Title: The Highest Desideratum

Author: Stormy1x2 (travelingstorm)

Rating: PG-13, maybe higher for bad thoughts () but not worthy of an R.

Pairing: Raph/Mikey

Word Count (fic portion): 471

Notes: Part of LJ's fanfic 100, prompt 39: taste. Swear to god, I don't know why I can't just pick a style and stick with it. :) Yes, this is another experimentation in writing styles, please bear with me while I figure myself out. Hopefully it's not too bad. :)


It's all you can do to sit there, pretending your eyes are glued to the game playing out on the screen in front of you; strobes of neon light flickering through the room, highlighting every move, every prowling step. Watching him sates something deep within; a hunger so strong you can't simply call it that and be done with it.

Your eyes travel over the light playing across dense muscle; each flex as he strikes the battered practice dummy. Hard hits, solid smacks against the wood, listening to the chuff of breath escaping with each impact and you swallow hard, wanting.

Leo's pure poetry in motion; perfection, graceful, like a deadly dancer performing to an invisible crowd. Untouchable. Donatello is more analytical, calculating; thoughtful moves carried out with care; precise as a surgeon performing a delicate procedure. Scientific. But Raphael...

Raph is power. Strength flowing, rippling, radiating; he was sheer presence, intimidating and attracting at the same time. He could crush your bones with a blow, rip you to shreds with a thought and a whisper of steel before you could even think of defending yourself. He blew past whatever barrier was there, physical or not, and got in your face, daring you to defy him, to deny him.


And forbidden. Because there are some things you just don't do, don't entertain, because it's wrong, and besides, it's just a result of them – you- being forced to live the way they do; alone, save for the few that know about them, but wouldn't truly contemplate touching an animal. Right?

So you watch, and will continue to watch, and try to swallow away the dryness in your mouth when he stalks by, all cat-like and watchful; the eyes of a predator about to devour its prey. Lick chapped lips and wonder if the salty sweat trickling down your brother's neck tastes as good as it looks--


Catch the tossed soda that you can't open, not unless you're gonna clean up the mess it'll make when it fizzes over. "Thanks."

Inhale sharply as he sits down next to you, loose, relaxed for a change, comfortable. Thigh muscle touching yours, shoulders bumping in a familiar and affectionate greeting, smell the salty tang of exertion and let the brief thought of working up a sweat in an entirely different way take center stage in your mind for a minute. Think about bringing it up, toy with the idea that maybe, just maybe he wouldn't think it was wrong, and then discard it almost as quickly as you think of it. His eyes radiate the gruff affection of a brotherly nature, so you shove your own feelings away, lock them up and look back to the flickering screen.

"You okay?"


And leave it alone, try to forget, because there's no way he could feel the same.