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punkeccentricenigma · 1 year ago

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Rise!Boys accidentally confess their love to Reader.

Relationship status: Romantic

Reader prounouns: They/Them

TW: Slight angst for Raph's part, Some grammatical errors because english is not my first language.

Author's note: Just enjoy lol.

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Leonardo

◇ Ever since Leo realized his feelings, his casual demeanor towards [Y.N] had turned into almost aggressively flirting.

◇ Despite not wanting to rush into confessing his feelings, he was practically a simp for that person..

◇ But he also teased them often, of course, not on a seriously offensive level. Just light pokes and prods.

◇ I'm sure he bragged to anyone about his not-yet relationship with [Y.N].

"Oh, and I recently won a unicorn plushie for them, and they were really delighted! WE'RE MEANT TO BE TOGETHER!"

"Pepino, get the hell out of here."

◇ Just as Donatello had enough of his (non-)twin, he now wanted to dig a hole to hell and throw him in there to finally get some rest.

◇ Anyway, the accidental confession happened one night when neither he nor [Y.N] could sleep.

◇ They were sending each other various memes through Discord in bulk. This boosted his confidence even more, leading to him typing 'I love you.'

◇ Of course, he hadn't sent it yet; his mind was suddenly filled with not-so-good thoughts. What if they don't feel the same? What if they laugh at him?? Or something worse?!

◇ Despite his persona, the boy was full of insecurities, from his looks to his personality, but with them... he felt good about himself.

◇ But would such a confession be too simple? The boy decided to wait at least one day before confessing his love.

◇ But fate said 'nuh-uh,' and his phone fell on Leo's face, causing panic. Due to his carelessness, he held the device wrong, resulting in the accidental sending of the ill-fated message.

"No, no, no, NO!" His voice trembled as he tried to delete the message immediately. Unfortunately, the app froze to his disadvantage. "Damn it!"

◇ When he managed to reopen the app, there was a new message.

◇ "... You are not joking, right?"

◇ This night would last even longer than a turtle had anticipated.

Raphael

◇ I think it happened during the attack on their home by Shredder. Absolute chaos, a storm of emotions, the perfect situation for an imperfect love confession.

◇ "Raph, have you lost your mind?!" [Y.N] began, full of outrage. "Why didn't you let me stay? Splinter and Draxum need help!"

The turtle furrowed his brow bones, looking down at the shorter person with regret. "It was the only way, I'm sure they'll handle it."

"And what if they don't? What if they needed our help right now?"

◇ No matter how advanced [Y.N]'s combat skills were, Raphael was even more opposed to the idea.

◇ "Nothing will happen to them!" Raphael raised his voice, as if trying to convince not only the teenager but himself. "And stop arguing with me; I'm the leader here, and I make the decisions!"

"Damn it, I don't understand you! I could handle it, and you would have more time to plan; I'm not needed here!!"

◇ Just a reminder, everyone present was watching this argument.

◇ "Yes, you are!"

"No, I'm not!"

"You are! I don't want to lose you like Gram Gram; I love you too much!" His angry red face suddenly turned shocked. Oh, oh. Did he really just say that??

◇ His dark eyes met the teenage counterpart's. Their whole face was red, and their determination to sacrifice themself slowly faded from their eyes.

"... Fine," [Y.N] muttered and sat down in the seat next to Michelangelo.

◇ When all this chaos is over, they'll have to talk, this time more calmly.

Donatello

◇ Donnie has a need to be as organized as possible, so before suggesting anything, he has to plan everything out and make sure that any confession of feelings will go perfectly.

◇ Of course, he had a large folder with potential scenarios that could happen before and after the confession. It had a bit of a vibe from his previous reincarnation, but much less scary and obsessive - he simply felt strong discomfort without preparation.

◇ Leo likes to tease him about it, by the way.

◇ Anyway, there was one situation the boy didn't anticipate. One night, he had been working on another invention all night, aimed at stealing another battery from the Purple Dragons, and in the morning, he fell asleep at his desk, or rather, he was half-unconscious.

◇ "Dee, come to bed." Raphael's voice echoed through the lab, gently shaking the sleepy Soft-shell's naked shoulder. In response, he got some sluggish syllables and a hiss. "You can't sit here like this; it's not healthy." "And sitting here all night is unhealthy enough," he added quietly.

"Get lost..." That's all the turtle understood. Raph rolled his eyes and moved away from his brother a bit.

"I'm not going to struggle; I'm sleep-deprived myself," the red-loving enthusiast said, picking up his phone.

◇ And so [Y.N] appeared in the lair, as the ultimate weapon.

◇ "Donnie! Get up! Lie down in bed!" The teenager themself was not well-rested, considering the early hour, but they tried not to sound irritated. Donnie mumbled something again and straightened up in his chair.

"Raphaello, leave me alone," Donnie started, putting his hands on the keyboard. Apparently, he had no intention of opening his eyes. "I still need to make a few changes to the code..."

"Wait, do you think I'm Raph??" [Y.N] asked in surprise, pointing at themself. Did their voice really sound so manly and deep?? Since when??

"And you're talking in the third person again; I've told you that it's no longer fashionable." Donnie tried not to hit his head against the desk even a little, wanting to at least be somewhat awake. The human wanted to say something, correct him, but gave up with a certain idea in their mind.

◇ they had noticed strange aspects of their friend's behavior lately. He was more open to their, often grabbing their hand or hugging their despite his usual aversion to it, he made various devices for their that made quite an impression on their... there had to be something to it!

◇ "Hey, buddy," the human leaned lazily against the desk, trying their best to mimic the speech style of the oldest of the brothers. "Do you, you know, have something going on with our best, most wonderful human friend??"

"You mean April?" Ouch, that hurt, even though [Y.N] felt the same way. "She's our almost-sister, Raph, yuck."

◇ "Oh, no! [Y.N], I meant [Y.N]!" The teenager corrected themself, slightly annoyed. It was weird.

"What about them? I already told you." No! Not like that!

"Ahahah, you know I have a bad memory when I'm not stressed!"

"Mh..." Pause. Did they say something wrong? Donatello is overly smart; he should figure out what's wrong! How will they explain this? "Everything's fine; my plan will be initiated in half a year at the latest." Plan? What plan??

"Plan...?"

"Rendezvous plan, duh," Donnie replied, resting his head on his hand. "I know you advised against it, but I can't do it differently. I need everything to be tip-top before I confess my feelings to them."

◇ "..."

◇ "Raph...?"

◇ [Y.N] remained silent, trying to control their sudden heartbeat and their face turning as red as a strawberry.

Michelangelo

◇ Playing the role of Dr. Delicate Touch, the boy knew perfectly well what he felt and wanted to confess his love, but the natural fear of rejection also got to him.

◇ He wanted to think this all through. He wanted to do it as smoothly and charmingly as possible, but not in a way that made it seem like he didn't care. He didn't want to throw such important words to the wind!

◇ His artist's soul played a significant role here. Every time he felt great, he had to sketch something related to love.

◇ Just woke up from a fantastic dream? He had to quickly grab his sketchbook and sketch [Y.N] in a floral wreath.

◇ He was on patrol and saw their favorite cafe? He started sketching the teenager drinking coffee in the nearby sand with his finger, taking a picture of it as a keepsake.

◇ Spending quality time with [Y.N]? He convinced them to start painting each other with his favorite markers, and under the pretext of light fun, he drew orange hearts on their cheeks.

◇ It was all fun until there was an 'accident' during one of the previously mentioned activities.

◇ So, Mikey and [Y.N] were in his new room after Shredder's attack, and he needed help with some unique decoration.

◇ "Wait, isn't that a neon banner from the nearby store??" The teenager asked, pointing at the mentioned thing, peeking out from behind the boy.

"I neither confirm nor deny it!" Mikey laughed, shrugging his shoulders. "You have to admit it fits perfectly."

"Mhm, but I doubt you'll fall asleep with this," [Y.N] said skeptically, picking up one of the cardboard boxes that contained a surplus of notebook-like items. "Where does this go?"

"Oh! Just put it next to the cabinet; I'll put them in the drawers in a sec."

The human nodded, and as they took a few more steps, they tripped over the cables lying on the floor. they fell to the ground with a squeak, dropping the box less than half a meter in front of them.

"Are you okay??" The orange-loving enthusiast quickly ran to his friend, helping them get up as they groaned in pain.

"Yeah, I think so..." Their voice trailed off, surprising Mikey, who followed their gaze.

◇ His pupils immediately narrowed upon seeing an open sketchbook with many drawings and sketches of [Y.N], with a predominant theme of love.

"Mikey...?"

"IT'S NOTHING!" The teenager shouted, hastily picking up the sketchbook from the floor and pressing it against his plastron.

◇ Their faces both turned equally red with excessive thinking.

◇ Oops.

#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt #rottmnt x y/n #rottmnt x you #teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise donnie x reader #rise leo x reader #rise mikey x reader #rise raph x reader #rottmnt x reader #Headcanons #x reader

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indieyuugure · 1 year ago

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Are you able to give like a quick review of (almost)every injury Leo got in the invasion arc?

I love ur au btw

I am indeed!

Okay, so the most obvious ones are the ones on his shell, which he got from The Shredder. They’re actually one continuous slash from his carapace to the side of his plastron.

He didn’t have quite as much missing from his back, but after getting thrown through the window, he lost the strip running down the middle.

Basically, it used to look like the first picture, but now it looks like the second.

He also got shot by an arrow in his right knee, which shattered his patella(kneecap bone) and messed up a bunch of stuff. Thankfully though the arrow didn’t nick the artery in his leg when it went in or when he pulled it out.

He wears a brace on his knee the help relieve the pressure and strain when he’s out and about or fighting. It still hurts when it rains, and he can’t kick with that leg anymore, but for the most part it’s healed up.

His voice also gets pretty jacked up. You can see in this picture I made of Raph and him, he has a lot of bruises on his neck and throat. When he wakes up to he hates the way his voice sounds. Raph tries to hide his partial envy of Leo’s hardcore sounding voice, and also tries to help him like it too.

I’m still not 100% how I could convey that over text other than character’s commenting on it, or possibly changing his color to be a darker shade of blue, though I think I’ll just stick with the comments and in universe repercussions.

I hope this is what you meant, I wasn’t exactly sure which Leo you were talking about, but I figured it was probably this one :\

Good question! :]

#tmnt #q&a #indie’s turtles #indie tmnt #ninja turtles #teenage mutant ninja turtles

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miss-oranje-disco-dancer · 4 months ago

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he's the tear that hangs inside my soul forever

pairing: javi p x reader

cws/tags: angst, p in v, oral, idk? drinking? canon death mention? reader pov

summary: reader, a dea agent, arrives in medellin (season 2 time) and quickly forms a bond w javi. are they just friends or is it something more?

a/n: there is a part 1, so read that first (or don't?)

wc: 5.7k

taglist:

@gothcsz @onlyasimp4-2dbitches

Being sent to Colombia at the height of Escobar's reign as the King of Cocaine was the opportunity of a lifetime for a fresh, young face at the DEA. A few years back, being asked to take part in such an important investigation meant you were quick-witted or quick-footed, but now, with more vacancies than ever, a newcomer like yourself was welcome to join the hunt for Pablo. You knew that the investigation was becoming more complex, and consequently, there were more jobs to be done, but what you remained unaware of – until you'd already accepted the assignment – was the bodies piling up on your side of the fight. Dozens of men had been killed, you learn. You are a piece of meat to feed to the dogs – disposable. But nothing about you screams front-line fighter, and that's what gives you hope.

This is what you were made for. You’re a DEA baby - Agent Mom and Agent Dad met at the height of their careers, and had a little too much fun celebrating after saving the day. Your career is the epilogue to theirs. “They lived happily ever after and their little girl one day followed in their footsteps.” Presumably, the little girl lives happily ever after too. Suffice to say, this crime-fighting business is in your genes. You suspect your legacy is what put you in this position until you get assigned to the biggest case in DEA history. Thank God for your intermediate knowledge of Spanish, courtesy of your college’s general education requirements because you’re sure going to need it in Colombia.

Girls like you - even the nepo-babies - are often relegated to paperwork. It's better than being the office barista, but it's hard not to feel like a simple sidekick, just a background character when you'd been promised a lead role. That’s what it feels like at Quantico, going back and forth between the Xerox machine and the shredder. When you arrive in Bogota, it’s a different story.

You work under a woman named Messina, who is far from friendly despite your attempts to get any positive affirmation from her. Unfortunately, your colleagues are primarily male and, therefore, you feel like she's the closest thing to an ally sometimes. Initially, you develop a certain allegiance to her, and while she remains cold and distant, she's not actively ornery towards you, and she has a great capacity to be. She's had a bone to pick with Javier Peña and Steve Murphy from day one. Messina has some choice words to say about both of them, but you try not to take them to heart before you come face-to-face with the two agents. She warns you about them like she's your mother in the way that she complains about their delinquency.

When you walk into the office on your first day, you prepare yourself for your introduction. You take a deep breath, hold your shoulders high like your mother told you to, and walk into the office where they sit - one at a desk and one on the desk - talking to each other.

Don’t let them introduce themselves, do it for them, your mother’s voice comes to you.

No blonde man has ever been named “Javier” so it’s not hard to guess who is who.

“Agent Murphy,” you say to the man in the desk chair, “Agent Peña,” to the one seated on the desk itself.

Javier stands to shake your hand. Firm handshake, big hands. Don’t think too hard about it. Your brain slows, your heart speeds up. Your hand is probably clammy by the time you extend it to Steve.

Javier. It rolls off the tongue when you touch yourself to the thought of him. Steve calls him ‘Javi’, but you stick to ‘Agent Peña’ because you’ve already made a link in your mind between his first name and sex itself.

It must be something in the air because everything he does makes you feel all tingly. You try not to stare at him, fearing he’ll notice, and those pretty brown eyes will see straight through you.

Javi reminds you of a boy you liked in high school in the sense that you know your mother wouldn’t like him. He is terribly charming and the woman who raised you can see right through men like that.

“How can you tell?” you’d ask.

“I don’t need to ‘tell’. Those kinds of boys are all the same.”

“How so?”

“They’re trouble, and they know it.”

“But he’s so sweet-”

“-and he’s so handsome,” she’d mimic your sing-songy tone. “You’re a smart girl, and I know that you know better than to get involved with boys that’ll break your heart.”

She’d go on to tell you a story about how she had a lover back in her twenties before she met your father, how this mystery man was smooth-talking and adventurous, how he broke her heart, and she swore off dating until she found a sensible, loyal man.

Whenever she talked about that man - whose name she refused to say - she’d get a certain look in her eye like she was swooning over someone who was a mere memory. Honestly, he sounded like a total dreamboat, and you thought she was telling a deeply romantic story about the one who got away and disguising it as a cautionary tale to both you and herself.

Until you dated that high school crush of yours and he shattered your heart. She was kind enough not to say ‘I told you so’ when you came home in tears after the tragic breakup.

Javier doesn’t even try to hide his womanizer tendencies, which is good because it means you can’t delude yourself into believing he’s anything but a complete douchebag beneath it all. An asshole dressed in tight jeans and a short-sleeved button up. And those aviator sunglasses combined with the mustache that make him look like Burt Reynolds trying to be Tom Cruise.

It’s hard to learn much about him unless you’re paying great attention, and you try not to because he’s bad news. You don’t know about his life or his interests. At first, you think you can discern his mood from his actions or expressions, but you come to find that he’s more subtle than that. You can tell how he feels, not by his face, but by how many cigarettes he smokes and how many buttons he undoes over the course of the day.

You pay less attention to Steve because you don’t have to – he wears his heart on his sleeve and you don’t feel the need to gather any material for your nighttime fantasies.

You do, however, find their dynamic intriguing to say the least. You can't tell if they're best friends or mortal enemies because they argue frequently in the office and then hang out after work. Like a couple on the verge of divorce.

On a random Friday, you overhear your name come up in their conversation, which is new. You listen from afar, pretending to check the time, and zoning out with your eyes pointing towards the clock until Peña turns in your direction.

"Hey," he says in a voice that sounds oddly aggressive for the question he plans to ask you.

"Huh?" You spin around in your chair and face him.

"We're getting drinks. You wanna come?" His straight face gives you no indication of whether or not he wants you to say 'yes', but what reason is there for him to ask you other than genuine interest?

Somehow, he’s impatient, fingers tapping his thighs while he waits for your answer.

"Is 'drinks' code for something Messina should know about?"

"No, and if you bring her, you're uninvited."

"Don't worry. I'm not friends with her."

"That tracks. She's not very… friendly," Murphy mutters.

"So?" Peña looks like he's about to take back his offer if you don't give him a quick answer, so you agree to accompany the duo to a nearby bar.

Murphy and Peña talk amongst themselves on the short walk to the bar, and you begin to wonder if they felt obligated to bring you.

It’s your first time exploring the nightlife of Medellin but besides the language, it’s not all that different from a place you’d frequent back in the US. It’s lively, full of a variety of sleazy guys and sexy girls. Plus, you, Javi, Steve, and other everyday patrons.

When you struggle to get the attention of the bartender, Javi snaps his fingers in the man's direction, asks you what you want and orders for you. Usually, you find men speaking for you to be a turn-off, if not downright rude, but it feels not only practical, but also caring when Javi does it.

It takes Steve a drink and a half to bring up his marriage problems. There's no prologue, and assuming it's a small grievance at first, you decide not to pry but eventually, this woman has taken up 25 minutes of conversation time, and you have to ask, "Who's Connie?"

Javier gives you the short version until Steve steps in and defends himself, giving you a much more long-winded explanation.

While you listen, you notice Javi's arm around the back of your chair, and you can't quite discern why it's there. You've seen him with his feet up on his desk, and maybe he's just a believer in comfort over personal space, but, then again, maybe he's flirting, maybe he thinks he can score tonight.

When you decide to call it a night, you stumble your way out the door. It takes Javi a moment to notice, but when he does, he grabs hold of your arm, steadying you. He walks you home, and refuses to leave your side until you’ve successfully made it inside. Until you’re safe.

Most of your memories of that night are blurry at best but you know your clothes remained on your body for the duration. You wake up in a puddle of your own sweat, with a splitting headache, and your first thought is regret - you shouldn’t have had that much to drink. Second comes anger - why did they let you drink that much? Assholes. You’ll make sure to say ‘no’ if they ever invite you out again.

But then the image of Javi next to you, keeping you upright and unharmed, shielding you from the dangers of the Medellin streets at night. He could’ve let you go home by yourself or with some other man, he could’ve scolded you for your antics, but he kept a smile on his face and a grip on his gun instead.

He didn’t even try to come into your apartment - you know this because there are no signs of him, and if he’d tried, you would’ve said ‘yes’. But you are sore in all the wrong places and very much alone.

At that moment, you realize that Javi is a good man. Either that, or he's not into you. Whether he is or is not into you is mostly irrelevant because Javier is into every woman he’s ever laid eyes on. When he sneaks a glance at you - when he thinks you’re not looking - you shrug it off. You’ve seen him flirt with everyone in the office. It means nothing, he means nothing.

On a particular Thursday, Javi walks into the office with lipstick on the collar of his shirt. You nudge him in the leg with the toe of your shoe, and when he looks up at you with his gorgeous brown eyes, you gesture to the collar of your own shirt. He doesn’t get it. You have a brief back and forth conversation through hand motions and facial expressions until you realize that you must look ridiculous, and you stand up and walk over to him. You wet your thumb with your tongue and scrub another woman’s lipstick mark out of his shirt – or you try to, but a stain remains, albeit fainter than before.

“You should be more careful next time,” you say, towering over Javi who sits with his hands politely clasped in his lap, waiting for you to finish toying with his outfit.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says - it’s an attempt at sarcasm but he’s so used to getting told off for things of this nature that it sounds like he’s resigning himself to a necessary obedience.

As you wash your hands moments later, you gaze at yourself in the mirror, pucker your lips, smile, scrape lipstick off your teeth, and convince yourself you smelled a woman’s perfume on him despite the fact that you were almost choking on the smoke from the cigarette between his lips.

You wear lipstick on Friday, but it’s not for Javi. It’s for the lip of your beer bottle and later, the bartender’s neck. His name is Francisco, he smells like expensive cologne and his hands sit nicely on your hips as he walks you backwards to the desk in the office, lifting you and sitting you upon it. Your hands are in his hair and his tongue is in your mouth, and it feels good. You’d forgotten what it feels like to touch and be touched back.

Until his hands travel up your thighs, and you wonder how long it’s been. Either it’s all gone way too fast for your liking or it’s been quite a long time and the bar is already closed, and in that case, Javi is either waiting for you outside or he isn’t.

All it becomes is Javi, Javi, Javi. It’s a Catch 22, damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation except, you can’t do anything. There’s nothing to do. He’s either there or he isn’t.

“I’m sorry.” You push the man away from you gently. “I think this is all going too fast.”

“It’s the one with the dark hair, isn’t it?”

“What?” Javi. Javi. Javi. Javi.

“The one you’re always here with.”

“What about him?”

“You tell me.”

He retreats from you, looks at his watch and says, “It’s late. You don’t want to keep him waiting.”

What hurts is not the fact that he can read you better than you can read yourself, but the fact that there is zero pride in his voice - it’s not a jab at you, so there is no brilliant comeback, there is also no pleading your case because he’s right.

Javi is neither waiting for you, nor is he at home. You cross paths with him as you head to the restroom. The women’s restroom. You notice immediately that he has not taken your advice about being careful - there is lipstick on his collar again and a hickey on his neck.

The first stab in the chest is the bruise, the second is his shameless display of it, and the third is the woman standing by the sink, reapplying her lipstick. She is beautiful.

The fourth hit comes later, right before you leave, when you notice the bartender wiping his neck with a cocktail napkin, trying to rid the evidence of you from his skin. Shame. You are not beautiful, not like that woman, and if your lipstick was on Javi instead, he would hide it.

You tell him about your dalliance, brief as it was. You tell him the truth of how good it felt, but how you rejected the man despite thinking he was attractive. You just don’t tell him why.

Instead, you lie, and tell Javi that Francisco asked you out, he wanted more of you, but you’re dedicated to the bachelorette lifestyle, you belong to no one.

Except for Javier.

He is not yours, so he cannot be unfaithful, but he can’t be faithful either. Naturally, karma comes for you, and you find yourself calling him an asshole, and only half meaning it. When you say it, you’re surprised by the shame that crosses his face. You could let him walk upstairs without another word, but you apologize and he accepts it. Because that’s what friends do.

There was nothing to fuck up in the first place, you tell yourself. He’s a friend. A good friend.

Plus, there’s another man in your sights. He’s different from Javi, but he’s got pretty brown eyes that make you weak. You want him, and he wants you too.

You’re sitting on your living room couch, sharing Javi’s last cigarette. Everyone smokes in Colombia in the year 1992, except for Carlos. You flick a bit of ash into the ashtray and hand it back to Javi. When he offers it back, you decline.

“I’m thinking about quitting,” you say.

“Why?”

“Carlos doesn’t smoke, and I keep thinking, ‘what if he kisses me and I have bad breath and he thinks I’m gross and never wants to see me again?’”

“Keep a pack of gum or breath mints in your purse.”

“I do.”

“Then, I don’t see the problem.”

Somehow, you’re arguing. Over nothing. Over your ridiculous worries about another man.

Javi gives you the once-over, though his eyes would suggest he’s looking at something closer to crime scene photos than a woman’s body. Investigating you.

He grabs something from his pocket - a pack of gum and hands you it.

“Here.”

“Is this your way of telling me I do need to fix my breath?”

He rolls his eyes and then takes a stick for himself. It’s a familiar habit and yet you hesitate, you insist that he leads and you follow. Something about it feels like the first time.

“Come here,” he coaxes you towards him. Time moves slower. It’s the moment in the movie where you’re frozen in place, standing on the railroad tracks and the hero has to rescue you.

He guides you - one hand coming to cup your cheek, and you know you should pull away but your self-indulgent tipsy mind begs you to let it happen.

It’s just a kiss. Slow and sweet. Minty as expected, but that no longer matters because when his tongue swipes over your lower lip, and you allow him entry, instinctually, you move closer, place your hands on his chest, run your fingers through his hair. You think more of the way his mustache tickles and the scent of his aftershave.

You pull away light-headed, look into his eyes, and you make the decision together. No. It was good while it lasted, best not to ruin it. You give him a little smile, and he returns it.

“Alright,” you say, standing up, “One more outfit choice and then you’re free.”

You saved the one you think he’ll like the best for last. A red dress, fit for the venue of your date.

Javi’s eyes are locked on you, but he says nothing. He’s far away right now, deep in his own mind.

“Javi?” You’ve made your walk from your bedroom to the living room in silence. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful - but I think you already know that.”

“Well, yeah, I like it, but I want a man’s opinion.”

“Now you have it.”

You don’t need ‘a man’s opinion’. You need Javi’s opinion - you need to know how to dress in your fantasies, you need to know what the women in his fantasies wear, even if those women aren’t you.

Carlos is a good man. He can hold an intelligent conversation, he’s never too loud or too crass, he insists on picking up the check, he always drives you home, and he goes down on you without asking for anything in return.

Javi can’t go two sentences without swearing, he hustles you at pool and you have to pick up his tab, and he bums cigarettes off you when he leaves his own pack in his jacket in the other room.

And he curses out every creep who comes near you, he teaches you how to play pool - darts too - (and you try to learn poker but it’s too goddamn hard). You start ordering top shelf alcohol and putting it on those creeps’ credit cards when they lose to you in every bar game. When he walks you home, he lets you wear his jacket. When you ‘borrow’ his lighter, he doesn’t ask for it back.

Carlos breaks up with you out of the blue. “It’s not you, it’s me,” he says. Or something like that because you’re not really paying attention anymore. You’re using all of your energy to stop yourself from crying in public. Why did he have to do this in public? It’s a parking lot, not a stage in a giant amphitheater, but it feels like you’re putting on a spectacle.

It feels worse when he drives you home and apologizes.

You say nothing, run inside and dial Javi’s number - you know it by heart.

“Call me if you need anything,” he said.

You need something. Someone.

“Javi,” you cry into the receiver pathetically, “he broke up with me.”

“I’ll come get you.”

You hear his footsteps - hurried - down the metal stairs of the apartment complex, and then his fist on the front door.

He holds open his arms. “It’ll be okay, cariño,” he says.

And eventually, when you sleep with your body wrapped in his, it is okay.

When Carrillo comes back to the DEA, he brings a new strategy, a crueler one. You weren't stupid enough to expect your job to be full of peaceful negotiation but when you watch him shoot a teenager in cold blood, one bullet straight to the head, in front of a group of kids as some sort of lesson, you feel light-headed and sick to your stomach. Javi is the only other person watching, and even he looks shaken. You want to talk to him, you want some sort of comfort from him, but you see him fight with Steve before he gets in his car, and even if you could reach him before he drives away, you're not sure speaking to him will do anything except upset you more.

Steve offers to talk to you about it, but you decline. Even if you wanted to talk about it, he could never understand. You don't have the words to say what happened. You'd have to remember it, and all you want to do is forget. There's also a little girl named Olivia who holds you back from telling him anything. Maybe Connie was right to leave Colombia.

You make the stupid decision to ask Steve where Javi is, as if he has a GPS tracker attached to his partner in crime-fighting.

"Probably at some girl's house." He shrugs. "Why?"

"Just wondering."

But it's more than that. The night he walked you home he became one of the few people at the DEA that you decided you could trust. And now, you shared an unbreakable, unspeakable bond simply from witnessing an act of cruelty. He is the only person who understands but he has his own ways of dealing with these things it seems. Those ways don't involve you. He doesn't need you the way you need him.

You pace around your room for a while until you get antsy, feeling claustrophobic within your tiny living space.

You happen to pass Javier as he walks into the building, and you know that Steve was right. He looks disheveled in an unmistakable way. Something about it makes you feel worse than you already did. Even though there's no reason for you to care.

Carrillo is to blame for pushing those kids from the helicopter, but you're to blame for going with him. Murphy, who calls his wife in tears after the fact, wasn't aware of how bad it could be, seeing these things, but you were.

You want to run to Javi as if he's some sort of parental figure or security blanket. He wasn't there this time, so he doesn't know. And the caring part of you wants to keep it from him.

You do what agents like you do to cope - drink - except on your way out of the building you find Javi with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. You turn your head, not wanting him to see you in tears, but he does. He can be perceptive when he wants to be.

Your conversation is short, and Javi’s tone is stern, and his arm wraps firmly around your shoulder as he guides you back inside.

He offers to help you, and though you feel pathetic, you ask him to stay with you. No, you tell him “I want to forget”.

His lips are on yours and he’s kissing you, kissing you. It’s heated, much more so than the last time. You leave your jacket on the floor, not on the coat rack, along with your shoes and your shirt. You bear more of yourself to Javi with every step down the hallway, and you wish he would do the same. He moves slower and you worry about how much he wants this. Not like you do.

This is his routine. Every movement is well-practiced, when he asks you to go to the bedroom, you let yourself believe it’s because he wants to be gentle with you, you let yourself believe that it’s more than sex when he drops to his knees. You’re fully naked and all he has left is his underwear which doesn’t leave much to the imagination. He’s hard. Thank God, he wants you.

You can’t look him in the eyes when he fucks you - it would no longer be fucking. You’d say something that you regret, tell him how you’ve been dreaming of this since the day you saw him, tell him this means something to you.

He does as he’s asked - he makes you forget. You doubt you’ve been fucked this hard. You can’t even consider the fact that you want to see his face when he cums, the fact that you want him to kiss you, cum inside you, say he loves you, because he’s fucking every thought out of your brain. You can’t even tell him how good it feels. And it feels fucking amazing. You expected it to, based on how much practice you know he’s had, but no man has ever made you scream before.

You think you hear him moan your name when he cums, but you decide not to get your hopes up. You probably just imagined it. You can’t rid your mind of the thought regardless.

When you hear an angry knock on your front door, you’re not surprised. Thank God Javi offers to get it since you know you’ll fall over if you try to walk with your shaky legs.

It’s probably Steve, you think, but Javi says it’s ‘a neighbor’ and leaves it at that, and you can’t bring yourself to care which one.

You want to kiss him, you want another round. You want to let him go, you want to fall asleep alone. But you’re weak, so you ask him to stay, and he doesn’t argue. You sleep with your limbs entangled. Javi is warm and real, no longer a coworker, a friend, a crush, a fantasy, just a man. Made of sweat, scars, a freckle on his neck, messy hair, tense shoulders and a steady heartbeat.

You kiss him, lazy and hungry all at once. He pulls you closer and groans into your mouth. You leave a mark on his neck.

“Wanna give you something to remember this by,” you say, coy out of necessity.

“I wasn’t the one who said I wanted to forget.”

The final betrayal, the failure of the mission, the dropping of the facade is when you expose your neck to him, an invitation, and it takes you a half an hour to cover the bruise in makeup. It takes a week to fade.

Carrillo is dead. That’s a fact. Javi is drunk in his office. A fact. It is what it is, your father would say. What’s done is done. Focus on the facts. Don’t let yourself get distracted by your feelings. Feelings aren’t facts.

In the field, you’ll get yourself killed doing that. It was a comment over a celebratory dinner after you’d been assigned to the Escobar case. Flippant, with a mouthful of shrimp scampi.

You weren’t the one who was killed. Javi wasn’t either, but he’s not here in the room with you. Javi is gone, a shell of himself. What scares you most is that he asked Messina to let him go, to let him die in that explosion or by gunshot.

“I don’t do funerals.”

I need you, you want to say because, as much as you hate goodbyes, it would feel disrespectful to miss the funeral.

So, you iron your black dress, try to sleep and fail miserably, and stand in silence as you watch your colleague be buried. It could have just as easily been you.

You want to leave, go home and accept the fact that you failed, that you’re broken. But there is still something to fight for, and you are still a soldier.

If someone had asked you if you would take a bullet for Javi, you would’ve said a confident ‘yes’ because that’s what you’re supposed to say. It’s the altruistic answer, but truthfully, until you were faced with that bullet, you couldn’t be sure what you’d do.

There is no decision. It just happens. You push him out of the way and pray that it hits your tac vest and your brains don’t get blown out in a fucking market square in a failed operation, on a shitty lead.

The bullet hits you, and at first you feel very little, so little that you think you’re about to pass out - you’re losing blood. Then, as Javi grabs you, pulls you into the nearest building, the pain hits all at once.

The woman, the owner, grabs a first aid kit and Javi does his best to patch you up.

“Gonna call reinforcements?”

“No, it’s too late. They got away. An ambulance is coming for you.”

“No ambulance. I’m fine.”

“You just got shot.”

“I know. It hurts.”

The ambulance ride is bumpy and your mind is foggy. Once the painkillers hit, you feel okay. Groggy, but okay, especially when you look to see Javi by your side.

The morphine is a secret weapon, a scapegoat.

“Kiss me for real,” you say.

Later you’ll laugh it off, blame it on the painkillers but it’s a fully-lucid thought, and because he can blame it on pity or guilt, he does as you ask.

You doubt he’ll accept your proposition for more but you take your shot regardless. There’s a flicker in his eyes: desire. He declines, and it’s probably for the best.

By morning, you've already made the decision to go home. It's time. You kiss Javi one final time before boarding the plane. You leave and don't look back.

Javi stays with you as a memory, as a scar from the bullet you took for him. He stays with you like a dirty little secret and an occasional phone call.

But distance spoils whatever there was to spoil, and your conversations fade into nothing. You find yourself spending time with other men, dipping your toes back into the dating pool. Javi probably has another woman or three at his beckon call in Colombia anyway.

You brush all thoughts of Javi aside, even when his face is plastered on your TV and his name is in headlines, even when he's the newest hero of the DEA.

The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, you'd been told before. Your someone else is named 'Eric'.

Eric is a good man. Your parents and friends think so too. You know it’s true when your dad invites him to play a round of golf and your mom starts to tell him ‘he’s family’ when he comes over for dinner.

He brings flowers. Lilies for your first date, roses for Valentine's Day, tulips for your mother because once she mentioned off-handedly that they’re her favorite.

The only downside is living almost 45 minutes apart.

“Babe,” he says one Saturday while you linger by the door, not wanting to leave, “what do you think about getting a place together?”

Eric is rarely adventurous. He thinks everything through, he’s reliable, he’s sensible. He means it.

“I’d love to,” you say, leaning in for your umpteenth goodbye kiss, “but I think you already know that.”

“What if I told you that I found an apartment downtown that I think you’ll really like?”

“I’d tell you that we better snatch it up before someone else does.”

The apartment is perfect. It’s got two beds and two baths, a balcony that overlooks the city, a kitchen you’ll cook together in, a living room you’ll read together in, a bedroom you’ll sleep together in.

Seeing Javi at the airport feels like a prank, like a test, like an augury. What it is, undeniably, is a chance. That’s a fact.

There’s no reason not to call him. Yes, there is. So, you call him, invite him to the party because you want to see his face again - not the one in the newspapers, not the hero, but the man. Javier, older, sprouting gray hairs and wrinkles on his forehead.

On your balcony, you realize his gaze is fixated on your arm.

The scar. The bullet.

“Oh, yeah,” you half-laugh, though it’s not funny, “I’ve got a little reminder of you.”

“I’m sorry… about that.”

“Well, don’t be.” You step closer, put your hand on his upper arm. “I’m sorry I left. I would’ve loved to be a hero with you.”

“I’m far from a hero.”

“That’s not true.”

“I didn’t kill Escobar, there’s still sicarios out there, the drug war’s not over.”

“Yeah, but you’re my hero.”

He rolls his eyes.

There is nothing he can say. The ring on your finger is a wall you’ve built between the two of you.

“It’s beautiful. It suits you,” he says.

You take it off to play one final trick, one last self-indulgent lie. You let him hold it. He pretends to care what it looks like, and when he gives it back, he slides it on your finger.

Somehow, it feels right.

#javier pena x reader #javier peña #javier peña smut #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena smut #javier pena x you #javier pena narcos #javier peña x reader #javier peña fanfiction

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turtlecleric · 3 months ago

Note

*breaks down your door hoping I’m not too late*

6 with 07 raph????? Pretty please!

Haha you're not too late! Anything for you, Yorsh!! 💕

CWs: kidnapping, held prisoner, brainwashing, murder and death, blood, seizures, self-blame, violence against reader

The cell door groaning on its hinges startles you from your daze. Not the sound itself, really, but the fact that it’s not time for the sound yet. Weeks of being stuck here has ingrained the daily schedule into your very bones; you know for a fact that there’s still a while to go before your dinner is usually brought to you, which means that fucker is probably coming to taunt you again.

You scoot into the corner of the room, pressing your back against the wall. Making yourself smaller, putting as much space as you can between yourself and him. It's a silly thing to do, considering the fact that he really and truly could do whatever he wanted to you and you wouldn't be able to stop him, but it feels better than doing nothing. And Raph would… want you to protect yourself however you could.

He would. If-

“Tonight I will finally prove my worth,” Stockman says, hunched over and fiddling with something in his hands. “The Shredder will see that I do have value.”

You want to tell him that that's impossible. He can't prove what isn't true, after all. But you stay quiet, letting him mutter to himself, and focus instead on the hulking shadow that stands far behind him. White eyes stare impassively at you, the only thing clearly distinguishable in the darkness where he lurks.

Raph.

There isn't much light where he's standing. It's hard to make out the details, but… you think he looks thinner than the last time Stockman brought him down. Is Stockman keeping him fed? Letting him get enough sleep? You seriously doubt it. You're not sure what he's got Raph doing every day, but you've seen glimpses of the bruises. New scars that you're certain weren't there before.

Suddenly, Stockman surges forward, gripping your jaw in one hand and shouting inches from your face. “I'm speaking! You will listen when I speak!”

Someone's pissed. It almost makes you want to laugh. To spit in his face, see just how angry you can get him. Then your eyes flick to Raph, who's still standing there on the far side of the cell. He hasn't so much as blinked this entire time, but. He might still be aware. There might be a part of him watching this. You need to stay out of trouble, to appease this pathetic excuse for a man, because if you get hurt, Raph will lose his mind when he… comes back to it.

“I'm sorry,” you croak. The apology feels sour on your tongue, but you push through anyway, trying to look like you mean it. Stockman scowls but releases your jaw and straightens up, shaking his head as he peers down at you. As if you're the unreasonable one in this situation. Fucking prick.

“As I was saying,” he continues, stepping back and fiddling with the… remote? Something. It looks like a remote. A bulky one, despite there only being a handful of buttons. “You're going to help me with the final phase.” You pull your gaze away from the remote to look back at him, and the rage you saw earlier has been replaced with something closer to satisfaction. You really, really don't like the look of that smile. “Isn't that great? Knowing you'll finally be useful for something that matters?”

Does he expect you to nod? To smile back? To flap your hands in anticipation or gasp in giddy shared excitement?

You don't respond. He doesn't push it, though, and snaps something into place on the back of the remote with a solid click.

“What exactly are your… feelings for this creature,” he says, gesturing towards Raphael.

What kind of a question is that? You glance between the two of them, wondering if it matters how truthful you are. In the end, you can't deny what's been drilled into your head since the day you woke up in this cell: he's in control. And it's always better to play along.

“He's my friend.”

Stockman huffs through his nose, clearly amused by your answer. He twists, staring at Raphael before turning back to you. “Do you believe that he cares deeply for you?”

Your eyes narrow into a glare without your permission. Obviously the answer is yes - and Stockman knows it. You're the entire reason he was able to lure Raph into that fucking trap of his in the first place. He wouldn't have come for you if he didn't care - no matter how stubborn he is about admitting it out loud.

Stockman hums, searching your face. For what, you're not sure.

“Beast.” He takes another step backwards, while Raph steps forward, close enough that you can make out the bruises and cuts that litter his scales, the thick metal collar that looks too tight around his neck. Every time you see him, the guilt threatens to swallow you whole. His expression is perfectly blank, and that, you think, might be the worst part of all. “This should determine whether he is truly, completely under my control.”

Wait, what?

“Make her stand.”

Raph moves immediately, grabbing your upper arm and dragging you to your feet. It's not a painful grip, but it's firm enough that you know you wouldn't be able to pull away even if you tried.

Stockman's eyes bore into yours, still searching. He takes another step backwards, gripping the remote hard enough that it creaks in his hands. “Choke her.”

Your eyes widen, but that's all you can do before you're shoved backwards against the wall. Raph's free hand wraps around your throat, and you feel it constrict your airway without hesitation. The shock gives way to fear, primal and desperate and wild. You need to breathe. You need to breathe. Your hands come up instinctively, trying to push against his plastron, to grab his wrist. Anything to breathe, anything, anything, but air doesn't come. Your nails drag along his arm, your feet kicking at his legs.

It does nothing. He doesn't move, or weaken his grip, or so much as flinch. Through your tears, you can see nothing but him. Eyes still white, face still blank, watching you with what an outsider would deem as disinterest as you struggle. Your lungs scream for oxygen, burning, burning, burning. Tiny, bright spots prickle in the darkness, the edges of your vision pulsing with every frantic heartbeat, and the fear would choke you if Raph wasn't already doing so.

Raph. Raph is going to kill you. He's going to strangle you to death, and then Stockman will take him to Shredder and make him do who knows what else, and if his brothers ever manage to save him he'll blame himself for everything - and it'll be completely, 100 percent your fault.

You try to speak, but there's no air for the words to take shape.

“Release her.”

You fall in a heap, not managing to catch yourself, and bang your head against the concrete. You pay no mind to whatever the fuck Stockman is saying, focusing instead on the sweet oxygen that's finally expanding your lungs. Your ears are ringing. The room spins, and your forehead feels oddly wet and itchy. Before you can think too far past the fact that you can breathe, there's a hand in your hair, yanking you up so that you're kneeling.

When you manage to focus your eyes, you can see that Stockman is pacing, gesturing animatedly as he speaks. The ringing, you have to listen past it. You have to focus.

“-did it! This confirms it, I'm sure of it. If he'll hurt you on my command, then he'll do anything on my command.” Stockman pauses, looking at you. His grin stretches wider, and then he strides closer and crouches in front of you. “What were you going to say?”

…What?

Your face must betray your confusion, because he clarifies quickly. “I saw you trying to speak. What were you going to say?”

…Why does he care?

His smile gets impossibly wider, and something in his eyes darkens. You have a fraction of a second to realize that you said that out loud before he responds, “Because when you say your last words, I want you to know that they're your last.”

When his words register, it feels like your chest is caving in. Collapsing in on itself, burning to ash that you can suddenly taste in your mouth. You were right. You're going to die.

And Raph-

You close your eyes, not wanting to look at this maniac's face any longer. You imagine Raph in front of you. The real Raph, with his sly smirk and gentle hands. You imagine his eyes. Not the white ones you've seen since he was turned, and not the sharp ones he likes to put on like a show. The soft ones that you catch him looking at you with when he isn't expecting you to glance his way.

“I'm sorry, Raph,” you whisper. “It's not your fault. Please don't blame yourself.”

Stockman barks out a laugh, making you jolt. You hadn't expected it, though you're not really sure why.

He's still laughing when he gives the order. Still laughing when cool metal presses against your neck. You ignore it, craning your head back to catch one last look at Raphael.

“I forgive you, okay? It's not you. This isn't your fault.” Raph blinks down at you, his face as neutral as before, and - you can't help it. You put it off for so long, afraid of the consequences. Afraid of pushing him away, somehow, or of ruining what you had with him. Silly, you think, to have wasted so much time when this is how it ends. If you don't say it now, then you never will. “I love you.”

He blinks again, and you wait for the pain. You try to prepare yourself, try to reason that it'll be over in a few minutes. Try to convince yourself that it could be worse. You're not sure how, exactly, but you're sure that it could be worse. He blinks again, and when he does, you see-

A blur of motion, and then he's gone. Something starts to drip nearby. You hear a new sound, a horrible, wet gurgling, and by the time you've realized what's happened, Stockman is already on his knees, clutching his neck. Red spills from between his fingers, and the same red drips from the kunai in Raph's hand.

His eyes. They're not white. Wide and wet and terrified, but not white.

The laughter stops.

You focus on him, now. He's looking more alive than he has in weeks, his plastron heaving with each shaky breath. The rage that radiates from him is almost a tangible thing, every part of him trembling.

“Raph?”

He inhales sharply, his head whipping your way. The rage is replaced with something more like grief, and he starts to stagger toward you. You reach for him, and you can't help the smile that spreads across your face when he reaches back. Finally, this nightmare is over. Finally, finally, you-

Movement catches your eye. There's no time to shout before one of Stockman's hands reaches for the remote that's on the floor in front of him. He presses a button, and Raph screams, his hands coming up to clutch at the collar around his neck, and falls to his knees.

“No!” You scramble toward the remote, pulling it easily from beneath Stockman's weak fingers. Blood has smeared across the buttons, and none of them seem to be labeled, and they all look the same - but Raphael is shrieking, making sounds you've never ever heard him make. You have to make it stop.

You press one at random. Nothing happens, so you press another, then another. The next one makes the screaming stop, and for a moment you think you've done it, but then every muscle in his body goes taut. He starts to convulse and falls onto his side, and now you're the one screaming.

Small, aborted sounds spill from his lips, and horror threads itself among your veins. You can barely see through your tears, can barely press the buttons with how hard you're shaking, but finally, finally, you hit a button that makes everything go quiet and still. There's a series of clicks, a whirr and a hiss, and the collar breaks into pieces, tumbling onto the floor.

You rush over, dropping the remote and cradling his head in your hands. “Raph? Raph?!” Clumsy fingers search for a pulse, but all you find is burnt flesh and pinpricks. “Raph, open your eyes. Raphael!” You grip his shoulders, shaking him desperately. Waiting for his eyes to open, for him to smile up at you and ask what all the fuss is about. You wait, and you wait, but he's. He's not. Moving.

You shake your head, blinking hard. He's stronger than this. He can't be dead. You're just- just not capable of getting a pulse. Because of how thick his skin is. That's all.

“Raph, I can’t carry you out of here. I need you to wake up, okay? So we can- so we can go home. Okay?”

He doesn't respond. You swallow, glancing toward Stockman. The man is deathly still, sprawled-

Ha. Deathly still. Because he's-

A hysterical laugh bubbles up and out of you, and you wince at the ache in your throat. You realize that you're breathing too quickly. Hyperventilating, the Donnie in your head corrects. Right. Thank you, Donnie.

“Raph, I need you to wake up now,” you manage between breaths. “I need you to- to-”

Your legs are starting to ache. They're cramped from sitting on the floor like this for so long. But you can't get up and stretch. Not when Raph is still-

“Raphie, I need you to wake up now. Please?”

You need to stop crying. You're probably dehydrated, and this isn't helping. Raph never liked seeing you cry. It always made him sad, even if he didn't say it out loud. If you're still crying when he wakes up, he's- he's going to-

“Raph?”

You scrub your face with your forearm, trying and failing to take a deep breath. It hits you all at once, how much pain you're actually in. Your head. Your neck. Your chest. Even your muscles. Everything sort of just… aches.

But it's okay, because when Raph takes you home he's going to patch you up. Just like you used to do for him, when he would stumble through your bedroom window with a busted lip or a cut on his leg. He'll take care of you, and you'll take care of him.

“We need to go home so I can patch you up. Like old times,” you remind him, scratching gently along his shoulder. “Remember?”

He doesn't respond.

“I should've told you back then. That I love you. I don't know why I didn't, I- I guess I was scared. But I'm telling you now, okay?”

He doesn't respond.

“...Raph?”

Something in your chest gives way. A black hole of an emotion you can't name, because naming it would make it real.

As if you have any say in it after the fact. It's real regardless of whether you call it by its name. Just like-

You close your eyes, covering your face with your hands. Your fingers brush against your forehead, and it hurts. Everything hurts. And you deserve every bit of it. You did this. It's your fault that he's-

“You love me?”

Everything stops. For a moment you swear even your pulse freezes in time, and then you raise your head to see Raph staring up at you, eyes soft and hazy and alive. Relief crashes over you like a tidal wave, all-consuming, and before you can think better of it you wrap your arms around his neck.

“Of course I do, you fucking asshole!” You pull back, holding his head in your hands and watching his expression switch from surprise to amused confusion. You probably seem like a total lunatic, but you don't even fucking care, because holy shit he's alive.

You feel his hand pat your arm, and then he's sitting up as if you weren't mourning over his supposed fucking corpse less than a minute ago. You have a terrifying moment where you wonder if you're dreaming, but pinching yourself changes nothing, and you can count all your fingers, and honestly? If this is a dream, you don't want to wake up.

You focus back on him. He's pushing himself up, shaky and clumsy but alive, and when he holds out a hand to you, you take it immediately. The two of you walk past Stockman without a second glance, and by the time you make it outside the building Raph is steady on his feet and moving with purpose.

Fresh air. The sounds of the city. A second wave of relief crashes over you, and never in your entire life have you felt this grateful. You look at Raph, unable to stop yourself from smiling when he looks back with those soft eyes.

You see his gaze flicker down, then back up. His expression shifts into despair, his mouth opens, but before he can say anything you speak.

“Take me home, Red.”

He looks almost surprised at that. Confused. Unsure. You'll need to address that - and several other things - later, when you've both been cleared by Donnie and you've gotten some food and rest. But for now, you pull him into a hug and repeat, “Take me home.”

After a moment's hesitation, he wraps his arms around you. You melt into the embrace, sighing. Then he lifts you, shifting you in his arms so that he can carry you, and holds you close against his plastron.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, soft eyes on you. “Let's go home.”

tag list: @luckycharms1701 @thejudiciousneurotic @khayalli @justalotoffanfiction @thelaundrybitch @mxalmighty @shakeyourtrees @silverwatergalaxy

#asks #turtlecleric scrolls #07!raph #this one um. got away from me

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theyhavetakenovermylife · 11 months ago

Note

hiii hello idk if you take tmnt x reader requests (ignore this if you dont take requests) but like. can you make an 03 raphael x fem!reader ?? like something with love at first sight,, ykwim :3 something kinda similar to the '12 raph x reader thingie you posted??

Foot Ninjas and Sidewalk Beauties

2003!Raphael x reader

A/N: Sure I can❤️ My guess would be that this takes place around season one or season two, but that doesn’t matter that much.

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Warnings: Spelling, turtles getting their butts kicked, Raph falling in love at first sight❤️

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Last encounter with the Foot was, just say it mildly, an absolute failure. The turtles had gotten their butts kicked and then had the floors cleaned with it. None of them had been prepared for Shredder and his ninjas. It had been a surprise attack, or as Shredder had called it, a warning. And then he left, leaving the turtles injured and bedridden for a week.

Leonardo was not happy. Not happy at all. He immediately started blaming their loss on their lack of training, giving way for him to start a ned training schedule. And Raphael did not like it. It messed with his own training. His boxing that helped him blow off build up steam was now cut short, leaving Raph more agitated and angry. Not only did he not have time for his anger relieving boxing, but his knitting had also taken a back seat. So to say that Raph did not like it, may have been an understatement. Raphael hated it.

Raph especially hated it today, as he was stuck on a roof on a Friday night, continuously doing push ups for what felt like hours. Both Raphael, Donatello and Michelangelo was getting tired, yet their older brother did not yield. He continued, telling them to do the same, to which they sighed and did. Expect Raph. His patients was growing dangerously thin, as Leonardo continued once more.

“If I have to do one more push up, oh high leader”, Raphael growled. “The Foot ain’t the only one that will feel the rage of me breaking their bones!”

“Considering how you got your ass severely whooped the last time, I would have to see it to believe it”, Mikey shot in, causing Raph to growl at him.

“Raph, you know very well that we have to be prepared”, Leo said, during yet another push up, making sure his brothers were following his lead. “The Foot have been quiet for a long time. They could make their next move at any time”.

“Leo’s right, Raph”, Donnie strained as he did another push up. “After what happened last time, we can not be too prepared”.

“Don’t even remind me of that”, Raph said. If his arms weren’t preoccupied in his forced push ups, he would be slamming his fist against the roof. “Those bozos almost broke my sai!”

“That’s why it’s important we up our training”, Leo said as he got down on his forearms. “Plank, now. First to give in takes five rounds”.

“That’s it!”, Raph rumbled, getting up from his push ups, his arms screaming in relief. “No more training! I have shit to do, Leo! All of us do!”

“Raph”, Leo said, getting up to stand, frustration visible on his face. Donnie and Mikey sighed, knowing what was coming. “It’s not up for discussion. We have to be ready for the next Foot attack, and at the moment, we aren’t”.

“Speak for yourself”, Raph growled. “I’m ready for anything! Bring those Foot scumbags, and I’ll give them a taste of my knuckle sandwich!”

And as if those had been magic words, part of a spell, a ninja star embedded itself into the rooftop, in the space between Raph’s feet. All four turtles looked up to find a small army of Foot ninjas, waiting on the tall building beside them.

“Oh, crud”, was all Raph got to say before the ninjas descended upon them.

Once again the brothers found themselves unprepared. Their muscles weak after the extensive training Leo had put them through that evening, they found it hard to keep up with the Foot. Leo was the only one that seemed to put up a fight, while Mikey and Donnie dodged every attack that came their way, too exhausted to do anything else. But Raph was not the time to dodge. With his frustrations flowing, Raph threw himself at the Foot ninjas. But with his body and mind tired, he was easily pushed back.

It didn’t take long before they had backed Raph up against the edge of the roof, with no obvious way out. Okay, maybe Leo hadn’t been so wrong after all. But it was still his fault that they even were on the rooftop in the first place!

Raph did all he could, but with every punch or push he was taking a step backwards, until his heels hit the edge of the roof, causing Raph to go off balance. He tumbled backwards off of the roof and down towards the street below. Even though Raph was tired, the sudden adrenaline from his fall caused him to think fast. He took his sais and slammed them into the side of the building, digging them into the bricks in one hard move.

Raph breathed a sigh of relief, looking down to the street below, in order to look for an easy way down. But what Raph saw was far from what he had expected. Hanging from the side of the building, Raphael never thought that anything would be able to take his mind of the situation he was in, but then he saw someone. You.

You were standing right below him on the sidewalk, in the light of the street lamp, phone in hand and headphones over your head. You cased glances down the street, as if you were waiting for something. Most likely a car.

Continuously looking between your phone and the street, you did not notice the mutant turtle hanging off of the side of the building behind you, his mouth agape as he stared at you. To say it straight forward, Raph thought you were absolutely beautiful. The profile of your face whenever you turned your head to the side, the way your hair fell down your back. The silhouet of your body and the shadow it cast on the ground below you. Raphael felt his heart beat hard in his chest. Never had he thought he would see anyone so beautiful. How could his dream girl be walking the streets of New York City, and be so much better than he ever dared imagine?

While Raph admired your beauty from afar, the car you had waited for drove up beside you. You greeted the driver with a smile, that almost made Raph loosen the grip on his sais. He watched you take off your headphones as you took a seat at the passenger side, before shutting the door behind you. Raph watched, with his heart beat so loud he wondered if you could hear it inside the car, as you and the driver drove away, disappearing down the street, leaving Raph behind with a feeling of longing. He already felt a need to see your face again. You’re pretty face, that he hadn’t had the chance to enjoy the sight of, to the fullest.

A sigh escaped Raph, in the form of a breath he did not know he was holding. He felt a tingling sensation in his stomach that made him feel happy. All the anger he had been feeling a few moments before, was gone, replaced by a feeling of joy.

“Raph!”, his big brother’s voice sounded from the roof above. "Where are you? We need some help here!”

“Coming!”, Raph yelled back, suddenly having the energy to propel himself back up to the roof, using this sai and his own strength.

As Raph jumped back into action, giving the Foot ninjas a long overdo round of a good beating, his mind kept wandering back to you, enjoying the energy the thought of you gave him. Maybe that day's training session hadn’t been so stupid after all.

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