feels hot.

Too hot.

Need consumes him all at once, like a fire burning through everything in its path. His hand grips your waist too tightly, like he needs to make sure you’re real.

And suddenly, there’s too much clothing.

You feel it too.

But Mikey has never been impatient.

Not with you.

He likes to take his time, to savor every moment, every reaction, every little gasp when his fingers explore your skin. He loves the anticipation, the way your breath quickens as his lips leave a trail of kisses down your abdomen.

Down to your hips.

Down to the soft skin of your inner thighs.

His fingers grip your flesh, holding you in place, and his warm breath brushes against the most sensitive part of your body.

He devours you with the same passion with which he loves the world.

With the same devotion he pours into music, into his art, into the adrenaline of skateboarding.

And tonight…

Tonight, it’s even more intense.

Because he needs to remind himself that you’re still here.

That you’re still in his hands.

Mikey is touch and sweetness.

His fingers trace your skin like he’s sketching in his notebook, like every caress is a precise brushstroke on his favorite masterpiece.

It’s him who slides the fabric of your shirt down your shoulders, who unclasps your bra with an ease that proves he’s done this far too many times.

But he doesn’t rush.

Because he wants to savor every second.

His mouth finds your collarbone first, leaving kisses that are barely there. A whisper of contact that keeps you on edge, that makes your breathing heavier before you even realize it.

And when his lips reach your shoulder blades, when his tongue barely grazes the curve of your back, a sigh escapes your lips.

Mikey pauses.

He takes a second to close his eyes and take it all in.

Your sound.

Your reaction.

The way your body shivers beneath his touch.

And when he opens his eyes again, his chest swells with pride.

He’s got you.

He’s got you right here, in his hands, melting like clay molded by his touch.

His arm curls around your waist as he lifts you effortlessly, guiding you toward the bed with the same ease with which he’d take your hand at any other time of the day.

He lays you down gently. With devotion.

And before leaning over you, he presses a kiss to your forehead.

Softly.

Tenderly.

Because Mikey isn’t just passion and desire.

He’s love.

He’s devotion.

And it’s him who finds your neck again, who bites your skin with the same intensity with which he savors every moment by your side.

He feels it when you arch your back, when you cling to him instinctively.

He feels it when you become completely his.

And then he moves lower.

His warm breath glides over your skin.

His lips carve a slow, maddening path downward.

And in the midst of it all—between the kisses and the breathless sighs—his voice slips into your ear.

Muttering the most ridiculously cheesy lines he can think of.

Because if there’s something he loves more than this moment, it’s making you laugh.

And when you snort in amusement, when your laughter bubbles from your chest like the sweetest melody, Mikey knows there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

Than right here.