Archive of Our Own ^beta

He plugs his nostrils at lightning speed, stumbling back into his lab, blindly fumbling for a remote. Suddenly, you’re the one who’s forced to recoil as his lab doors shut and seal not two inches from your nose and with a rather obnoxious clang. 

You gape at him in disbelief through the door’s small, round window before shuffling over to the larger glass pane off to the side.

There are so many thoughts circling your mind, you don’t even know what to ask first. 

He stares at you blankly from afar.

You stare back, less blankly.

He stares back again.

Your first instinct after this whole tiresome exchange is (as per usual) to make light of things: “Do I smell or something?"

“No!” he calls through the distance and barrier. “I mean, yes. But no!”

You fold, utterly at a loss here. “What… what the fuck does that mean, man?”

You’re not sure if he feels bad about just how weak and demolished your voice sounds or if he decides that the wall between the two of you is enough to keep your alleged smell from reaching him, but Donnie removes his hand from his snout and inches closer to the window.

His voice is muffled, but you hear it clearly all the same.

“Didn’t April tell you not to come here?”

You can’t stop your eyes from shifting side to side. You shake your head, somehow more confused than before. “We have a study date, remember? What does April have to do with it?”

Donnie considers you for a moment before retreating further into his lab and pulling up a holographic digital calendar. There, on today’s date, is your name written in purple with the word “study” typed under it.

At this information (reminder, it's a reminder), your friend doubles over, rubbing at his face for a long moment. “I forgot. Oh, I forgot. I’m so sorry, Y/N, I forgot to reschedule.” He peeks in your direction, tense with worry. "You have to go.”

The way your brows furrow must give you away because he approaches the window again, this time with an arm around his abdomen, the other bracing himself against the frame of the glass. He blinks slowly, in this way you’ve never really seen before.

Pain? Is this pain you're witnessing on him? Not the ilk of pained expressions you're so often privy to after Leo makes a particularly deplorable pun or when S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. acts out—no you're familiar with those. This is... different.

“I’ll see you next week, okay?"

“Hey, what’s going on? Are you okay?” You clutch at the strap of your backpack a little tighter.

He squeezes his eyes shut a moment and it’s all you need to fret yourself into a panic. “Yeah. Yes. I will be. You need to leave, though. I would prefer if you didn't make me plead. Alright: please, Y/N?"

There’s something in the way he says your name and it's not the bizarre intonations of his voice you've become ever-so attuned to. If it wasn’t the kind of request that would raise ample suspicion, you’d ask him to say it again.

“I’m going to find your brothers,” you declare suddenly, barely catching the widening of his eyes as you march off in the opposite direction. 

There's something going on here and you intend to find out what. 

The lab doors open with a whoosh after just three of your determined steps. You whirl around to discover Donnie beckoning you in furiously, hand at his snout again.

Kay. Sure. Yep.

Fuckin' why not.

You’re used to seeing the lab bathed in harsh fluorescent lighting, but it's softer today. Warmer. The illusion of glowing furniture and neon walls has been broken but you’ll happily accept the swap for an environment less conducive to an onslaught of headaches. (How he ever gets work done in here normally is beyond you.)

You plop down in the desk chair closest to the entrance and spin it to face him. He leans against one of his long tables, looking increasingly conflicted. 

Only now do you notice how flushed he is in the face. His breathing is coming out ragged and his chest is heaving as though he’s coming off a cardio circuit.

(Is he sick or something?) 

You glance around as discreetly as you can, scanning for his box of medical masks. All you find are tissues, towels, and a couple of ice packs. 

You try not to look so puzzled.

“Okay,” he says finally, like he’s just made up his mind about something. “So, you went through puberty, right?”

You shut your eyes, trying with all your might to make sense of such a question. Out of all the things he might’ve said, those words were not in your roster of expectations. 

“Sure. Yeah.”

“Right. So, during puberty, as you know, many species go through, um… spikes in hormones.”

You’re trying desperately to follow along, but this is beginning to feel rather lecture-y and you come by enough of those as it is. “Uh-huh.”

“In humans, hormones will regulate as an individual ages. Typically.”

You press your fingers to your temple, nodding.

“Well, for turtles… age isn’t a factor so much as puberty just... kickstarts the whole ordeal.”

“Are you trying to tell me you’re PMSing?”

Donnie balls a fist and digs it into the space between his eyes, speaking through gritted teeth: “Not exactly, no.”

You grin stiffly, irritatedly, wishing he would just spit it out already.

“You… uh… You ever learn about reptilian reproduction?”

“Donnie—you’re my best friend. I deeply cherish our bond—I need you to know that. I also deeply care for, respect, and frankly admire you as a person…” You take a deep breath. "But what in the FUCK are you talking about right now?”

“GAH—rutting! Y/N! We’re all rutting! It’s mating season, okay?” 

The words topple around in your mind, bouncing around and hitting things like a light-up pinball machine.

You’d never really thought about this. Like, ever. Not in the context of biology, and definitely never in the context of your turtle besties. You studied what you had to for high school exams, but nothing ever called for as in-depth an exploration you’re coming to learn might be necessary… now.

And now that you’re really mulling it over, you're remembering the excuses too. Every spring for about a week, they’d avouched some kind of alibi no one ever asked for. There was a huge secret mission taking them out of town; they all caught the flu; there’d been a termite infestation, a cockroach infestation, a rat infestation. (That last one probably should’ve raised some flags.)

This year was intended to be sewage floods but, apparently, April had never passed on the message.

“Why…” Your voice is shaky when it leaves your throat and you try again. “Why are you covering your nose?”

“Pheromones. Our ability to pick up on them becomes heightened around this time.”

“Wait, even across species? You can still detect them?”

Donnie nods, averting his gaze embarrassedly. “Turtles can do that, yes."

“Okay... But—And do the pheromones… Like, I don’t know… Um—” 

“Yes,” he says, before you have the chance to clarify yourself. He’s looking directly at you now, meaningfully enough that you know he understands what it is you're trying to get at. He’s still covering his snout.

“Oh.”

“I don’t know that they’re supposed to. My best hypothesis says it has to do with the whole mutated/part-human-being thing, but I have yet to arrive at any definitive conclusions."

You nod slowly, stewing it over.

“Yeah, so… Don’t go see my brothers. And, um, you know, you can leave whenever. Probably now is a good time. Or whenever. Preferably now.” He begins to shift his weight from one foot to the other, visibly uncomfortable. “Have you considered now as a viable option? Or, perhaps, now?"

“Alright, alright, jeez,” you concede rising to your feet. “I got it, I’m going.”

“Thank you,” he huffs in relief. “Sorry, it’s just… It’s weird. Yeah, it’s weird."

“If you say so.”

“You don’t… Um, share the same opinion?”

You shake your head as he walks you out. “I dunno. Just seems like biology to me. We all get horny.”

Donnie sucks in a breath at those words. They’re unfamiliar in your voice and overt enough to set him off when he’s in this state. “Sure, but… not like this,” he mutters, more to himself.

“Like… how, then?” you can’t help but ask. 

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to,” he tells you seriously. 

You turn to him, now just outside the doors, surprised at that response.

He’s since unblocked his nose, either forgetting the act of caution or—far more likely if you know Donatello—giving you a taste of what an answer looks like. He heaves through bared, clenched teeth, leering at you from darkened eyes and open lust—an answer clear as day, indeed.

You go slack-jawed at the sight and just as you’re about to react—to say something or launch yourself at him or maybe just stand there stupidly—he slams a hand down on the control pad next to him, locking you out for the second time today.

“Donnie—!“ you shout, rushing the closing doors, but you don't even get his name all the way out before the two hunks of metal crash together and you’re stuck alone out in the hall, pounding the reinforced barriers futilely and feeling about as helpless as you normally do when it comes to mutant terrapin affairs.

The windows tint to black before you get the chance to look through them again and you wilt, foggy on where to go from here. What, are you just supposed to go home after he dropped that kind of bomb on you? Now that you know he’s enduring all sorts of discomfort on the other side of these doors—the moral variety included?

You sag down against the wall and sit there for a bit, contemplating.

Donnie, meanwhile, paces back and forth, wringing out his hands and feeling the pricks of static travel over his skin, up his spine, down his chest and to his loins.

Fuck. 

He’d really prefer to do this in his bedroom... Or the bathroom… Or somewhere that’s not where he has all of his delicate equipment and invaluable plans for future projects—not to mention his precious tech. (His darling babies shouldn’t have to see this.)

He glances at the supplies he’d gathered for the week ahead—the towels, the tissues, the ice packs… He’d just meant to move those before you got here but he can’t possibly risk relocating now. He’d probably still smell you on your way out… And then what? He’d chase you down the halls, follow you to the surface… and then probably things he’d never forgive himself for.

What are the chances you want him the way he wants you? What are the odds, the probability? Donnie's never really been much for statistics but if it means finding out whether or not you'd fuck him...

Donnie shakes himself out of it. His data would be skewed anyway—he's not impartial—and he forbids himself from trekking that trail of thought any further. You shouldn’t be part of this; he refuses to drag you into it (any more than he already has, at least).

But, of course, he made the mistake of letting himself scent you and now you’re all he can think about it. You and your adorable mannerisms and witty bantering and pretty face… 

So pretty…

He sinks to the floor, unable to take it anymore. He may as well be panting like a dog, hot and disgusting… akin to some pervert in their basement. It’s wrong, so wrong—he knows it is but he can’t help it. 

An image of you in significantly fewer layers than what he’s accustomed to seeing you in—that, and then of your lips around his cock, another of you on top of him, under him, pinned to the wall in front of him… They invade his mind, build upon themselves of their own accord, crescendo to peeks he’s not proud of.

He watches your mouth fall open in his mind’s eye, your breasts bounce, your head thrown back. He hears your gasps and sighs and moans almost as if they were here and live. 

One of his fists moves up and down, working himself faster, and he hadn’t even realized he’d begun doing this but he probably should have anticipated it. It’s always the same.

His breathing picks up. This place isn’t even close to soundproof—no, those efforts had gone to the T-tank and the garage—so he bites the inside of his lip in an attempt to keep any and all ungodly noises from leaving this room.

Of course, his brothers are enduring this whole terrible plight too, but the mortification that would most certainly swallow him whole from anyone so much as surmising what he’s doing behind these two closed doors at this very second is enough to keep him as quiet as his body will permit. 

Then again, surely you know exactly what he’s doing right now. He’d seen the way you looked at him as he locked you out. The recognition in your eyes, the fascination in your expression. You know he’s doing this… you have to.

Latently, he wonders what made him be so vulnerable with you there for that moment. Maybe because he'd known nothing would come of it. Next time you see him, the two of you will pretend it never happened and you’ll forgo asking invasive questions from this point forward and he'll pretend he can't see them resting on the tip of your tongue with every bout of conversation longer than a few seconds. 

That’s what friends do, isn’t it? Forgive each other’s most awkward and/or humiliating and/or abominable mishaps?

It’s your face, suddenly—not the fantasies, but the real memory of you just minutes ago—that does him in. 

And what you’d said too. God. 

Everyone gets horny. 

That had to mean you too, right? Fucking shit.

He sinks a little further against the wall, digging his heels into the ground, dipping his chin down to his chest and letting his hips buck up into the air. A small gasp leaves his lips, a murmur that sounds imperceptibly close to your name and he has to dismiss it entirely, pretend it never even happened, or he’ll never live it down.

It takes him a few slow, calculated exhales—plus a harsher one a the end there—and then Donnie stands on shaky legs to clean himself up.

He’d have preferred to pigeonhole this whole thing just a little longer, wait until he positively could not take it anymore (nothing good comes out of indulging yourself the first or even the second day) but, alas, he’s never as strong as he thinks he is. They never talk about it, but he can’t help wonder which of his brothers manages to hold out the longest. Probably Raph. He has the self-control of a monk and the will of an ox. Or maybe Mikey, who has a million and one hobbies and the natural appetency to lose himself to them for hours on end. If Leo looked at it as a competition, maybe even against his own body, his resolve wasn't to be underestimated either. The ick of thinking about his family at a time like this settles in quickly enough and Donnie diverts his attention elsewhere. 

Post-ejaculation ease is like no other. Donatello is calm and collected—perfectly relaxed and oh-so clear-headed. It’s wonderful. Even if it’ll only last for the next fifteen minutes.

He figures he should make the most of it and gathers up his supplies in a box, everything he should’ve brought to his room in the first place, then flits around the lab to tidy up anything laying around. Blueprints should be put away for when he’s okay to work again… Armour goes over there. Untouched supplies over here. Oh, and where’d he leave his war hammer? There it is. Just lock that up quickly… What else, what else?

He tries to keep the self-admonishment at a minimum through this process. Yes, he could’ve probably withstood a little longer, probably got a little more work done in the meantime and, yes, this is going to suck for him just a little bit longer than it might have otherwise, but you had never really been a factor before and Donnie supposes that he’ll just have to give himself the pass this time around. He couldn’t have known you’d be here. Then again, he’s the kind of person who over-prepares for every possible outcome in any given scenario. Is he becoming sloppy?

Certainly not…

Certainly, this was just a one-time blunder, a slip-up, a miscalculation, a… an oversight. He’ll just have to make sure it doesn’t—

The doors to his lab slide open and he immediately trips over a mass on the floor. Donnie’s a good fighter and his reaction time really isn’t half-bad, but he still has yet to best the element of surprise and he absolutely eats shit, sending his box of towels, lube, and ice scattering over the ground.

“Don!” you gasp, “are you okay?”

“No, what the fuck?”

Rarely does Donnie make it a point to swear unnecessarily and it’s so out-of-character it stirs something within you. You push it down, notebook and pencil sliding off carelessly from your lap as you rush over to help him up. 

“Why are you still here?” he chokes out, voice wrecked and gravelly as he scrambles to gather his supplies, praying to Galileo, the Father of Modern Science, you won’t see them. (He’d seriously have to look into wiping your memory if it turned out you discovered what kind of lube he’s partial to.)

“I—I don’t know,” you flounder. “I couldn’t just leave!”

Donnie lets out a low growl and it sounds somehow slightly off from his habitual ones—those so frequently spawning out of frustration or annoyance or grievances. He pushes himself off the floor without your help, shooting you the nastiest glare he’s probably ever given you before kicking the box with his stuff somewhere off to the side, out of your field of vision.

Donatello is easily vexed, this is true, but never with you.

Until now.

You shrink a little. “I’m sorry! I just wanted to be sure you were okay.”

The back of his hand flies to his snout and he holds it there like he’s having to concentrate deeply on something. You observe him apprehensively.

Why won’t he say anything?

“Look, you’re right,” you start, fearing the worst, and bend down to pack your things amenably. “I know you’re good now, so I’ll go for real this time.”

As soon as you lift your backpack off the ground though, Donnie’s body slams into you full force against the window of his lab.

His face is in your neck and he breathes in, long and deep through his nose. He’s… sniffing... you...

Your entire being flashes hot with embarrassment.

“Donnie?” you try one last time. Your voice is a squeak, wholly unrecognizable. 

His palms stay on either side of your head, firmly planted into the wall behind you, as though even through the fog, he can’t bare to lay an unwanted hand on you. Still, you feel his nose touch the sensitive skin of your neck and then, lowly:

“My god, you smell fucking incredible.”

“Oh, I’ve got this really good body wash," you babble nervously. (Chrissake, he gave you that whole spiel about pheromones not twenty minutes ago!) “It’s from—"

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

A shiver passes through you.

Donnie’s about to whisper something else—something vile and disgusting about the arousal he can smell pooling in your panties (and just for him… All for him)—when he suddenly snaps out of it.

What is he doing?

God, what is he doing?!

“I’m sorry,” he rushes out. “You need to leave. I’m so serious—go. Now.”

“Donnie—“

“STOP arguing with me!” 

You’re not sure what possesses you to do this exactly, but you grab him by the shoulders and hurriedly walk him back into his lab.

“Lock the door,” you say. 

“What?”

“That whoosh-shut-down thing you did before. Do it again.”

Donnie has to crouch down close to the floor several feet away from you and take even breaths with his head in his hands to keep from losing it altogether. “Why don’t you listen?!” 

“If you want help with this whole rutting fiasco, lock the door.”

He freezes, peering up at you from the ground. “Help? How are you going to help?”

You squeeze your fists anxiously once, twice. “What do you need?”

Donnie covers his face again. “I can’t believe I’m about to ask this but are you offering your… body, right now?”

“GAH—why’d you say it like that?!” 

Agitation has him springing to his feet, throwing his arms up in exasperation. “I don’t know, Y/N! How do you want me to say it?!"

“How about not like some slut-shamy dirty old man?!”

He claws the air, wringing nothing. “OKAY! Okay. Enough.”

His breathing is growing laboured again and he has to hunch over one of his lab tables, battle shell toward you.

You can't see his face when he tells you that’s a ridiculous idea—a ludicrous suggestion, an unsound proposal—and urges you to flee far, far from here. 

Your protests are cut off almost as soon as they begin.

“You don’t know how I get when I’m like this, Y/N! You don’t need to see that.”

One of your legs bounces aggravatedly and you cross your arms over your chest to self-soothe a little. “If you can look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t want this, then I’ll go and we’ll never talk about it again.”

He turns so that you can only see half his face. “Don’t make me do that.”

“I knew it!” you shriek, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Come on, just let me help.”

Donnie turns to you fully now, a worry in his brows. “Doesn’t this sort of thing mean anything to you?”

“Sure,” you shrug. “But it’s not like we’re each other’s firsts. I care about you and if it'll help, I don’t see why we wouldn’t.”

He studies (read: scrutinizes) you for a long, quiet moment. 

“That’s not it,” he decides all at once, taking a step and then another toward you. "You’re turned on, aren’t you? That whole shit show in the hall did it for you…” 

He approaches slowly, measuredly, and reaches for a strand of your hair when he gets close enough to touch it, playing with its softness between two fingers, before lowering his mouth to your ear and tucking your hair behind it. “Didn’t it?" 

“Damn it, D. Stop—stop that.”

“Don’t pretend to be the altruist here, and maybe I’ll consider it."  

“It’s your fault we’re in this,” you point out, a last-ditch attempt at vindicating yourself.

“Yeah,” he concedes in that same hushed tone. “Maybe. But at least I have an excuse for poor self-discipline.”

He’s smelling you again, teeth scraping just below your ear, somewhere at your jaw. 

You’ve never heard his speech so slowed down in your life. "What did it for you, huh? Our little talk? The way I looked at you—that I let you see what you do to me?” He nips at your lobe lightly, voice falling to a whisper. "Or was it my body up against yours?” 

And then his lips are on your neck, painting hot, wet kisses.

You let out a throaty sigh, so overwhelmed with need. How’d he find you out so quick? (The Smart One, indeed.)

It’s unlike you to be so forward but you’re starting to go lust-brained and the words tumble out before you can stop them. “God, just take me already.”

“Don’t say things like that,” he scolds. “You’ll make me lose my fucking mind.” 

Donnie is someone with very clear articulation as it is, but his sheer command of language is somehow heightened when he swears. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he’s deliberately choosing each word—and it drives you impossibly nuts.

Luck was on your side this morning when you picked out a skirt from your closet.

His palms come up on the front of your thighs, squeezing and kneading, inching higher with every lap at your throat. Your head lulls backward and you clutch at the goggles on top of his head to steady yourself, accidentally tugging them off in the process.

He lifts a little at this and you offer a distracted apology.

This tiny break is enough to give him pause and then he’s pulling away, asking, “You really want to do this?”

You nod.

“I want to hear you say it.”

You have to edit the sentence in your mind a few times before you get to something you think will appease him. “I really want to have sex with you, Donatello."

He smiles impishly. “C’mere.” And then he’s hoisting you up easily, so swiftly that you break out in a series of surprised giggles.

You end up on one of his lab tables, legs dangling off of it as he grabs for a stray remote. Somewhere in the cloudedness of your mind, you think you hear the whoosh and click of his lab doors, a mechanized symphony you’ve become overly acquainted with today. That they hadn't been closed before eludes you.

Donatello crowds you, face pressed in your neck, breathing you in, sucking bruises into your flesh. He’s marking you… branding you as his. You find that you don’t hate the idea so much.

He’s eerily patient for someone who begged you to skedaddle mere minutes ago and the realization that he more than likely had to take care of himself while he was in here alone suddenly smacks you on the forehead. You wonder if you sat with your backs to each other or just a little ways off, the only thing separating you some giant sheet of metal. 

The thought has you bucking your hips up and then Donnie’s staring down into your eyes, a semblance of curiosity in his own.

You’ve never had the ability to read minds before but somehow you can tell exactly what he’s thinking, especially when his gaze flicks down to your mouth and back up. His throat bobs.

Kissing you would make all of this real.  

Kissing is for couples and for lovers… Not for friends who are about to do things friends don’t normally do with each other because one of the friends is inconsolably horny and the other is a phoney philanthropist. 

He catches your tiny nod, your green light, but something has him faltering and he ends up at your jaw instead.

He feels the confusion from you but your recovery is quick enough and your arms wrap around his neck, keeping him close. He’s only done this twice and each time he’d had to imagine you to really get anywhere. The unbridled shame that inevitably followed—that wasn’t fair to you or his partners—had kept him from seeking out anyone else after that.

You’re talking again before he can end up lost to insecurity. “Will you tell me when it becomes too much for you?”

He nods. “I will but I believe you’ll know.”

And then he brushes his lips to your cheek. 

“What would you like me to do in the meantime?” The suggestion so plain in his lilt cuts your breath.

“Anything. Anything you want.”

Your skirt is shapely, with buttons down the front. He tries to get his hands up under it but it doesn’t flap over very easily and the whole thing is a little clumsy, so he resorts to unbuttoning and just sliding it off of you. 

His senses are lit ablaze the second your smell hits his nostrils—so much stronger than it was before—and now he’s manic. You’re soaked right through, so much that Donnie has half a mind to ask if this is actually the bodily fluid he thinks it is. His nose never deceives him, though, and then he’s crouching to the ground, levelling himself with you, putting his tongue flat against the cotton there, and clutching at your bare thighs like a lifeline.

You buck up again—this is nowhere near enough. 

The warmth from you alone sends his eyes rolling back and he wants so badly to devour you—to give himself to everything behind this thin garment. It isn’t long at all before he’s peeling it off, pupils dilating at the strings of wetness sticking to the fabric. 

He stares for a long moment. The urge to cover your face with your hands is all-consuming and you’re very nearly about to call the whole thing off when he goes in right for your entrance, lapping around it, pressing in. You let out a drawn-out moan, not expecting that straight away. Your fingers find the edge of the table and grip hard just as he's moving your legs so that the tips of your sneakered toes land on his shoulders.

“You taste just as good as you smell,” he says when he looks up at you for the first time. He tongues you some more. “I take it back, you taste even better.”

You had no idea he had such a filthy mouth on him but it’s doing unbelievable things to you. 

“Spirits above, you’re pretty…” he whispers, as if on cue, and leaves loud kisses everywhere he can reach.

Before you have much of a chance to relax into it though, Donnie’s rising to his feet. You regard him carefully as he extends over to his side, somewhere behind you, fumbling around before holding a bullet-shaped, bullet-textured, and far from bullet-sized something. “May I?” he asks.

Your expression must divulge your wariness—what is that thing?!—because you catch the hints of a smirk playing at his lips. He switches it on and you watch, enamoured, as it starts to vibrate.

“Oh,” you chirp. “Um, yeah. Yeah, sure, okay.”

“Wow, three whole different affirmations.” 

You would have shot back something equally debonair if he hadn’t held the contraption to your clit, sending jolts of delight up your body.

Your head falls back against the table with a soft thud and you just have to ask, “Why do you have a vibrator in your lab?"

“Well, this wasn’t exactly its intended use.”

“What… was its intended use?”

“Treatment for muscle pain. If I’m being honest, the whole project was largely theoretical.”

You twist in the direction Donnie stretched over to before and find a few of them strewn about beside a tiny container presumably housing more. At the same time, he moves the rounded point of the nib on top of your clit and over and back. Your body jerks of its own volition, but it’ll be a cold day in hell when you let this go. “Why did you…” You have to pause to even out the strain in your voice, “ungh, design it like that?”

A wicked grin weaves over his face and you get the feeling posing such a question was likely unwise.

“Oh, I am overjoyed you asked.” He lays it flat against you suddenly, from entrance to clit. “It can cover a wider area if needed.” He rolls it from left to right, prompting a tiny mewl from you. “It also offers precision... for what I imagined would be tougher knots.” His eyes grow impossibly darker and he’s back to where you’re most sensitive, circling in tight, short strokes. 

“Uh huh,” you gasp, trying so desperately to cling onto what little mental clarity you have left.

“It can also ask fit into… tight places, if a scenario should call for it.” And then he’s slipping it inside you, angling it upwards, pressing delicately and purposefully to the spot there.

Your mouth drops open.

“And…” he drawls—my god, is there more? You want to scream. How could there possibly be more?! But then you feel it… Another buzz at the entrance just south.

Donnie can’t help it. You’re spread open, knees almost to your chest, so exposed for him. What, is he not supposed to seize the opportunity? 

“I built more than one for different… areas of the body.”

You don’t even have the time to be shocked before you're purring, trembling, soaring with an electricity so euphoric you could cry. He moves them in time with each other, watching your reaction and doing everything he can not to grind into the table. You’re so stimulated, so engulfed in ecstasy that you couldn’t be cute if you tried. All that comes out is a chant of his name; you’d deem it even prayer-like if it wasn’t such a fucked up analogy.

You’re not sure how he’s fairing so well without any stimulation of his own and especially not when he dips back down between your thighs. Then again, his breathing is ragged and all over the place, so maybe that gives away the real shape he’s in. He avoids your clit with the understanding that it must be sensitive, and focuses all his efforts on lapping at your hole yet again, relishing in the way you pulse around his tongue reflexively in the aftermath. The light vibrations of his groans are nothing compared to what you just experienced but they send shockwaves through you all the same.

Your voice is not to be trusted, you know, but you test it out anyway. It’s a stuttering mess of his name.

“I want to make you cum like this,” he interrupts, tongue poking and prodding.

You shake your head at him feverishly, language failing you.

Donnie halts, tongue flat against you as he gawks up at you. It might look silly to you if you weren’t so unbelievably turned on. 

“I can’t, D. Not after that," you explain.

He nods acquiescently and stands, not without one last kiss to the apex of your thighs and a few pecks along the insides of them. The gesture has you sinking into yourself.

“Later then,” he promises.

You do everything you can to rein yourself in before you’re hopping off the table, pushing him into the large gaming chair he keeps in here, and putting your hands somewhere at the back of him.

He reaches for your waist immediately. The need to constantly be touching you is overwhelming and disconcerting. (To his credit, he’s wanted this for a long time.) 

Donnie is surprised to hear the distinctive click and release, and then the all-too-familiar weight is off his back. He observes you wordlessly as you lift his battle shell up and off of him, depositing it conscientiously on the floor against a short stack of filing cabinets.

His expression is unreadable and suddenly, you’re nervous. “Was that… okay?” 

He nods, licking his lips, still gaping at you with something just shy of awe. It’s not like his battle shell is especially heavy—the opposite, in fact, he intentionally made it lightweight with its daily use in mind—but watching you so expertly detach it, lift it so easily, place it somewhere safe with all the care in the world... He’s not used to people treating his things so nicely, not after sharing a space with three brothers his whole life.

Three words sit on the tip of his tongue.

He gives your waist an affectionate squeeze but you don’t let him latch on too tight before you’re dropping down to your knees. Donnie catches them hit linoleum flooring, bare and so susceptible to chafing, and he searches around for one of those towels he’d stocked up in here. There’s one by the desktop—which is so hypocritical because, for that whole mental spiel he made about jerking off away from his darling tech, he’d still readied a station for when his giant monitor inevitably beckoned him out of his room.

He makes you take his hand for leverage so that you can lift your knees up off the ground as he slides the towel under them.

You peer up at him coquettishly and he has to look away.

It’s undeniably fun rendering him flustered like this. Donnie is not someone who often breaks composure, not like this.

You tug at the strings on his joggers, pulling the bow loose, and slide them down his waist. This is not so out of the ordinary. You’ve seen him like this. The moment you’re confronted with his crotch, though… 

“Okay, so, admittedly, I haven’t spent a lot of time researching turtle anatomy.”

Donnie beams at you, if a bit sheepishly. “Allow me to be of assistance.”

His gaze flits between your watching eyes and his own slit as he frees himself. He’s torn between wishing you wouldn’t see this and never wanting you to take your attention off of him.

“You really don’t have to do this—“ he starts to say when you’re so very obviously dubious about what to do next.

You interrupt with, “What do you like?”

He inhales, dithering. “I don’t… think I actually know.”

You freeze. “Has no one ever done this for you?”

Donnie goes red in the face and casts his glare somewhere far-off, visibly chagrined. 

A smile touches your lips. “Just… tell me if you don’t like something."

When he looks at you again he gulps and nods, chagrin dissipated.

He sits with his legs open, allotting you a nice little space to wiggle in close and you grip him by the base, following through on the way you’ve learned to do this sort of thing.

You hope there won’t be too much of a learning curve with his body and actually, it turns out there really isn’t any at all. He flushes and heaves air with just the movement of your wrist, hands coming down to clutch at the arms of his chair.

Oh! You want to put your mouth on him. You lick the underside up to his tip, a motion that has Donnie inhaling shakily, sitting up straighter. And then you’re kissing his head, loving around it dutifully with your tongue. 

Donnie says your name through a quiver. (Was that a warning, just now?)

Leather creaks as he squirms and writhes, lifting his hips back and forth. It’s antsy enough that you pull away to check in on him. “Can I keep going?”

“I don’t think I’m gonna last through the teasing, Y/N.”

You hadn’t really thought of it as teasing so much as just warming up but you’ve never seen Donnie look more wrecked in his life and that alone is enough to confirm otherwise. 

The openness—the vulnerability that’s on full display for you—has you taking him down as far as he’ll go. Donnie’s one of your closest friends and you’ve never, never seen him like this. Obviously not like this this, but like anything this unreserved, this purely instinctual. There’s always a dramatic flair to his delivery, a scoff or a roll of the eyes, something calculated and constructed that keeps it from being grounded and real. But this? 

This couldn’t be more real.

He lets out a grunt and a hiss, hunching forward to tangle his hands in your hair as his eyes squeeze shut and his lips part. If you’re going to hear every possible noise this man can make, you figure you’re going to have to draw this out a little longer.

You pull off, not without a resounding growl of protest from him, and lick up his shaft. This is usually around the time you like to fondle a little lower, however:

“It’s so strange that you don’t have testies.”

“We do, they’re just not—uhng!—out.”

(Jesus Christ, even his rote explanations kind of do it for you.) 

“What am I supposed to play with?” you pout demurely. 

Donnie shoots you a look of disbelief. “I swear to god…” he strains out.

But you don’t miss the way he cants his hips a little, giving you better access to his tail.

You want so badly to poke fun at him with a raised brow or your own practiced reaction of disbelief, but you’re too impatient to discover what will come of this.

You pad your fingers lightly over him there, and one of his legs starts to shake. 

“Oh, Don…” you whisper, fascinated, and just like that, you're redoubling your efforts, thirsting to pull more of those inadvertent reactions and wonderful, dreamy sounds from him.

Despite the tee you’re still wearing being long enough to cover your intimates, it does nothing to prevent cool air from hitting the unclothed wetness between your legs. Your knees spread out a little further. You didn’t know you’d enjoy the feeling of being exposed like this though it's exactly the thing that might just do you in right now.

The need to touch yourself is relentless but you wouldn’t dare risk distraction at a time like this. Most of your focus is taken up by the bob of your head and the flattening of your tongue and the loosening of your throat; you keep up those tiny pets on his tail and then Donnie’s sobbing an all-out wail.

You’re prepared to swallow down willfully but you’ll confess, you hadn’t been expecting quite so much, and it seeps out the corners of your mouth, down your chin. He’s cradling the sides of your head while you coax him through it, your hair spilling over his knuckles and between his fingers where he no longer has the good sense to hold it away from your face. 

It’s so… special to witness him this far gone. 

By the time he opens his eyes again, his bottom lip is sucked in between his teeth and he’s gazing down at you, speechless. There’s a distinct dark spot on the towel beneath your parted legs.

Donnie’s eyes glaze over white. You’ve seen this one other time, and that was the most perilous mission of his life where you’d had to play tech guy and he’d gone out on the field. It’d scared the shit out of you, even when Leo’s voice had come through the speaker, reassuring you in a tenor too breezy for your liking. 

When Donatello speaks, it’s mechanical.

“Get up. You’re dripping all over the floor.”

This is certainly no fault of your own but what follows still feels like something bordering on punishment.

You’re spun around and bent over his desk as he grasps a fistful of your hair, managing a strangled, “Are you ready?”

It’s a useless question. He just told you you were dripping—obviously you’re ready. This is his way of giving you an out—probably your last. You’d be damned to take it.

“Desperately,” you keen. How he’s fully erect again in mere seconds is beyond you but you’re not at liberty to inquire about such matters. Not when he fills you… like this. You swear each thrust rouses a new sound—new, loud, embarrassing feedback.

He fucks you for over an hour on every surface in the lab. The tables, his desk, nearly every wall, even on the towelled floor and in every position, finishing over and over but never pulling out. Slamming into you from behind, grabbing two handfuls of tit; in missionary, marking up your neck and collarbones and chest; with you on top, bouncing and grinding and clutching at his plastron. You’re just lucky it takes you a little longer to get there than it does him or you’d be way overstimulated by now.

“Jeez, how many more you got in you?” you rasp when he pants through a dropped jaw for the sixth time today. You’re back in the spot where he buzzed you to bliss, legs up around his shell. One of his arms is caught under you, cradling the nape of your neck. 

“Do you want to stop?” is all he says.

You shake your head. You’re up to your second and even a third is pushing it but you’d be out of your mind to put an early end to the best sex of your life.

“It’s not normally like this,” he confides. “It’s true that our refractory periods are shorter but it’s not… not like this.” And then he’s inching closer, biting the shell of your ear gently and mumbling a soft: “‘M sorry you’re seeing me like this.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s kinda hot, actually,” you tell him truthfully.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You determine that this is something he must have needed to hear because he picks up pace suddenly, driving into you full force. 

It’s so nice to completely lose himself like this. His head is always full—thoughts and thoughts and calculations and thoughts—and only when he can abandon himself to his animal brain does it all stop. (Donnie does math in his sleep, for crying out loud!) He deserves the break. He deserves to be rhapsodically numb.

The only thing he can preoccupy himself with now is the blistering desire to claim you, to make you his.

You’rehisyou’rehisyou’rehis. Fuck. You’re his. His.

He fists your hair again, bunching it haphazardly and tugging until you make desperate eye contact with him. 

“You’re mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours."

Somewhere along the way, his eyes clear back to dark pools of desire, one’s that don’t leave your body for anything.

It’s here, like this, that his lips finally, finally come down on yours, wet and hot and eager. His thrusts slow down until they cease completely and then the two of you are kissing up a storm full of passion and devotion for the very first time. 

“Mm, took you long—"

Donnie doesn't let you finish, slotting his mouth against yours over and over, burying his tongue across your own. That small invasion has you clenching around his cock involuntarily as butterflies smother your insides. He moans into your mouth at the feeling, jerking his pelvis further into you accidentally and hitting a spot that has you pulling his mask tails rougher than you probably should.

You can feel him twitching and pulsing again—again, or has it just never stopped? You can’t tell—but it seems he wants to get you there with him one more time. 

“Think you can give me a third?” 

You nod urgently, closing your eyes tight and rocking up to meet his rhythm. He doesn’t let you. His hands come down to hold your hips in place, making you take the short, precise thrusts he sees fit to give, and something akin to a yowl leaves your throat. 

It’s so good. It’s so, so good.

“That’s it, baby, one more. Just for me. All for me. Mine..."

There are a series of whines in succession, a couple of open-mouthed gasps, and those noises alone tell Donnie you’re at your end. He watches you through glassy vision, committing every detail he can to memory. You’re radiant, dazzling… mesmerizing. 

And then when you come down and blink at him, absolutely spent, Donnie hates himself for what he does next. He’s acting on instinct alone at this point so you’ll have to forgive him, but the need to claim you in every possible way is innate. It only takes a few shakes of his hand before he’s spilling onto you, all over your chest and stomach. He throws his head back, grunts and groans slipping from those sinful lips, that brazen mouth. 

This is not the first time someone has done this to you but it is the first time you’ve ever been so out-of-your-mind thrilled by it. You feel yourself clench on nothing, pulsating and leaking—wishing almost that he'd just finished inside you again so you wouldn't feel this empty.

Donnie’s eyes blow wide when they meet yours. “Oh, god. I’m so sorry. I should’ve asked first. I can’t believe I did that.”

His worry only doubles when you stay there staring at him, all deer-caught-in-the-headlights. 

“God, let me get you a towel."

You're putting a hand up on his bicep before he can move. “Look at me.”

His brows knit as his gaze fixes on yours again, almost like he's bracing himself for whatever lecture comes next.

“No, look at me,” you insist.

You watch him swallow and then, hesitantly, his eyes begin their descent down your body, roaming, relishing in his handy work (quite literally). He lets out a small breathy “wow”. 

And then he’s back at your face, taking in your sex hair and flushed cheeks and swollen lips. “You're so beautiful like this,” he mumbles more to himself than anything. Then he’s kissing you again, biting your lips gently, dragging outward. "You're always beautiful but especially like this."

Never in his wildest dreams did he think he’d get to see your bare body covered in his seed but Newton, Darwin, Morse, is it ever a sight...

He works his way to your ear, small nibbles and grazes of his lips, and: “You’ll get me going again if I stare any longer.”

You grin and peck his mouth. “You’re a freak of nature."

Donnie’s chin falls to his chest. “I know. Apologies."

One of your palms comes up to cradle his jaw, letting him know how you meant it. “That was hot as hell. You're hot as hell. Don’t apologize.”

He feels himself go stiff again and winces frustratedly. “You need to stop calling me that. It does things to me.”

“See, now that only tempts me more.”

“Self-restraint is a virtue,” he cautions before clambering off of you and reaching for another one of those aforementioned towels, holding it under the lab’s sink. When he returns, it's to clean up his mess. 

It’s weirdly comforting to be taken care of like this but it also sort of makes you want to curl into a ball and never look him in the eyes again.

You watch him rinse and wring out the towel. His mask is soaked nearly through and he pulls it off after he's done, running his hands over the area it covered and up over the back of his head. 

There’s a sudden shift in the air between the two of you. A change in his demeanour, a sense that he is once again back to ruminating up a storm, as is so characteristic of him.

He stays off to the side, away. He's refusing to face you and that freaks you out.

It takes you a second to figure out what he's referring to and then you're doing some quick math in your head. "Two... and a half years, I think."

"So you're just as ridiculous as I am."

"Hey, no, you still got me beat by six months."

"Fine. I, begrudgingly, accept that I am six months more ridiculous than you are."

There is a small beat where you stand there beaming at each other, the time in which you also begin to feel a tad naked (and in more ways than one). So you reluctantly break this small moment to venture back over to where you think you might have seen your discarded shirt and bra. 

Once they're back on, you set about on a search for your panties.

Donatello lifts them up for you, clears his throat, and has you watch as he tucks them away in the top drawer of his computer desk. 

“Hey!” you protest.

You’re so fucking cute it hurts and he abandons this mission of gathering all your clothes before you do in favour of making his way over to your infuriatingly adorable pout. There's an air of unexpected intimidation in his stride. 

“Why do you need underwear?” he asks offendedly, barricading your body against his work desk. “Sit down.”

You lift a brow but do as he says. You end up a bit taller than him as he hunches down marginally, bracing his hands on either side of your legs, caging you in once more. An inhale sounds from him.

“Go out with me,” he says.

“Try again,” you say.

His head falls to his chin where there is a laugh in his nose and clear signs of a simper he's looking to hide.

“Will you please do me the honour of going out with me, my darling sunshine?"

“Better,” you profess, before snaking your arms around his shoulders, leaning into his hard chest. “Who would I be to refuse such an eloquent offer?"

He grins down at you rakishly, brows curving into a dashing smoulder. “I really would have liked to take you to dinner before coitus but alas."

“Nothing’s stopping you from taking me to dinner after coitus.”

He nods, a promise in the glint of his eyes.

"Are you feeling better now, at least?”

“I am no longer locked in full-body cold sweats so I would say that, yes, I am feeling much better.” And, with a peck to your forehead, “I suppose I should thank you for that."

“Oh, don’t say that. Makes it sound like I really did ‘offer you my body’.”

Donnie chuckles at your nasally imitation of his voice. “Guess I had that one coming. I hereby revoke my thank-you.”

He backs away then and holds out a hand like Prince Charming himself to help you hop down from where your feet are dangling.

“Should we, uh, get some sleep or something?”

“I hope that’s not code for anything because I don’t think I’ve got it in me.”

“No, no. No code. Just sleep. Perhaps a movie?”

“A movie. Wow, I didn’t think you watched those.”

“Hilarious. Never in my life will I again be so amused."

At this, genuine laughter breaks from you. 

You both scour for the remainder of your clothing and get dressed lazily, though Donnie forgoes his battle shell. He scans the hand not enveloped in yours along the pad by the double doors. They unlock with a soft shutter.

On the trek back to his room, the two of you run into a maskless Leo, whose head is immersed in a kitchen cabinet. “Do you know there is a very incriminating box in the hall outside your lab?” 

You can practically hear him sniff the air when, suddenly, a package of cereal and a spoon go clattering to the floor. His grimace is pointed.

“Oh, ew, you assholes reek of sex! Get outta here. Bozos.”

Your rumpled clothes and mussed hair divulge as much.

Donnie guides you by your hand and maneuvers his way through the kitchen smugly, snatching a box of leftover pizza up off the table while you can do little except mouth a sheepish apology to his brother. Leo waves you off boredly, returning to his snack, only somewhat more disgruntled than before.

In Donatello’s room, you scan the walls. Things have changed since the last time you were here. It’s cozier, a little more home to him, his essence, which is nice because you were always under the impression he didn’t care much for spaces outside of his lab. You wonder if this propensity for feng shui is something that he’s grown into over the years, or if maybe he was the one who initially thought fairy lights might look nice strung up through the halls of the lair. 

“Coming?” he hums when he sees you haven’t yet joined him beneath the comforter he’s lifting.

“I feel like I should shower,” you mutter absently and pick out a photo booth polaroid tucked into the iron casing of a full-length mirror.

At your shower comment, he seems all at once hesitant about sliding in. 

“You still have this?” you ask, lifting the strip for him. 

When he nods at you, it’s with tired, lidded eyes. “You don’t?”

“I do,” you confirm. “Just… not sure exactly where it is.”

It calls your attention: four goofy frames with April, Mikey, Donnie, and your own elated countenance staring back at you. You have on party hats—giant, colourful sunglasses, neon boa scarves, lively grins and glowing cheeks. In the last picture, April and Mikey had ducked out of the booth from behind you, leaving you and Donnie looking like the sweetest of pairs with your arms linked and tongues out.

You smile affectedly, emotion stirring up your innermost dust-ridden hearthstone. It’s been a while since it’s been kindled like this. 

The weight of Donnie’s chin on your shoulder makes you jump a little. His arms encircle your waist and he stares at the photoset in your hands.

“I was going to make a move that day."

You have to pull away to look at him—to seek answers from his expression to inquiries you haven’t yet forged. “At April’s graduation party?”

You never really knew why April and Mikey had done what they had, never really thought about it all that much. 

“In hindsight, it wasn’t the best time which is why I didn’t end up following through. But it meant a lot to me. It was... a fun night.” He mumbles that last part into your shoulder and a shiver passes through you.

“Donnie, if I’d known—“

“I know. It's alright.”

You nod and twirl into him for a tight hug. 

“Forget the shower, I’ll just wash the sheets, okay?” Donnie says drowsily.

You nod into him again and let him drag you under, refusing to let go. You have him now and this is where he’s staying. Donatello, for all his twitchiness and solitude, holds you somehow tighter on top of him. 

It’s only minutes later, after he’s flicked on a movie and lifted the covers up to your neck, that you feel his fingers ghost down to the front of your hips and toy with the top button of the skirt you have half a mind to ask if he’ll throw in the wash alongside his sheets.

You garble his name warningly.

His chortle is instantaneous. “I’m not trying anything funny. Just thought you might be more comfortable without it is all.”

You think about it. “I would be more comfortable.”

And then you let him undress you because you trust this man with your life and you don’t know there are a lot of other places out there where you’d feel as safe as you do now.

“Is this a ploy to steal all my clothes? I fear for the livelihood of my socks."

At the mention, you feel his arms slither down to your feet and he peels them off.

"No!" you drone listlessly, pitch entirely flat considering the utter drama of it all. And then, because you're coy and fun: “You know, my bra’s a little uncomfy too.”

Donnie grins. “At this rate, we’ll be back where we started, hm?”

"Oh, and here I thought you were Mr. Self-Discipline."

"No, I'm Mr. Science."

"Could've fooled me."

“Alright smart mouth, time for bed, night-night,” he rushes out dismissingly.

He loves that smart mouth of yours.

"You do?"

And this is why he tries not to go without sleep around others. He just starts saying stuff. Stuff he means, yes, but god, at what cost?

Luckily, you're you. Which means he never has to feel out of his element saying stuff he means.

"That's awesome, 'cause I love your smart mouth," you cheer, high-fiving/threeing him.

Donnie can't help the ensuing compliment shower he rains down upon you after that; it's each and every thing he loves about you (which is everything, by the way, so it takes a little while.) 

You're very nearly asleep and he's still going, large hands moving up and down your back, lulling you into the kind of slumber you can't fight. You drift off to the sound of his warm voice, feeling spent and serene and lucky. (And lucky again.)

For his part, Donatello gets the impression he probably won’t have to dread this time of year so much anymore. In fact, he might even start looking forward to it... Provided, of course, that you'll continue to help him out, continue to be his, continue to run your smart mouth and make him fall deeper in love with you every day.

You're gone from the conscious world but something tells Donnie you're up to the task. 

***