Work Text:
You’re back on your perch on the couch in the lair.
Already, you’ve sketched a few things: one of Leo’s katanas resting beside a meditation mat, the lava lamp on the stand beside you, and a mug with Sensei-tional Brew written on it (a gift from Mikey to Splinter) on the coffee table. But you find your attention drifting.
In his room, Raph is delivering a series of powerful strikes to the punching bag—the one you had drawn a week ago. You recall how adorable he was describing each tear and flaw in the material. But it isn’t long before you start watching him, how the muscles beneath his skin coil and release like massive springs. How he moves with a brutal but captivating grace.
He finishes a combination with a final, resounding thwack, making the chains suspending the bag groan as it swings wildly. For a moment, he stands, chest heaving, sweat highlighting the planes of his formidable physique. He turns, wiping his brow with the back of his hand—and his eyes meet yours for a split second before he glances away.
Your pulse skips like it always does when Raph catches you staring. Softly, you clear your throat and look down at your sketchbook, pretending to adjust a detail, even though your pencil hasn’t touched the paper in at least five minutes. You take a breath and attempt to focus on your art, but it’s no longer a good enough distraction.
You steal another glance at Raph. He’s toweling off now, muscles flexing with the motion. You bite your lip as it hits you all over again; how can he not know what he does to you? The guy moves like a walking tank and has the gentlest soul hidden under all that metaphorical armor. You want to draw that—the real Raphael.
And maybe, for once, say out loud how you see him.
You stand up before you can chicken out, sketchbook in hand, your legs carrying you across the lair before your brain catches up. “Hey, Raph?” you ask, gently tapping the frame of his open door.
He startles a little, caught mid-dab with the towel. “Oh—uh. Hey,” he says, voice rough but soft in the way it always is when it’s you.
“I was wondering …” You chew on your bottom lip, then force yourself to look him in the eyes. “Would you mind if I … drew you?”
His towel pauses halfway to his broad shoulder. “… Huh?”
“Like—you, you. I just …” You take a breath, clutching your sketchbook like a shield and hoping you don’t sound as nervous as you feel. “You’re … really handsome. And you don’t have to pose or anything! Just be you.”
His jaw drops, eyes wide. He’s short-circuiting. You can see it—Raph, the brawler, the bruiser, the guy who once stood toe-to-toe with Shredder solo, is now rendered momentarily speechless by your words. His towel hangs forgotten in his hand and he looks at you like he’s not sure he heard right. “You … think I’m handsome?” he finally says, like the idea never even occurred to him before.
“I know you are,” you say, softly but firmly.
He makes a noise—something between a cough and a choke—and turns half-away, rubbing at the back of his neck, clearly trying to play it cool. But failing miserably. “I, uh … yeah. Sure. If ya want.” His voice is lower now, shyer. “Don’t see why ya’d wanna draw me, though.”
“You’re strong. And you carry so much on your shoulders, but you still protect everyone. That’s amazing, Raph.” You flush a little but push on. “And yes, you’re really handsome.” You offer a small, tentative smile. “And I think you should see how I see you.”
You don’t think it’s possible, but somehow his face gets so red, you think it might match his mask.
He swallows, a visible bob in his throat. The hand holding the towel clenches, then slowly unfurls. His gaze, which had skittered away, flicks back to yours, wide and uncharacteristically uncertain. The usual hard glint is missing, replaced by something softer. “Damn. That’s … that’s somethin’, alright.”
You tilt your head. “Is that a yes, then?”
He chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. What the hell—draw away.” He backs up and flops onto the floor mat with a heavy thud. “Just don’t make me look all broody like Leo in meditation, alright?”
You grin, finding a spot to sit nearby before flipping to a fresh page. “No promises, but you do have that tortured soul thing going on,” you tease.
“Ugh,” he groans. “You sound like Mikey.”
He shifts a little, trying to find a comfortable position on the mat, one arm draped loosely over his knee. His other hand toys with the edge of the towel, still fidgety in a way that makes your chest ache with affection.
You set your pencil to paper, letting the first strokes flow. You sketch his strong jawline, the furrow in his brow that never quite smooths out, and those eyes. Even when they’re avoiding yours, they hold a thousand emotions.
He stays still, though you can tell it’s not his natural state. Occasionally, his eyes flick to your face, then dart away again like he’s trying not to be caught looking. You pretend not to notice, even as your heart thuds louder with each glance.
After a while, you break the silence. “You know, you don’t always have to carry it all alone.”
He blinks, looking like you caught him off guard. “Huh?”
You look down at the sketch, then back to him. “The weight, the anger. The way you think you’ve got to be the strong one all the time.” You offer him a gentle smile.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just studies you, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he exhales a slow breath. “Yeah. I know. I just …” His gaze drops. “Sometimes it feels like I gotta be the wall. So nothin’ breaks through. For the family, you know?”
“I get that,” you murmur. “But walls don’t just keep things out. They can trap things in, too.”
He looks at you again, and this time, something in his face softens. Like a wall starting to crumble. “I ain’t used to people seein’ past the tough guy stuff,” he admits.
You hold up the sketchbook and turn it toward him. “Then maybe it’s time someone did.”
His eyes widen as he sees the drawing. It’s not perfect; some lines are rough, a few details unfinished. But the likeness is unmistakable. And more than that, it feels like him. Strong, yes. But thoughtful. Kind. Gentle. You didn’t just draw what he looks like.
You drew what he is.
He stares for a long moment, jaw slack. Then he huffs a breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “You got me lookin’ like I’m worth a damn.”
“You are worth a damn, Raph.” You meet his eyes and don’t look away. “You’re worth everything.”
The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It’s charged, full of something neither of you have quite named yet. And honestly? It’s also about time someone did put it into words.
Raph’s voice is a low rumble when he finally speaks. “You really think all that?” He gestures vaguely between himself and the sketchbook, still looking a little dazed.
“Every word,” you confirm.
You see the flicker of disbelief in his eyes, the way he almost shrinks into himself, as if your praise is a physical weight he’s not used to carrying in a positive way. He’s so used to criticism, to being the tough one, that genuine affection seems to throw him completely off balance.
His gaze drops to the floor, and he mumbles, “Nah, c’mon. Don’t say stuff like that.” The insecurity is palpable, a heavy cloak he wears too often.
And that’s when you know. You can’t wait for him. He’ll second-guess himself into oblivion, convince himself he’s not good enough, that you couldn’t possibly mean it. But you do.
Your heart hammers against your ribs as you take a deep breath, the air in the room suddenly feeling thick. “Raph,” you begin, your voice a little shakier than you’d like, but you press on. “I really like spending time with you. And … and I like you. A lot.”
He looks up at that, his eyes wide and searching yours. The blush that had started to fade from earlier creeps back up his neck.
“So,” you continue, forging ahead before your courage can desert you, “I was wondering … if maybe … you’d want to go on a date with me?” You rush the last few words out, then clamp your lips shut, waiting, your own cheeks heating up.
The silence stretches as Raph just stares, his mouth opening before closing again. You, on the other hand, feel like your heart is trying to escape your chest with how fast it’s beating. Self-consciously, you wipe your sweaty palms on your pants but still refuse to break eye contact as you wait for his answer.
“A … date?” he finally chokes out, his voice cracking on the word. “With me?” He points at himself, as if to clarify which giant talking turtle with anger issues you could possibly be referring to.
“Yes, Raph. With you,” you say, a small, hopeful smile playing on your lips. “Unless over six-foot-tall, red-masked ninja turtles with a surprising soft spot and impressive muscles are forbidden from dating?” You try for a light tone, hoping to ease the shock radiating off him.
He runs a hand over his head, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape route or perhaps a hidden camera crew. “But why?” he asks, his voice raw with confusion. “I mean, look at me. I’m … this.” He gestures to himself again, a wave of that familiar insecurity washing over his features, momentarily dimming the hopeful spark you thought you saw.
“I am looking at you, Raph,” you say, your voice soft but firm, full of all the sincerity you feel. Gingerly, you move closer. “And I see someone amazing. Someone brave, and loyal, and yeah, a little rough around the edges,” you concede with a gentle smile, “but someone who cares so damn much it practically pours out of him. I see you. And I like what I see. A lot.”
Finally, he grins and shakes his head sheepishly, chuckling softly. “You really don’t quit, do ya? Seriously. A date?”
You nod. “Yeah. We can start small. Grab a slice. Watch a movie. Or, you know, sit in awkward silence and pretend we’re both not nervous wrecks.”
Raph stares at you for another beat. Then, slowly—carefully, like he’s touching something fragile—he reaches out and taps the edge of your sketchbook with one large finger.
“I ain’t good with words,” he says, apologetic. “But yeah. I’d like that. A date. With you.”
Your smile widens. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he breathes out, the word husky and full of a warmth that makes your insides melt. “Really.”
Just as sweet relief and giddiness bubble up inside you, a voice shatters the moment.
“Oooooooh, Raphie’s got a giiiiirlfriend!”
Of course, that sing-song taunt could only belong to one turtle: Mikey. He stands in the doorway, cupping his hands around his mouth like he wants to announce the news to the whole sewer.
Raph jumps about a foot in the air, whirling around at him. “MIKEY! GET OUTTA HERE, YA LITTLE SNOOP!” he roars, his face instantly turning a shade of red that rivals his mask.
Close on his heels, Donnie peers inside, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “Statistically speaking, it was only a matter of time before someone found your emotionally repressed, brooding rage charming.”
“Get outta here, ya knuckleheads!” Raph snaps, balling his fists. “Ain’t you got somethin’ better to do than spy on people?”
“Spying? Us?” Mikey feigns an offended pout, placing a hand over his plastron. “Never!” He flops dramatically onto Raph’s mat, right next to your sketchbook, peering at it with stars in his eyes. “You drew him? Like one of your French turtles?!”
“MIKEY,” Raph snarls, lunging toward him, but Mikey rolls away with a laugh, skidding to a stop against the wall.
Leo appears beside Donnie, arms crossed and expression stern in the way only an older brother’s can be. “Alright, enough. Show’s over,” he scolds, nudging past Donnie to lean down and pat the back of Mikey’s shell. “Let’s give them some space.”
“Awww, but we just got here,” Mikey whines as he stands.
Leo sighs. “You’ve caused enough chaos,” he says, steering his chuckling, protesting brothers outside of the room. Before stepping over the threshold, Leo’s eyes flick toward you, then to Raph, his expression softening with understanding.
Though even Leo can’t resist a bit of teasing.
“We’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”
Mikey is still making kissing noises as Leo herds them out. He gives the two of you an apologetic smile before firmly shutting Raph’s door, the room suddenly becoming silent. Finally, you feel like you can breathe again.
Raph groans, rubbing a hand down his face as if trying to erase the past sixty seconds from existence. “I am gonna pulverize them,” he mutters, before looking at you with a grimace on his face. “Sorry ‘bout that. They’re … a handful.”
“Well, they are your brothers,” you point out. “Endless teasing is practically an unspoken clause in the sibling contract, right?”
“Yeah. You get used to it. Mostly.” He glances towards the closed door, a muscle working in his jaw as if he can still hear Mikey’s teasing. “They ain’t ever gonna let me live this down.”
You smile gently, closing your sketchbook and setting it beside you. “Maybe not,” you agree as you reach out to brush your fingers lightly over the back of his hand. “But I think that just means they’re happy for you.”
He looks down at your fingers, as if processing the sensation. Then, almost imperceptibly, the tension in his shoulders ease. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, glancing at the door again, “they’re happy they got fresh teasing material for the next decade, more like.” But there’s no actual heat in his words. “Guess you’re right, though. S’pose they’re happy … in their own annoying way.”
He shifts his gaze back to your hand on his. Slowly, hesitantly, he turns his palm upwards, fingers brushing against yours. You gently lace your fingers with his, a pleasant jolt shooting up your arm. He clears his throat, his eyes flicking up to meet yours, then quickly darting away again, a faint blush still dusting his cheeks.
“So, uh … this date thing,” he says. “You’re sure, sure?”
You bring your other hand up to cup his cheek, your thumb stroking the slightly rough skin just below his mask. His eyes widen at the contact, but he leans into your touch. “I’ve never been more sure about anything,” you say earnestly.
He swallows, his gaze locked on yours as he brings his free hand up to cover yours on his cheek, holding it there. “Damn,” he breathes, his voice thick with emotion. “You really know how to knock a guy off his feet, don’t ya?”
“Only the deserving ones.”
A small, almost shy smile touches Raph’s lips. “Deservin’, huh?” He looks down at your intertwined hands, then back up at your face. “You got a funny way of lookin’ at things. A good way.”
“I just see what’s there,” you murmur, your thumb continuing its soft caress on his cheek. He leans further into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment.
When he opens them again, there’s a new resolve, a flicker of excitement. “So … this date.” He clears his throat again, the blush still present but fainter now, more like a warm glow. “When were you … uh … thinkin’?”
“Whenever works for you. We could keep it simple. Your lair’s got character,” you say, a teasing glint in your eye, “but maybe somewhere a little more private for a first date? My place, if you’re up for it? Or if you know a quiet spot topside …”
“I know a few spots. Rooftops, mostly. Quiet. Good view of the city. Nobody bothers ya up there.” He looks at you, a silent question in his eyes, as if offering to share something personal.
“A rooftop sounds perfect,” you say softly. “And tonight, maybe? If you’re not too tired.”
“Adrenaline’s still kinda pumpin’, actually.” He pauses, then adds, “Tonight sounds … yeah. Good.” He hesitates then, his gaze dropping for a second before meeting yours again, earnest and a little vulnerable. “I ain’t exactly a pro at this whole datin’ thing. Just so ya know. Might mess it up.”
“You won’t mess it up.” You squeeze his hand. “We can just … be. Talk. Look at the stars. No pressure. The most important part is just being together, right?”
His eyes soften, the last vestiges of his tough-guy guard seeming to melt away in the quiet intimacy of his room. “Yeah,” he breathes. He lifts your joined hands, his gaze fixed on yours, and slowly, he brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss there. “Tonight, then.”
“Tonight,” you echo, your heart swelling.
He holds your gaze for another long moment. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he lets go of your hand on his cheek, though he keeps your other hand firmly in his. “I should, uh … probably clean up a bit more. Before we … y’know.” He gestures vaguely at himself, looking a little self-conscious.
“Take your time,” you say, giving his hand a final squeeze before slowly withdrawing yours. You pick up your sketchbook, a warm feeling spreading through your chest. “I’ll wait out on the couch.”
“Won’t be long.”
You return to the communal area and find your perch on the couch again, giddy as you replay the last hour in your mind. Thinking of the feel of his hand in yours, the tenderness in his eyes, the brush of his lips. You open your sketchbook, flipping back to the portrait of Raph. It’s still unfinished. But in a way, that feels right. There’s more to him yet to draw, more to learn, more layers to peel back.
And tonight, under the stars, maybe you’ll start to uncover them.