💚TMNT💚

How it started:

Scenario: You befriend the turts and slowly, as they become more and more comfortable with you, they let you into their perspective rooms.

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Don is the first.

I mean. How can't he let you in... His bedroom is the lab for cripes' sakes.

Mike is next. Because he's an excitable, sweet boi who wants to share his world with you.

Raph finally comes about almost a year after knowing him, and it's because he wants your opinion on the sweater he's knitting for April.

The only one who hasn't let you into his room is Leonardo.

And it's not only because he has a big fat crush on you, and having you in his space might result in you pinned to his bed...

But also because he has Don's stolen Miku poster still hanging above his bed. And she's dressed a bit... Risque.

It's been a couple of years at this point, and you've written it off as Leo being a very private individual.

Are you disheartened because you've had an enormous crush on the turtleman since you met? Yes. But you don't want to push and pry, resulting in him disliking you.

You'll take what you can get, and continue being his friend.

You do, however, let this slip as you're talking with Red one day, because you aren't sure if Leo's flirting with you or if that's just his Prince Charming nature shining through.

Poor man drops a knitting needle and loses half a row of stitches as you make your confession.

As you flounder and bumble through blushing embarrassment, trying to justify your crush, Red picks his jaw up off the floor, clears his throat, and replaces his brow ridge to its regularly scheduled post above his eyes. He holds up one hand placatingly and commends you for having an amazing poker face because NONE of them realized there were feelings on your part.

Seemingly assuaged for the moment, you breathe a sigh of relief as Raph tells you not to worry, that Fearless is very much an introvert and barely even allows Splinter to go into his bedroom.

This makes you feel better, and Red changes the subject to something else for the time being.

After you've gone home, his sneaky ass goes right to the lab and, with a devilish smirk, tells Donnie he has an idea that will get him that Miku poster off Leonardo's wall.

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Fast forward, and Halloween is right around the corner.

The one night of the year that the guys can go out in public without fear of being judged or ridiculed.

This year, however, Leonardo is hell-bent on patrolling instead of going to the annual Manhattan block party with you and his brothers.

A bit deflated, you head down to the lair, backpack slung over your shoulder full of your costume, and head right into the lab to have Don help you get ready.

On your way to the lab, you pass Leo, who is on his way to the kitchen to make himself his nightly pre-patrol tea, and give him a small wave.

Leo smiles and greets you, taking in your attire, and with an internal approval that no one will be hitting on you, he heads to the kitchen.

In the lab, Donnie helps you piecey-part your costume onto your body, as you complain the whole time about showing too much skin.

Red has joined you at this point and is promising you it's not too much skin, and if anyone tries anything, he'll knock heads and snap limbs.

Mikey has also appeared and is helping you apply make-up and stuff your hair under the teal wig.

The three of them stand back to look at you as you tug at the mini skirt, questioning yourself as to why in the hell you agreed to this, all of them smiling and nodding in approval.

Ready to go, they file out the door in front of you, Red yelling to Leo, asking if he'll come take pictures of the three of them with you.

You take a deep breath and step out of the lab and walk to where the three turtlemen are standing, posing like idiots and waiting for you.

Leo about swallows his fucking tongue as you walk to stand in front of his brothers, who are now all wearing the same devious grin.

Leo takes the photos and hands back the phone to Don, his eyes never leaving you. "You're gonna be cold," he says under his breath as he steps back from leaning over you to return the phone.

"Nah," says Mikey, "it's supposed to be pretty warm tonight, actually!" Leo shoots Mike a look as Don agrees, "Yes, it's going to be 68⁰, with clear skies! Besides, I have a plan to keep her warm when she does get cold." He gives Leo a smug look as Leo clenches his jaw and fists.

"Ya sure ya don't wanna come, Fearless?" Red taunts, giving Leo one last chance to join them.

Leo's eyes fall to you once more, suddenly reassessing all his life's decisions up until this point.

"I have to make patrol rounds. Halloween can be a little..." Leo's eyes drop once more, losing his train of thought as he imagines you pinned to his wall instead of that poster.

"A little..." Leo's eyes snap back up to your face as the sound of your voice brings him back to reality.

"A little hectic."

You nod and try to swallow your disappointment with a half-hearted smile, taking Mikey's outstretched hand as you turn to leave.

"Well, you'll know where we are if you change your mind!" Don antagonizes, as you let out a small squeal when Mike scoops you up to carry you to the surface.

You throw one last glance in Leo's direction, giving him a hopeful look as your eyes meet, right before Mike turns the corner and out of view.

"Don't worry, Angelcakes. He'll join us in a little bit."

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It's about an hour and a half later that you get a text, Leo's personal notification pinging your phone.

💙Leo💙: having fun?

You're eyebrows float towards the sky as you read his message.

You: it'd be better if you were with us!

💙Leo💙: how are things going?

You: well, despite having 3 enormous turtlemen lurking around with me, I keep getting hit on

💙Leo💙: Oh?

You: unfortunately. Why is it I'm always left alone when you come with us?

Leo's jaw clenches as he looks down at you from a building across the street. You're easy to spot in the crowd with the teal wig. His brothers are close by, but not close enough for his liking. He contemplates his response as he types and retypes a return message.

You stare at your phone and watch the little ellipses dance as they appear and disappear a few times before they stop altogether.

With a sigh, you return your phone to the small pouch Don made to go along with the rest of the handcrafted costume.

You walk to said purple-banded turtle who is flirting with an attractive red-wigged woman dressed as Elastigirl, and tell him you're going to run to the restroom. When he offers to walk with you, you assure him you know how to use the potty, and give him a teasing wink. He tosses you a grateful smile and tells you to check in when you come back.

Down the dead-end side alley between some buildings, you find the army of port-a-potties, and look for the cleanest one you can find. You're suddenly praising Donatello's handiwork, as you don't struggle or worry about your costume getting dirty as you hover above the seat.

Outside the john, you pull some hand sanitizer from your pouch, quickly rubbing it in when a hand is placed around your waist.

"Miku, Miku, Miku..." A deep, slightly inebriated slurring voice breathes into your ear, "WOW, are you gorgeous. Better than a wet dream..."

Gross

You try to slide out of his grasp but fail.

"What do you say... Let's get out of here... I live two blocks away. Come back to my place and make all my dreams come true..."

"Ew, no." You push away from him, but he doesn't let you go.

"Aw, baby, don't be like that," he coos, pulling you closer.

"My boyfriend is waiting for me," you lie, struggling to break free.

"There's no boyfriend, you've been alone all night, I've been keeping a close eye on yo-"

"Remove your hands from my girlfriend before I remove them from your wrists."

The man eases his grip just enough for you to break free and run to the menacing shadow looming at the front of the alley, blocking off the only exit.

His hands welcome your body and pull you close. One hand finds its way to cradle your face , his thumb sweeping across your cheekbone as those devastatingly beautiful blue eyes assess your anxiety level.

You're a bit shaken up, but you manage a quiet, "I'm ok," as you cling to him.

You hear the man huff out a snort of depreciation. "Please. What do you really look like when you aren't in that horrible excuse for a costume? What are you supposed to be anyway? The Hulk?"

Leo's eyes don't leave yours as he answers the man, "It's not a costume."

"Chyea. Ok," he belittles, finally pulling Leo's attention to him.

Three more figures make an appearance beside Leonardo, of similar stature, and apologies suddenly pour from the man's face as Raph walks closer.

"We got this scum," he snarls, towering over the man who looks like he might soil himself.

"We'll discuss this later," Leo warns them, "I'm taking her home." Leo scoops you up and climbs the fire escape, as you beg him not to bring you home.

"I said I was bringing you home. Not to your apartment," he affirms, before leaping from rooftop to rooftop with practiced ease.

You stay quiet all the way to the lair, readying yourself to be put down in the common area. Instead, Leonardo keeps you in his arms and makes a beeline for his bedroom.

His bedroom.

Inside, he sets you on your feet and closes his door with a click, with another click following, announcing he's locked his door.

He takes two steps forward and kneels before you, putting his hands up like he's going to touch you, but stops himself.

"I need to check you for injuries, may I?" He asks, nodding and waiting for consent.

"I'm ok... But if it'll make you feel better, ye-"

You don't get the word fully out of your mouth, and his hands are already on your body. Rough palms dance over soft skin as he slowly runs his large hands up and down each of your legs. Just as you think that he's coming dangerously close to your cotton panties, his hands find themselves under your skirt again as he moves both of them over your hips, smooth over your backside, and slide to the front.

A small gasp leaves your throat as he grabs the bottom of your corset, and with a quick tug in opposite directions, the decorative ribbon Don had laced you up with, snaps in multiple places up the front, giving him access to your midsection.

Unable to stop from leaning into his touch, your eyes flutter and damn near roll into the back of your head. The difference of his skin against yours is delicious as his hands acquaint themselves with your body.

"Leo..." His name comes out like a prayer through a trembling breath as your body betrays you further with a flush of goosebumps.

You force your eyes open as his actions halt, only to find Leonardo staring back at you, pupils blown.

God. He's so fucked.

He pushes his body up from sitting on his haunches, bringing his face inches from yours.

One hand pulls you flush to him as he breathes out his question, "You wanna know why no one ever bothers you when I'm there?" His other hand reaches up and pulls the wig off, freeing your hair before his fingers weave themselves through the back of it.

"Because I make it very clear that you belong to me."

All the air leaves your lungs as he presses his mouth to yours in a bruising kiss.

Your arms snake around his neck as he lifts you by the thighs and stands up, only to bring you two steps further to the bed.

Lips still locked together, your back hits the soft blankets as the mattress dips on either side of you. Leo hovers above, his knees knocking at the backs of your thighs one at a time, urging you to scoot up further. He settles his hips between your thighs while he bends his elbows to rest on his forearms. As his lips make real estate down your neck, he growls, "and as for your outfit... This is for bedroom use only."

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Laughter fills the entry of the lair as Mike, Don, and Raph make their way toward the lab, hushed bets being made.

In the lab, Donnie lets out a howling laugh while Mikey mutters an "Oh maaaan" at the sight of Miku hanging next to Donnie's security station.

Raph puts his hand out and wiggles his digits in his brothers' direction. "That's one-" just as Raph opens his mouth to collect his winnings, your unmistakable voice rings clear through the lair, praising Leonardo's existence.

"And that's two!" Raph chuckles. "Told yas it'd work! Now pay up suckas!"

~Later~

Raph and Mike sit at the kitchen table, playing cards, while Don watches them, leaning against the counter and sipping his hot coffee fresh from the pot. Leonardo walks in, heading straight for the fridge, where he downs two consecutive bottles of water before grabbing another three.

"What happened to that asshole in the alley?" he questions his brothers, serious as a heart attack.

"We paid him what we owed him," Don deadpans, casually sipping his coffee.

Brow ridge to the ceiling, Leonardo glances at the other two at the table, who are nodding in agreement.

"Excuse me?" He demands.

"We actually paid 'im a bit extra. He was really convincing. Got unda ya skin betta than I do," Raph says, dropping a royal flush that pulls an aggravated groan from the youngest.

"I'm sorry. I- What the hell are you talking about?" Leonardo's irritation has his water-bottle-full hands resting on his hips as his furrowed brow ridge makes a crease in the center of his forehead.

"Yeah, man!" Mikey pipes up, a smile dancing its way across his face, "He was great, wasn't he? You really thought he was gonna take your girl home with him!"

Leo's face drops as his eyes make another round to assess his brothers' reactions.

Raph is smiling like the Cheshire cat, and Don has a knowing, smug smirk pulling up at one corner of his lips. Pushing off the counter, he walks past Leo and out the door as Leo watches him, completely flabbergasted.

Don reaches the lab door and turns, locking eyes with his eldest brother. "Oh, and tell little Miss Sunshine I say thank you," he teases, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Thank her?" Leo inquires, still standing in the kitchen doorway.

Don's smile, now rivaling the Grinch, replies, "Yeah, for getting my Miku poster back," before ducking into the lab and locking the door as howling laughter leaves the two turtlemen at the kitchen table.

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You’re a damned distraction, and Raphael doesn’t know what to do about it. He isn’t without his distractions. In fact, he’s classically known to get torn up in his head over things, especially when there’s an injustice thickly rooted in whatever nameless problem ails him. You, on the other hand, agitate him in ways he wishes not to be true. You’re everywhere he goes, just not physically, like a phantom limb - a subjugator who has conquered his very being. 

Many times, over and over, he has tried to categorise you, label you, so he can file you away and forget; anything in an attempt to get you out of his mind, as abnormally pragmatic as it is for him to go such a route. Are you a friend? Best friend? Something more? He bristles at the thought. ‘More’ is dangerous. ‘More’ is a bridge he’s not sure he wants to cross because of how deep this goes, how dark it is.

He catches himself thinking about you at the most inopportune moments. When he’s supposed to be strategising with his brothers, he’s replaying a conversation with you in his head, dissecting your words, searching for hidden meanings. He sees you in the flickering neon lights of the city, a fleeting silhouette blending into the urban tapestry of this concrete jungle. When he’s meant to be watching a game, he’s picturing your hands intertwined with his, your voice fluttering out his name, your body…

You’re not just a distraction, you’re a disruption, and the universe is hellbent on finding ways to toy with his teetering lucidity.

Grumbled curses and wet footsteps can be heard long before you’re seen, but silent curiosities would have been better left when you eventually appear in the lair. Three of the four brothers find themselves around you, each snickering at the pressed spring that is your body. Your crossed arms only tighten further into themselves, lips pulling in between your teeth at their lack of sympathy, but then you remember, they are boys.

Leo is the first to compose himself, matching your exaggerated stance with a raised grin. “You’re not looking very weather-appropriate.”

“I was up until about five minutes ago.” Your hands wipe away at your scrunched-up face. “One moment, sun.” You fling them down, the water hitting the ground with an offensive slap. “The next, a bunch of angry clouds piss on me.”

Laughing semi-heartedly, you loosely gesture at yourself, but dilated pupils behind red cloth have been trained on you the moment you walked in. Head-to-toe, you’re soaked: your clothes stick to you in a way that feels intrusive, accentuating every curve and contour he's learned to admire from a distance, only daring to steal glimpses when you’re not looking. The damp fabric clings to you like a lifeline, his of which is fleeting, and it just highlights your shape, each detail so clear, too clear. It shatters the fragile walls he’s fought to keep intact, a crude violation of the mental boundaries he's desperately trying to maintain. Raphael can’t stand it, and he loathes how the rain has matted your baby hairs to your forehead, a small, insignificant feature compared to the rest, and yet it leaves you looking the most exposed.

In the hazy realm of conversation woven between you and his brothers, he drifts, utterly unaware now. He thinks he catches a flash of Donnie hurrying away, yet the essence of it all slips through his fingers like mist. His form is anchored to this corner, while his thoughts wander far beyond the grasp of the present moment. He wants to lick the rain off your cheek and whisper unspoken secrets he never knew he could keep, what he’s been aching to do to you for so long. He can almost picture how you would taste against his tongue, how soft your skin would be compared to his calloused touch.

As his gaze drops out of focus, you inch closer, lowering to a crawl. Staring up through your lashes, you stop on your knees in front of him, eyes glazed with his deliverance and his destruction all at the same time. He can practically see everything from this angle, each wet crease of material grasping closely onto your body, impersonating one of those marble statues that seem impossible to make by hand. Your damp palms press into his thighs to hoist yourself up, the cold doing little to cool him, doing the opposite, in fact - warm puffs of air feathering against his starved face. His breath shortens, but he does nothing. This should stop; he can’t find it in himself to press that big red button, but this needs to stop. As you close in on him, lips ghost over his own with expectant sighs mixing between each other, and then-

The towel draped over your shoulders is the fire blanket to his perverse absorption; he’s pulled back into reality, where he is, but it doesn’t completely snuff out the embers. His eyes have had a taste of you now, a sample of the meal that he hungers so hopelessly for. You glance around, your gaze lingering on Raph for a fraction of a second before panning away, and he jolts, like a live wire has been threaded through his veins. In that second, he thinks you know, he thinks you’ve caught a glimpse into his vulgar mind, and he expects you to run off, but you don’t. Instead, you pull the towel closer and laugh at something Mikey says, the short spit of eye contact already falling from your awareness whilst it nails into his with a hammer.

Raphael’s fists clench under the table, knuckles paling beneath the wraps. You have no idea. He's thankful for that but it almost pisses him off that you have no clue just how much you invade his everything. He doesn’t quite know when this all started, but he hopes to God it has an end because he’s not sure how much longer he can handle it.

There's a deep shame that comes with these daydreams, an itch that burns within the lowest parts of his belly every time his mind so much as wanders. Unfortunately, the image of you, any image of you, scorches him worse than that guilt, which is why he can't resist those long nights of rutting against his pillow, endless scenarios flicking behind his eyes like a roll of film that goes on forever. There were many reasons that he was thankful for finally getting his own room, more so now than ever. It doesn’t matter what you do, he finds himself in the same place by the end of each day. There’d be the occasional brush of arms, a weightless touch that would burden his skin with gooseflesh, or moments when he’d manage to make you laugh, and the sound itself would drive a tremble through his shell. He thought this was an innocuous crush to begin with, all signs pointed that way, and then it happened.

Shit.

He remembers how this all started now.

It was one of those instances when you didn’t want to go home, too tired after a particularly harrowing shift at work. You had gotten a decent amount of TLC at the lair, but arguably too good, as you found yourself drooping on the couch. The boys would have happily escorted you back home, even volunteering to carry your sluggish form if that’s what it meant, to which you threw out some languidly-humoured remark about them trying to kick you out. Not even. Not ever.

“Take my bed,” Raph had offered without a second thought.

The proposition felt harmless at the time, and his intentions were so. There was no way he was going to let you sleep on the worn mound of springs and pillows that had endured the weight of four mutant behemoths for so many years. He could take it for the night, no big deal. It wouldn’t have been the first time, and truthfully, he was more than willing to sacrifice his comfort for yours. He hadn't even considered the implications of you sleeping in his bed, nor did he think of the consequences: this seed of yearning that would be planted that night to bloom and blossom into the twisted, prickly vine that now chokes his thoughts.

You, bless your oblivious heart, had accepted readily, a tired smile gracing your lips. "As long as you’re sure, Raph. I don't want to put you out."

"Positive," he'd confirmed, a little too quickly perhaps, and then retreated to grab a blanket and pillow.

That night, he barely slept. The couch was uncomfortable, sure, but there was something else: something that nagged at him. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it. His first thought was the lack of activity from the day, barely any thugs had tried their hand at disturbing the peace, or whatever peaceful looks like for the streets of New York. Chances are, he was just restless from how many skulls he didn’t crack. Maybe not. At the time, he was stumped for an explanation, and that only secured his inability to suspend consciousness.

Before long, the early morning had arisen, and you along with it. Raphael’s failure to nod off meant he caught your freshly woken self tiptoeing out of his room. He made no effort to greet you, playing into the idea that he was genuinely asleep as you thought him to be, some parts convinced that he might have been. You slid through the lair with a swan-like equanimity he didn’t want to disturb; each clip of your shoes against the floor calculated and measured to soften the blow of your steps. He probably would have woken up were he soundly snoozing, but the attempt was still appreciated. Raphael never regarded himself as the type to silently observe, to pick up on the little details with such ease, but he had found that he was a little more introspective about these things since you’d been around.

Once you had disappeared completely, he rose from his “slumber” and slipped into his room. He figured he’d be able to get at least a couple of hours' sleep under his belt. He was very wrong about this, however. Upon entering his room, he quickly realised that sleep would be much harder to come by now. The lacklustre day had left him restless, that’s what he kept telling himself at the time, but that wasn’t the real reason. The real reason was the apparitional warmth of your presence on his bed, and if he tried really hard, he’d almost be able to perfectly emulate your body lying in his company. Moreover, it was the lingering scent, faint as it was, that had truly undone him - sweet, undeniably yours, intoxicating. Slowly, he had descended atop the mattress on his side, his cheek brushing against the pillow that you had previously lain on. He could picture you in his place, as you had just been minutes before, curled up in his blankets, comfortable in his space.

He inhaled deeply, committing the fragrance to memory. Succumbing to this was crossing a precarious line. He thinks he knew that, but he couldn’t help himself. A thick rope had taken hold of him without his knowledge, narrowing its taught breach the more he let himself surrender. As he took another heavy breath in, his hand crept down to the beating, almost painful throb that had somehow alluded him until that moment.

This was wrong. Perverted. He was taking advantage, in a way, of your trust, of the virtuous act of offering you comfort when you needed it. You wouldn’t want this. You wouldn’t want him thinking of you this way. And yet, he just could not stop. The essence of you clung to his sheets, whispering promises he had no right to entertain.

A groan escaped his throat, muffled by the pillow he was now pushing into his face, practically suffocating himself in the hints of you that were lingering deep within it. He imagined you hearing him, recoiling in disgust, the trust in your eyes replaced with disappointment, with something akin to fear. The thought was a sharp, painful stab, but still, it wasn't enough to halt his sudden fit of impure mania. He was too far gone, caught in the undertow of his appetite.

He came quickly, shame immediately washing over him in a freezing wave. The pleasure was fleeting, unsatisfying, tainted by the knowledge of his transgression. He lay there, panting, the scent of you now heavy and cloying, no longer intoxicating but strangling. He wanted to scrub himself clean, to erase the moment, to rewind and never offer his bed in the first place.

In his post-nut clarity, it hits him, the disgrace of it all: how badly he wants you, how desperate he is to feel the weight of your body on his, how much he needs every plush piece of skin to become tainted under his hands.

The days that followed were torture; worse than torture if there’s a word for it. He knew he had to avoid you, at least for a while. There was no way he could bear to face you, to see the innocent trust in your eyes. He needed time to process, figure out how to reconcile the image he had of himself with the reality of his actions, but any moment of closure would be met with opposition. Annoyingly, small things: a hair clip in the dojo, a book on the kitchen counter, a faint smudge of lip gloss on a discarded coffee cup. In your absence, these tiny objects served as landmines to his crime, a reminder of what he had done and what he couldn’t have.

Instances in which you were present to share the same air as him, however, were worse, and they still are. If you’re reading, he’s watching the curve of your neck. When he hears you laugh, he hears a calling that simply doesn’t exist. He may catch you licking your lips when they dry, an inattentive habit that makes him envious of your tongue. Each one of these details slots into a catalogue, stored away in the private chambers of his mind to be revised during those lonely nights.

Even his epiphany about stepping back and admiring from afar has been contaminated. Productive revelations have been spoiled and replaced with this thing he doesn’t know how to name. That act of defiling a space you occupied had undeniably tarnished any interaction with you, and in doing so, he had tarnished himself.

He’s a terrible person. People don’t have thoughts like this about their friends. Or, if they do, they’d at least stand a better chance of enacting these thoughts. He should just exonerate himself from you entirely, retreat to the shadows as he has always been taught to. The temptation itself almost makes him laugh. That would imply he has the will strong enough to remove himself from your life, a will he no longer possesses now that you’re in his.

Why can’t it be so easy?

That morning that started this all, something inside him had irrevocably broken. A dam had burst, unleashing a torrential wave of depravity he never knew existed within him. Before that, he’d just thought of you as someone who occasionally wracked his nerves in confusing ways if the circumstances were right. Now? You are everything: his obsession, his undoing, his most profound and concealed secret.

If only this were a simple crush, he could settle for that. It would come with its own problems, he knows, but he could at least sustain it with more prudence; deal with it.

He remembers a time, before you, when his nights were his own, when he could lay his head down after a job well done and bid the day farewell. His skin twitches if he tries to keep any urge at bay, fever lurches behind his eyes any time they close, and if by some miracle he can find his way to sleep without giving in, you all but manage to torment his dreams, too. Vivid, explicit, and utterly mortifying. He’ll wake up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, and worst of all, with morning wood just to add more to this mess for atrocities' sake. He really shouldn’t be thinking about you in this way. You’re a friend, that’s the operative word he strains to keep in mind, but his body, his innate calling, doesn’t care about propriety.

It’s especially bad when he wishes he could practise his older brother’s restraint and condition himself to keep you out of his head. Leonardo’s calm, almost serene detachment is a lifestyle away from his turbulent fixations. Leo, the picture of divine patience, can seemingly shut off any unwanted thought with the flick of a wrist, whilst Raphael is a wildfire, and you the kindling. It’s not as though the routine tactics of his brother would serve him aid in this situation, anyway. Meditation has never done him any good, and it’d only give you the space to tangle yourself up in his imagination again. Instead, he buries himself in his workouts. He tries to sweat it out, tire himself to the point of mindless exhaustion, but the sweat itself stings, and the ache in his muscles is a feeble attempt to dull the sharper ache in his shell.

When he isn’t riddled with pliable what-ifs and maybes, when there is a moment that these lascivious infections decide to leave him be, he has the camera peering down at himself. How long can he actually keep this up? How long will it be before he cracks, before he says or does something he’ll live to regret, regret more than what he’s already done in the dark corners no one dares tread? He’s a ticking time bomb, and you, naively unaware, are holding the detonator.

One way or another, you’re in everything he does, absentminded things like fiddling with his sai; the touch of cool steel against his palms imitates the delicate curve of what he imagines your jawline to feel like. Even the harsh rasp of his father’s voice during sparring matches can't silence the whisper of your name, a prohibited prayer that lingers in his ears. He can't keep you out of his head. He hates it, this constant, burning awareness of you – a forbidden fruit he longs to taste but knows he can't. The self-disgust, the guilt, the painful longing; all of it is a cruel torment, a self-inflicted wound he can't seem to staunch.

He wants to scream, especially on these restless nights, to shatter the silence and break free from the invisible bonds that chain him to this impossible, unbearable infatuation. Yet, all he can do is lie there, a prisoner of his desires, and you visit him once again, not as the friend he knows, the one who laughs easily and quips back with no effort, but as a vision of his indecency. Your smile is a siren's call, eyes a bottomless reservoir of promise. You say things he can only ever dream of hearing from your lips.

This is a fantasy he’s played out innumerable times, but each rerun feels like the first.

You lie back, sprawled across his bed like a fallen angel. Is he your rescuer, or the bastard who shot you down just so he could have you? He can fool himself into thinking this is a mutual salvation, but his jealousy of the stars will have you dragged into the pit with him, where he can savour your divine spirit all to himself. You would never willingly step away from heaven’s light to meet him, of course you wouldn’t, but at least he can pretend, even for a short while, that he has somehow convinced you to fall into this madness with him. He can delude himself that he isn’t quite so alone, and so he follows the illusion of you and takes, moving like a man possessed, lacking dignity, lacking regard.

He stops fighting these premonitions now. He thinks that if he wholeheartedly appeases this greed, abandons all virtue to the fever dream that paints you as his willing partner, that he’ll be set free. He lets the imagined warmth of your skin banish the cold reality of his isolation. He allows the phantom scent of your hair to fill his airless room, drowning voluntarily so that he can fall to the ocean’s depths where he may finally find peace.

This dance with delirium, sometimes culminating for hours, eventually has to conclude, however. Your mirage blurs into nothing the closer he gets to the end, hoping with a crossed jaw that this will be the last time he sullies your good name inside his fist.

It never is.

No matter how many times he relieves himself to your notion, it never alleviates the want, the need, the dependency that’s been conceived on this idea of having you. It only makes it worse. His stomach empties more each time, and his head bloats with new possibilities just to mock him. Every instance in which he falls victim to his imagination, he staggers closer to Hell, and Earth’s core will burn him alive long before he ever admits to the degeneracy of his vestige’s mind. This false impression of reality is much sweeter, bitter in its aftertastes, but easier, a dark bubble without complication, without an outward looking in to tell him how wrong this is.

You’re a damned distraction, and at the cost of his sanity, Raphael can’t find it in himself to do anything about it.

~tags~