Chapter Text
April
There wasn’t supposed to be a first time, much less a third.
When Donatello showed up at her window, though, April knew what he wanted, and she knew she should send him away—knew that if she told him “no” and sounded like she meant it, he would obey. But therein lay the problem.
From the first, she hadn’t been able to summon the necessary protest.
Maybe it was because the initial indiscretion had happened so fast—by the time she’d had the presence of mind to think of stopping him, he was inside of her, and from there it was over almost as soon as it had begun.
Maybe it was because he was so different in the heat of the moment, uncharacteristically bold and uninhibited, charged with a primal energy that was both intoxicating and contagious. And unlike the way he handled delicate machinery, he was none too gentle with her.
Maybe it was none of these things, but something else altogether—something she didn’t care to acknowledge.
Whatever the reason, April had told herself it was irrelevant—it was a mistake, a one-time thing. She’d had a little too much wine. It would NEVER happen again. That much she was sure of.
The second time had been in his lab late at night, desperate and furtive, in spite of the fact that she’d been careful not to give him any reason to think there was a chance of a repeat—she’d definitely managed to convince herself there was no chance. Even when he’d made his move, she hadn’t exactly given any encouragement. But neither had she offered any resistance.
Tonight, though, she’d put a stop to it. This wasn’t her. She wasn’t a cheater. And she certainly wasn’t someone who couldn’t stand up for herself.
She went to the window with resolve in her heart, opened it, and stepped back slightly as he climbed through. Almost immediately she realized her mistake. Once he was standing in front of her, with the full power of his presence so near and his eyes glittering with desire as they scanned over her, the words she’d been practicing turned to cotton wool in her mouth.
Go home, Don. It’s not going to happen—now, or ever again.
Instead she remained mute and took another step back, and then another, desperate to put some distance between them so she could regain her scattered wits, slow her hammering heart. The air in her kitchen suddenly felt stifling, like when she used to hide under the covers as a girl, timing how long she could stay hidden before coming up for fresh air. When he stepped forward wordlessly to close the distance between them, April continued to back up until she was stopped by the kitchen counter.
“Casey. H-he’ll be home any minute,” she stuttered in a feeble attempt to deter him. But it wasn’t the same as a rejection, and he knew it.
“He went out with Raph,” Donatello countered levelly, his eyes searing into hers. “They won’t be home for hours.” All the while he continued to close in on her.
Had he showed the slightest hesitation, had she been able to find the tiniest chink in the armor of his self-assurance, perhaps she could have stopped him still. But the moment his hands were upon her, all thoughts of resistance fled—all thoughts of anything fled, except how badly she wanted him to touch her, to take her, to own her. His idea of foreplay seemed to consist of getting under her clothing as quickly as possible, greedily groping whatever flesh he could find, but the more frenzied he became, the more she ached for him. Abruptly he turned her around so she was facing away from him and pressed her quite forcefully against the counter, his breath ragged in her ear as he nipped her neck, one hand fondling the breast he’d freed from her bra while the other held her firmly against him by the hip. When he paused and pulled back a little, fumbling at the button of her jeans from behind, she helped him, and then bent and braced herself against the counter, crying out softly as he entered and began to fuck her.
And that’s what it was—fucking. She had no illusions about that. There were no gasped terms of endearment, no tender caresses, no questions of what it meant or what the future held. Apparently she’d only imagined that Donatello had any deeper feelings for her.
She told herself she was glad of it; after all, she loved Casey. Obviously it was what she was doing to her boyfriend that made her feel so sick inside, so hollow when it was over.
“We can’t keep doing this,” she whispered as she was putting herself back in order.
The turtle was already on his way to the window when she spoke, ready to make his usual quick getaway, but he paused and looked back at her. “I know,” he answered. But it wasn’t the same as backing down, and she knew it. He’d be back. And after tonight, she could no longer claim it was just a slip. One time might be a mistake—three times was a pattern.
She just didn’t know what the hell it meant.
Once Donatello was gone, April remained in the kitchen for quite some time, sitting at the table with her head in her hands. But wasn’t until she was in the shower that she started to cry.
She almost succeeded in convincing herself it was Casey she was crying over.
Donatello
He was using her. In his most lucid moments, usually shortly after he’d relieved his built-up urges, he knew it, and he hated himself for it. But even self-loathing wasn’t enough to stop him when the need overwhelmed him, no matter what he’d promised himself.
Even now, just thinking about her, Don felt his mouth go dry and his tail begin to throb, and he knew his self-ministrations wouldn’t cut it for much longer. Soon, he’d give in and go to her. And soon after that, he’d leave her again, too ashamed to attempt an explanation, and too selfish to risk the rejection that would surely follow.
This wasn’t how he’d wanted it, and he’d sure thought about it often enough—sex in general, and sex with April specifically—but in his secret adolescent fantasies, woven amongst the passion, there had always been intimacy, a mutual desire for one another, a shared realization that they’d both been longing for the same thing. He’d never thought it would be like this, the mindless pursuit of physical release that had nothing to do with romance.
He wondered if things could have been different if this had started in some other season, when the rational part of his brain wasn’t so easily swept away in a raging torrent of hormones.
Then again, if it wasn’t for the hormones, he was sure he never would’ve been bold enough to make a move in the first place.
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“Hey Donny,” April greeted him brightly. She craned her neck to peer at the fire escape behind him before backing up to let him climb through the window. “No Mikey tonight?”
“No, he uh, changed his mind. Decided to stay in tonight.” Holed up in his room, if Don had to guess. They all kept to themselves more this time of year, which Don figured was a combination of instinctive roaming behavior, the biological need for “alone time”, and the wisdom of past experience—they were all a lot more irritable as the season progressed, and they’d learned the hard way that Splinter’s understanding of the situation did not make him more tolerant of fighting amongst each other.
But Don had had enough of alone time for the moment. What he needed right now was a distraction, and watching a movie with April was a welcome one.
April shrugged. “Okay, well I guess it’s just the two of us, then. Casey’s out with some guys from work, some impromptu bachelor party or something.” Then she smiled. “But hey, this means we can pick something besides a mind-numbing action movie for a change—what do you feel like?”
“Anything,” Don said honestly. “You pick.” It didn’t matter, as long as it kept his mind off of…other things, even for a short while.
After assuring her several times that he really didn’t mind, she chose a romantic comedy—something Don forgot the name of within ten minutes, but it didn’t matter. He munched popcorn as he watched, peripherally aware of April curled up on the chair she favored, sipping a glass of red wine and nibbling a square of highly prized European dark chocolate.
Thank god, the movie was heavy on the comedy, and light on the romantic, so Don didn’t have to suffer through any sex scenes. The Big Kiss at the end of the movie, when the on-screen couple finally realized they were meant for each other, was uncomfortable enough, but as kissing was something Don was rather dubious about anyway, he was able to distract himself by taking a long drink of his coke.
April, however, clearly felt differently. “There’s just something about that first kiss,” she said with a satisfied sigh. “Whatever the future may bring, at that moment, nothing else matters.”
Don stared silently ahead at the TV for a moment, pondering. The he shrugged. “I guess I wouldn’t know.” This was stated matter-of-factly, his voice free from any bitterness or expectation of pity. He just honestly couldn’t relate.
“I’m sorry,” April said, sounding horrified, “I didn’t mean—”
He turned to look at her, and gave an easy smile that was meant to be reassuring. “Hey, no, it’s okay. I don’t really… get the whole point of kissing, anyway.” He shrugged again. “One of those human quirks, I guess.”
April gave a flicker of a smile, but her green eyes scrutinized him so closely that Don suddenly felt a little uncomfortable. He broke eye contact and took another drink of his coke. He was aware of her getting up from her chair, in the tangential way in which he and his brothers were always aware of the movements of others, but he almost choked on his last swallow of soda when he glanced up and saw her moving toward him. It wasn’t the fact that she was approaching—it was her manner, the look on her face, that caught him off guard. There was a sort of determination, a calm resolution about her as she sat next to him on the couch, and for some reason Don’s heart leapt straight to his throat. He almost scooted away from her a little, just an automatic response to an unexpected invasion of personal space, and although he couldn’t repress the reflexive twitch of his body, he resisted the impulse to move away. He had no real objection to her sitting by him, after all.
She sat facing him slightly, holding his gaze calmly, so calmly, considering Don’s heart was racing under his plastron, and then she leaned in a little, and reached out to touch his face. This time Don did jerk back slightly. “April, wh—”
“Shhhhh, it’s okay,” she said softly. Undaunted by his reaction, she touched his face, partially cradling his cheek, and let him know with gentle pressure that she wanted him to lean in towards her.
Donatello was unable to breathe, much less resist, and he allowed himself to be pulled in. The rest of his body was as taught as a high-voltage wire, though, and he was aware of little else beyond the electric hum of overstretched senses. The only thing that kept him grounded, made it real, was her eyes locked forthrightly on his. She pulled him in oh-so-gently until her face was just inches from his, so close that he could smell the sweetness of chocolate mixed with wine on her breath, so close his head was spinning.
“It’s okay,” she repeated in a whisper. “Close your eyes.”
He did as she told him, simply because he was powerless to do anything else, and now his heart wasn’t just racing but pounding. After an excruciating moment, he felt the lightest touch of her lips at the center of his mouth—not wet, liked it seemed on TV, but marvelously warm and soft. Don remained completely still, and she paused there for a moment before her mouth began moving along his, slowly seeking, getting him used to the feeling, the sublimely strange feeling, of another being’s lips against his. Unthinkingly he began to respond, putting tension in his mouth to match hers, and a short time later, with one last, lingering caress, she pulled back.
Still Don didn’t move, or even open his eyes—couldn’t have drawn a breath if he wanted to. He had no thought of how ridiculous he must have looked, still leaning forward, mouth puckered, eyes tightly shut—it was just… too much to take in. Sensory overload. Distantly, he registered what sounded like a small laugh from April.
“You can open your eyes now.”
He did as she said, pulling in a much-needed breath and opening his eyes to see April sitting back and looking at him with an indulgent smile—the smile of a friend, who thought she had done him a favor.
“There. Now what do you think of kissing?” she asked playfully.
Don just stared at her, breathing rapidly but shallowly. His mind was still trying to catch up with what had just happened, but it was a lost cause from the very beginning. Although April didn’t know it yet, his brain was already being overridden by something that was, at least temporarily, far more powerful.
He didn’t answer, but leaned impulsively back in towards her. As his face drew nearer to hers, an expression of mild alarm passed over her face. Don saw it and hesitated, briefly, but when she didn’t pull away he took a deep breath, closed his eyes again, and touched his mouth lightly to hers. And from that moment on, there was no more self-consciousness, no more thought for what she might think, or exactly what he was trying to do. All he was aware of was the burn, the flare of warmth through his groin, the insistent throbbing of his tail that drove him towards the inevitable finish.
He started kissing her in earnest then, clumsily but insistently, barely aware of what he was doing. April started to pull away, reclining backward slightly to escape him, her body rigid and unyielding, but when he leaned with her and persisted, she didn’t try push him away, or slap him, or yell at him. And when Don next opened his eyes, he found that he was leaning so far into her, he was practically over her, and his breathing quickened still more. This he’d never felt before, this feeling of dominance, of his powerful frame hovering over one so contrastingly delicate, so undeniably feminine.
This is right! his instincts screamed, and Don couldn’t deny them. He drew forward and leaned in still more, bracing one arm alongside her on the couch cushion to effectively lock her in, and she moved the only way she could and scuttled backward, shifting and writhing to get out from underneath him. This was part of it, he knew, part of the test, part of the dance, and he touched with his other hand to try and quiet her, grasping her upper arm and shoulder firmly. Be still! I am strong; I am male.
To emphasize his point he shifted and closed in on her again, seeking her neck with his mouth and biting gently, eventually switching to her shoulder, while his hand ran down from her shoulder to her torso, applying gentle pressure. She went still, though her body was still tense, and that too felt right. He breathed deeply of her intoxicating scent, and slipped his hand under her clothing, suddenly needing the touch of real flesh, real skin, even if the reality of it wasn’t what he expected—too soft, too yielding—but a sharp intake of breath from April made him forget the wrongness. Her response excited him further, and he explored higher, fumbling and pulling clumsily when he encountered yet more fabric blocking him from the flesh he sought.
His fingers found yet softer skin when he at last found a way under her bra, as well as the rubbery nipples that grew firm and sprang up at his touch. The strangeness of it, so different from anything he’d felt before, might even have snapped him out of his feverish pawing, except for the equally unanticipated reaction it evoked from her. She actually gasped softly, and though she didn’t exactly relax, the tension in her body changed in a way Don couldn’t have explained, even if he’d been clear-headed enough to analyze it. All he knew was that suddenly, he no longer sensed any opposition, and the next time he drew a breath, he became almost intoxicated by a smell that seemed to skip his nostrils and go straight to his brain.
He continued his fondling, squeezing and pulling while again finding her neck with his mouth, and she arched under him, planting one hand against his shoulder to brace herself. Even this subtle encouragement drove him to greater excitement, and in what seemed mere moments, all he was aware of was the aching pressure in his tail that seemed to throb straight through his skull. He needed… he needed… something more. Breathing raggedly, heart pounding almost painfully, he pulled back from her neck, and automatically shifted his hands lower, searching. The lounging pants she was wearing had only a flimsy elastic waistband, and he had no trouble slipping one hand underneath.
She went rigid again for an instant at his touch, but when he continued downward without hesitation, she relaxed slightly and bent her knees up. When his fingers encountered moisture, she gasped again, and Donatello got so hard he almost let himself down right then—but no, this wasn’t right! It wasn’t time yet! Gritting his teeth, he fought for control and rose up a little, positioning himself over her. There was no need to pull her pants down—using his hand as a guide he merely slipped his tail underneath the same flimsy elastic, and the rest was instinct. Using the last of his self-restraint, he extruded himself just a little, enough for the tip of his slick member to find the well of moisture he sought, and then finally he released himself, groaning as his cock slid easily into the warm center of her until he was almost fully enveloped.
Underneath him, April stiffened and cried out, grasping both of his forearms… but she didn’t pull away. Don, lost in ecstasy, was barely aware of her anymore. Levering his tail only, he pulled out a little experimentally, and then plunged back in. Grunting in satisfaction, he began to pump his tail faster, encouraged by her whimpers. At first his body remained quite still while his tail did most of the work, but as the delicious friction increased and pressure built, he strove to push in a deeper, and eventually his entire body was moving, rocking, his senses swimming as he surged toward the finish. At last the rising tingle of his groin overflowed through his entire body in a tidal wave, and with a final thrust he yelled out his release before collapsing breathlessly on top of his female.
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