"Like Saccharin for Sugar"
by Donny's Boy
Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the plot relating to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and I am making no money from this story. I mean no harm.
Warnings: Reasonably explicit sexual content, and consensual human/mutant sexual relations. No violence or language
He laughs as he sings along loudly with the radio. "If you can't be with the one you love," he warbles, more than a little off-key, "then love the one you're with."
It's too much. It's just too much. How can he not laugh?
As the truck whips around a street corner, his laughter fades into the cool night air. She's waiting, and he doesn't want to be late. She's not a particularly patient woman. And she hates when he's late.
She breathes in the warm fragrance of smoke and wax. Then, slowly opening her eyes, she glances towards the clock. Hmm. Ten minutes. Rising to her feet, she walks over to the candles that line the far wall. She blows them out, one by one, until finally she's left in darkness, with only the moon for company.
Sometimes he's early, and she wants to be ready. Little else annoys her more than being caught unawares. Of course, sometimes he's late, so she decides to sit back down. She allows her palms to rest flat against her thighs. Consciously, deliberately, she tries to relax. She tries not to wonder as to when he might arrive. She tries not to think about how very much she needs him to arrive.
With a flick of the wrist, he turns off the engine. But he doesn't budge from his seat. He's all out of laughter now. It always goes like this. He always starts out light-hearted, enthusiastic, but comes crashing back down to earth as soon as he gets here.
He stares out the windshield, at the towering building in front of him, and frowns. His brothers would kill him if they knew where he was right now.
But here he is nonetheless. Thoughtfully he drums his fingers against the steering wheel. It isn't too late. He can still turn around, still go home. The problem, however, is that he doesn't want to. Sighing, he pockets the keys and throws open the truck door.
Tonight he is five minutes late. As soon as she feels his presence, she fights the instinct to stand up, to turn towards the window. Instead she contents herself with sneaking a glance out of the corner of her eye. He stands silhouetted in the window, the tails of his mask fluttering in the slight breeze. It's a striking effect. Bold. Dramatic. Not at all natural, of course, and not at all him--but that's precisely what causes the ghost of a smile to tug at her lips. The knowledge that he's putting on a show just for her.
She remains absolutely, perfectly still as he steps inside the room. She moves not a muscle as he rests his weapon by the window nor as he slinks across the floor towards her. She knows he loves the anticipation as much as she does. It is not until his large fingers brush against her cheek that she reaches up, grabs a fistful of his mask, and pulls him close against her aching body.
She smells like incense. He wishes she didn't, but it's better not to wish. Better to just accept what is. Besides, a moment later, he's distracted by her hands moving down his plastron, searching, hungry. He allows himself a groan. Then he leans forward and nuzzles her neck, his wide palms on her hips.
Her moan is deep, throaty, uncharacteristically indiscreet. He loves that she enjoys this so openly. Enjoys him so openly.
Growling, he runs his hands up her back and begins tugging her shirt over her head. She chuckles softly.
He lets her set the rhythm, because she likes being in charge. Truthfully, she suspects he likes it too. She places one sweaty hand on either side of his broad shoulders, to brace herself, and she slowly moves against him, over him, around him. She can hear him gasp and grit his teeth.
Slowly, slowly, she slides along his body, claiming it as her right. It's maddening, and she almost can't stand the exquisite torture of it all. But she doesn't change her pace, because she can feel how his legs stiffen, how his breath hitches. She allows herself a smile. She knows he won't see it in the dark.
He's close. Too close. He's fighting it, but he's still little more than a boy. He simply doesn't have her experience--or her control. And that, more than anything, is what makes a rush of desire flood her. What makes her finally quicken her rhythm.
Burying his face against her shoulder, he screams incoherently as all thought erupts into sheer sensation. For several endless moments he hangs suspended in pure physicality, pure pleasure, and the joyous release of it all leaves him panting for breath. He rides the feeling as long as he can. Then his head falls back, hitting the floor with a loud crack, and dazedly he blinks. In the dark room all he can see is the faint gleam of her cat-like eyes.
He's trembling. He feels cold. Empty.
She leans her head against his upper plastron, and he startles a bit at the dampness of the sweat from her brow. Even after all the nights they've spent together, perspiration still surprises him. It's so foreign ... so mammalian. It's also a reminder that, as spent as he already is, the night isn't over. Not yet.
Her breath is ragged in her chest, and it's the only thing she can hear in the otherwise still room. She is throbbing but waits for him to recover. Although it's agony for her, she knows he needs the time to recuperate, to recenter. Finally, after mere seconds that feel like hours, she feels him shift underneath her.
She tenses, involuntarily, as his hand moves downwards, his fingertips trailing very lightly along her ribs.
When he reaches what he's looking for, she arches her back and chokes down a shout. She digs her fingernails into his shoulders, searching desperately for an anchor, but he doesn't flinch in the slightest. From experience she knows that his mind is like a steel-jaw trap--once he's set on something, he'll never let go until he's fully satisfied. And right now, his mind is set entirely, determinedly, ruthlessly on her.
Which is as unsettling as it is sexy.
Just as she reaches fever pitch, a yearning cry is torn from her throat: "Leonardo!"
He winces at the sound of his brother's name. It's as though someone's dashed cold water in his face, and he feels his stomach clench in ... in what? He doesn't know. He can't identify the emotion. Seconds tick by, long and awkward, before finally she whispers, in a voice filled with embarrassment and shame, "I am so sorry."
"It's all right." He swallows. Tries not to remember the time he made the same mistake. "It was an accident. I understand."
"Even so. We agreed not to speak or use names."
He nods. Stifling a sigh, he reaches out and runs a hand through her short, thick hair. A silent gesture of forgiveness. In an exhausted voice, he murmurs, "I should go."
As always, she sees him to the window, where the moonlight bathes his face in a cold, white glow. Silently she watches as he returns his weapon to its rightful place on his back. His hands move quickly, certainly, so very much like his brother's hands but somehow gentler, more delicate. Reaching out, she gives his cheek a genuinely affectionate pat. "Good night. And ... thank you."
"Good night." He smiles faintly and heads toward the open window. Places a hand on the window frame.
"Next time ... "
He pauses. "Next time?"
"Next time, I'll wear a lab coat. To make it up to you. If you wish."
Glancing over his shoulder, he flashes her a grateful smile. Then he's gone. She shuts the window and turns away. Closes her eyes. Breathes in deeply to catch the fading remnants of his scent--which, unlike his hands, is exactly the same as his.
His hands shake uncontrollably as he steers the truck homeward, and he's half afraid he'll run right off the road. As he roars down lonely side-streets, he wonders just how exactly he reached this moment in time. He honestly can't remember how this all happened. The only thing he has is a vague recollection, of looking at her one day and realizing in this otherwise foreign woman a hunger all too familiar. And seeing this same realization reflected back when she looked at him.
It was a cataclysmic moment. Still, it wasn't until a full two years later that they ever even kissed. It took another year before they did anything more.
Now? Now they meet once or twice a month. At the very least.
Finally he reaches the safety and stranglehold that is home. Parking the truck, he steps down and slams shut the door. "I don't know why I keep going back," he mutters irritably to the empty garage.
But, of course, that's a lie. He knows exactly why he keeps going back. It's because of her eyes.
They're green. A beautiful, emerald green. Just like hers.