This one-shot is dark, even by my standards. It features a taboo sexual theme, but no explicit acts are undertaken. Being the Raphael Fan-Girl I am, I got a naughty kick out of seeing him under the spell of the Succubi in the recent Bad Moon Rising mini-series (Mirage Comics). And just when he was on the verge of telling them who he wanted them to be, Sloane and Shadow come to the rescue!

So then I imagined a – what if? What if there were a few missing panels in there? What if Raphael had told the Succubi and they had begun to fulfil that fantasy? And what would that fantasy be? If Raphael was under the spell of a trio of creatures whose method of feeding was by bringing out the most hidden and dark desires we hold within ourselves, what would his be? Would it even really be what he wanted, or would they simply draw out the worst thing they could conceive of, in order to have the more luscious a meal?

This was the outcome.

---

Shadows

Of course, Raphael had had many fantasies in his life.

Fantasies of being recognised for all that he had done alone, and with his brothers, that had made a difference. Fantasies of being able to walk freely down the street without people screaming, aiming a weapon or even noticing him.

Of being able to compete in international tournaments – martial arts, boxing, wrestling. Of winning. Of being celebrated.

Being able to protect those he loved most, keep them always safe from whatever external forces seemed constantly to lurk just beyond the scope of his gaze, waiting until his attention was elsewhere before pouncing forward to disrupt and destroy.

But as the Succubi rose from the dank, damp nesting place in the corner of the dark cavern, they all receded from his mind. All the dreams and hopes of exceeding all that life had designated him, even crumpled as they were beneath the weight of his cynicism, now merely blew away. They peeled from his consciousness like a skin, fluttering in the wet air of this dark, strange place, then easily tore apart and scattered. Leaving behind only the vessel in which they'd been housed: The flesh.

From head to toe he was gripped by a sensation of such intense arousal it almost choked him. He was no longer aware of anything but his body. He had never been so keenly aware of the way the air tingled over his flesh, or how the base of his shell felt brushing against his tail when he let that appendage drop. Never before had simply turning his head, or moving his feet against rough stone, or of feeling the dull heaviness of his sai in his belt elicited the same commotion of pure delight, so delicious was their sensation. He wanted to succumb to it entirely, succumb to that potent desire, to sink down into the earth with it and indulge; to positively feast on feeling, to engage in a pandemonium of tasting, smelling, touching, hearing and seeing… seeing… he could see then, appearing in the darkness before him a writhing of shapes, a faint glow brightening…

"Shadow… Sloane…" his voice sounded hoarse to his ears, and felt heavy on his tongue as it passed over, its timbre vaguely confused. "Lulu?" But already he knew that final shapely figure could not be the tiny child who'd been piggybacking on his shell what already seemed a lifetime ago.

The women – the girls – unfurled from their shadows, bending and twisting like the darkness itself, their limbs first flapping wetly like lengths of black fabric in the darkness before taking shape; long pearly arms and legs and girlishly narrow hips. Breasts like ripe fruit pushing gently against the material of the clothes they wore; modest enough to hide all the details but skimpy enough to make him wonder about them.

They surrounded him faster than he could move, each one giving off an incandescent glow that allowed him to see them clearly. Their faces, round with puppy fat not yet shed, their eyes still a little too big, their noses slightly snubbed and their lips too full for the childish faces they were placed within. Their bodies were soft and small, hips just beginning to swell, breasts pushed proudly together with the aid of supportive garments. Girls, teenage girls on the very precipice of becoming women, awakening to the power they had, would soon gain in full, but young enough for it to be charming and slightly disturbing as they flaunted it so carelessly. The sight of it was staggering.

They whirled in around him, gazing at him from below lowered lashes, their lips pouting and slightly parted. The perfume they gave off was heady, sent him slightly off-kilter, his knees suddenly trembling. They smelled of fresh rain and flowers, of cheap perfume and bubble-gum, of just-washed hair and the faintest tinge of sweat. Beneath it all, the base note of the intoxicating aroma, was the scent of their inner core; pure, fragrant and utterly female.

They positively reeked of sex.

He felt hands slide against his cheeks and young breasts brush along his arm. Laughter, girlish and playful, rose in his ears as his vision blurred and cleared. His flesh, already sensitised by his aroused state, was further electrified by those light and teasing touches and his stomach tipped upside down at the sudden crash of obscene images blistering through his mind. He tried to move, to shake them off and whirl around, but they pressed in even tighter. He caught a brief snatch or two of indiscernible words and felt sweet, warm breath on his neck.

"Raphael…"

The voice was like a caress, soft and warm and sensual.

Three pairs of eyes blinked at him and he felt himself go still. Girls – beautiful girls – with hair in artificial colours and partially shaved heads, pierced lips and eyebrows and two-dollar gloss slicked over their lovely lips. One blinked and the glitter on her eyelids sparkled in the glow she gave off.

It was becoming increasingly harder to move, like he was walking through water – or not water; something thicker, more viscous. The stiffening in his limbs was becoming more pronounced the longer he stared at the lovely girls and he felt he had to do something before he lost control altogether.

"Who – who are you?" was all that he could manage and the girl with green hair covered her mouth and giggled whilst the willowy blonde spoke.

"We're whomever you want us to be, Raphael." She tossed a long sheath of her hair back over her shoulder, it shimmering as she did so and blinked big green eyes at him.

They were so close to him. He normally didn't like strange people getting this close. The blonde was inches away from his plastron and her two friends were pressed up against his arms, their hands stroking his shoulders and skull and cheek. Strangely, he didn't want to bat them away. Or perhaps not so strangely. After all, it wasn't every day three gorgeous young girls slid all over him.

He looked from one to the other and always there was a pair of eyes to meet his, drawing him into depths unbelievable for girls so young, sparkling, bewitching and knowing. What, he could almost flush to guess. A part of him, a small, curled up nit in the furthest reaches of his mind knew it was all an illusion; that they weren't girls at all but some sort of magical creatures who's designs on him were probably of the culinary kind; but stranger still, he couldn't bring himself to care all that much.

"We can be whoever you want us to be, whatever your dreams or fantasies are," the blonde repeated and although the words she spoke were seducing, her voice was not. It was young and girlish, a naieve lilt with a tinge of shyness to it, as though she were playacting the seductress. It made her all the more desirable.

"Just stare into our eyes," she pressed up against him and let her hands slip to his sides, fingertips playing along the thin membrane that covered the vulnerable flesh there. He spasmed violently and her fingers brushed up and down in a soothing way. "Just relax and let all your dreams come true."

Whoever you want us to be. Not whatever. Whoever.

Anyone.

He was not made of stone, after all, no matter how hard he had tried to be. There had been April at first and then the alien hooker in Rick's Dive. Not to mention the beautiful, silent and deadly fighter the first time they went to the Battle Nexus – he'd never gotten her name. Joy at the Ninja Tribunal and another hooker, another redhead, who he hadn't been able to save.

And others. Ones he'd never spoken to or could risk approaching. Ones he'd never known outside of celluloid.

Anyone.

But which anyone should he choose? He continued to stare ahead, locked in the gaze of three faintly glinting sets of eyes, feeling soft fingertips trace lines over his body. So subtle and tender were their caresses that it seemed they penetrated even the thickness of his shell and plastron, places which normally did not register sensation, merely awareness. When they danced off the hard plates and onto his flesh, it was like a fire had been set just beneath the surface, racing to follow the paths they drew.

Anyone.

Time seemed to stop altogether, if it hadn't already, all space around him growing distant and close at once. The faces and bodies of women, both human and not, ran through his mind in an indistinguishable tumult, a mess of skin, hair, eyes and shape. Whoever and anyone – it was a heady thought – but who should anyone be?

Then a face filled his gaze, emerging from the blur to grow distinct and sharp and impossibly lovely, her smile a tease flickering against the mess. Before he could understand what it meant, he spoke her name.

"Shadow."

The blonde smiled, a toothy grin, except she was no longer the blonde, but.

Shadow.

And Shadow stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck.

He knew it wasn't Shadow – could not be Shadow – but she was Shadow, down to the tiniest detail, even to the scar on her upper right earlobe where she'd attempted a home-piercing. Shadow, with Shadow's messy, short black hair, something she'd also done at home, and her chipped black nail-polish and that really stupid retarded dog collar she'd got from an actual pet shop. Her slim and wiry musculature, the hours of ninja training she'd done with Splinter showing in her adolescent body – but still, despite it all, on top of all that –so soft, so very, very soft. Those childish clothes – ripped jeans, scuffed boots and the old tank top, emblazoned with the skull and crossbones – so very, very, very childish.

And how much that made him want her.

And there was something else, something else deep inside that reminded him he was over thirty-five and lusting after a girl barely seventeen years old and of another species was – wrong – that she called him Uncle, and that had always been his role in her life – her guardian, her protector, her Uncle – and that this bald lust was worse than taboo, it was perverse. But it was partly in that perversity that the appeal lay.

And with this Shadow, this sweet, smiling creature who self-consciously postured in front of him, there was no need to hide that.

She blinked up at him, not at all seductive or calculating, but simply trusting. Sweet. Tender. So he let his own hands rise and settle on her waist, those hips so slim they were almost not there; they felt like birds' wings in his palms. "Raphael," she breathed against his cheek, her blue eyes rolling up in her head as though this were the one thing she had always truly wanted and could never ask for.

And in that gesture he realised it was yet one more thing he'd always wanted and could never ask for.

As Shadow – this Phantom Shadow, all smoke and mirrors, deception and bald desire – ground her human hips against his reptilian form, laid her sweet head upon his shoulder and showered the scars there in kisses so light they might've been bubbles – bubbles from the very first time Mikey had wanted to give her a bubble bath and egged him into helping – as she pressed against him and he was forced to face it all, as it had ever been; as it ever was ever going to be.

When she was a child, she was nothing but a child. Stupidly cute, as mammalian children were, having cannily evolved to know the more they appealed to the softness within one, the more likely their chances of survival would be. Something reptiles were long beyond, their evolution having resulted in something too perfect for maternal or paternal care. Or so he had postured to the others. The truth is, that bawling grub with the shock of dark hair and too bright blue eyes had touched even him and as she grew and called him Uncle he had been more than content, more than happy, to act as her protector and guardian. For Shadow, he would obscure the ugliness of the world and make of it a more sacred place. Were such a thing possible; which, as it turned out, was not.

Such was life.

And then, before he knew it, the same boisterous little girl who called him Uncle, was suddenly burgeoning into a woman and it was something he found himself deeply uncomfortable with. The changes were not all outwardly obvious at first, they mostly occurred on an aromatic level as her hormones shifted and changed. Her physiology followed soon after. And he'd had no way of communicating or comprehending his knowledge and understanding of this process; except for staying away unless absolutely necessary.

And a memory sprung up unbidden and sudden, as though he'd been flicking through the pages of a much beloved book and happened to come across a familiar passage; an all too recent memory: watching The Exorcist, right before the little girl Regan had started fucking herself with the Crucifix, he excusing himself for a drink. Chugging back two, hoping to have taken long enough to have missed that scene, watching it in front of Shadow, with her right next to him, not even a foot away on the sofa.

She'd called him a Big Baby. And he'd let her because.

Because.

It wasn't something he'd even admitted to himself as yet, that much he'd had to acknowledge. But now, with the surprise of her name still wet and sloppy on his lips, there was no longer any point to pretending. The Jones' bastard child, not a drop of their blood ran through her veins yet she was as surely their daughter as if it did. And he, Raphael, her sworn protector. Her guardian. Her Uncle.

Fuck it all, he was still her protector. More so than that inept excuse for a boyfriend she called Jay.

"Jay can't give to me what you can, baby," and Shadow entwined her arms tighter around his neck and her legs around his waist. He barely had time to remember how there had once been another girl who called him baby, that Shadow reeked of nicotine even though she didn't smoke, before Shadow's perfume filled his nostrils and he felt himself go a little crazy; yes actually felt himself unravel a little, come apart and draw together, tight and hard around the slim and supple shape of the girl who called him Uncle.

"That stupid... wimp… ungrateful… excuse for a… boy," he murmured incoherently into her neck and she ground her groin against his plastron.

"Not like you, Raphie. No one like you." She let her head loll back, so that he could see the way those short, cropped locks fell over her ears, the piercing in her nose thick, her peachy fuzz on the skin of her cheeks. She dug her hips into him again and although there was no sensitivity on his chest-plate, he was too fucking aware she was doing it and how easy it would be to lay her backwards and indulge, and feel all those fantasties come true; the ones he'd never even acknowledged, not even in the safety of sleep.

"I've always dreamed about you fucking me," she whispered into the cavity that was his ear passage, her breath hot and wet, her soft body pressed hard against his, and he heard himself moan; a low guttural animal sound. And what was he after all, but an animal, and one who had done everything he could reasonably be expected to for this, his –

She pushed off him then, and stood back, smiling with those perfect rosebud lips of hers; her slight hands moving to the hem of her top. He wanted to tell her to stop, that this was wrong and they couldn't do it; and then she had lifted it, baring her full, young breasts to him and he was struck silent, awed and quiet in the wake of her perfect, youthful nakedness and of how very much he wanted to touch it.

And it wasn't really Shadow anyway, that tiny nit of a voice cautioned him, now fully on his side with the arrival of a beautiful, half-naked girl. So a moment later, he did touch her, feeling how the fullness of that breast sat heavy and soft in one hand, how the nipple steadily hardened beneath the flicking of his thumb.

"What do you want?" she murmured and he shuddered, the whole length of him, with the wretchedly competing forces vying for dominance. To step back, or to keep on going…

… and why shouldn't he keep on going, he finally thought to himself…. He'd earned it and she wanted it….

He looked the half-naked Shadow up and down, how sweet she was just then, her arms tenderly bent at the crooks of her elbows so that her hands would just barely cover her breasts; the posture telling him that although she was willing she was also shy, and nervous, and needed him to guide her, just as he'd always envisioned without ever really imagining it.

"Okay," he heard himself speak, but was that bone-cold voice really his? "Could you, uh… like… uh…."

He saw the next few minutes play out before him like video; her removing the rest of her clothing, he suddenly pinning her to the mossy stone, far harder than he ever meant to. How her cries were the perfect blend of pleasure and pain, spurring him onwards to what he most…

"Come on, Honey, don't be bashful," Shadow said, in a voice that was strangely not hers, her eyes glittering a twisted ruby red, her breath suddenly icy cold and the white hint of teeth sharp beneath the plump lips.

Then the world about him shattered and held still, frozen fragmented pieces of it hovering in the air about him, steadily enacting their roles in miniature; and always before him, Shadow, naked but for her black panties looking at him over one shoulder, half smiling, half-fearful until even that splintered and dispersed, his Shadow bursting into a hundred beautiful bright shards raining all about him, prickling his skull so that he came back fully to himself and saw her there.

Shadow, the real Shadow, wielding her katana and imploring him to snap out if it as one of the Succubi rose up out of the shadows to lash out at her.

He stopped thinking. He merely acted.

Hours later; days apart, she asked him what the Succubi had tried to do to him.

He did not tell her.

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Some lines of dialogue are lifted directly from Bad Moon Rising #3 and #4, used without permission and for entertainment purposes only, no profit is gained.