Chapter Text
It was inevitable she would become attracted to him. Who wouldn’t for a man caring and tender as he. Albeit he was not a man in the traditional sense -- a seven foot mutant gator-croc was not what people considered ‘normal’ -- Leatherhead was nonetheless one in his own way. Perhaps months before she would have never considered him a possible date, with valid reasoning too since he was all sharp edges and menacing shadows, but now she wished it were possible to take him topside and sit at a nice little cafe for coffee. A prime example of ‘beauty from within’, he had proved more than once that no other (human, mutant, or otherwise) could compare. Illnesses be damned, Leatherhead owned up to his mistakes unlike most she knew, sought to better himself for them, and she was there to support him -- bouts of anger, depression, and all. It had taken time to trust her as he did now, summing up to his eyes dilating back to normal as she fearlessly held his head close. They were practically a couple, if either of them could speak upon it -- if he even felt the same.
Sometimes she could swear he did, because she would feel the lingering gazes on her back, as if it were hard to ignore those eyes of a ferocious predator. When her hands were on him a look of wistfulness would overcome him as well, as though he were observing just how different and contrasting they were; his hand engulfed both of her’s with ease, his were claws sharp enough that he would not dare point her way, and his skin was rough against her smooth flesh. Those were the big signs anyone could see, from the turtles to April, she could not be the only one. The smaller tellings were the kind perhaps one or two of her exes had ever cared to show during their time together, yet even then she was not as confident with them as she was now with the mutant. Texting her every evening how her day was, if she needed anything before she went home or came over, whether she was safe and feeling good, what would be the plan for dinner if they were having it together. They were all so domestic, the result of sleeping over in his home for the majority of their shared time. He knew what blanket of his was her favorite, there were three pillows designated for her (the rest were all for his bigger form), the storage in his kitchen held their favorite teas (a merged taste at this point) and her own preferred snacks alongside his, there was now a sofa next to his recliner, and so much more that would take too long to count. Perhaps the smaller things were actually larger and far more noticable. In the end the picture was loud and clear: they were living together and there was something more.
If there wasn’t, then she’d be so embarrassed. How horrifying it would be to look too deep into their relationship only to find it just like any other. Stuck with a crush that was not reciprocated was an experience she never wanted to be in again; highschool had never been her favorite years. The only difference from then was her mind, unabashed and filled with girlish fantasies that would make her millions if written down. That was how she had realized her feelings were far more than friendly. One simple brush of hands -- he had helped her up after a nasty fall while rehearsing -- and her face had flushed like after a performance with a packed audience in the Lincoln Center. The sensation of leather and scale on fluid flesh brought an electric tingle up her veins, heating her blood like no other as pictures began to fill her mind. Splashes of warm honey-brown, strokes of olive green, with large bristles followed closely by tinier ones, creating long languid lines down a white canvas that soon became a mess of browns and greens. If he had lingered as he tended to, then both sure as hell were doing it together.
Did it make her a freak to ache for a touch that could end in gashes and blood? She didn’t long for the pain, but that seemed to be the only logical result with his poweress no matter how hard he attempted control. There seemed to be no end to what her body desired when it came to him. The moment her eyes closed he was there. Goofy smile, awkward shoulders, sharp fangs, scattered pattern of scales, and if she was feeling extra frisky, pupils the shape of crescent moons. Lethal as they were, phantasms of claws ghosting over her taut stomach erupted little bumps under her skin; palms larger than her face fitting perfectly between her thighs, firm and steady, made her legs cross; strength that could possibly hold her in ways like no other brought foolish notions of being stroked just right in the most fantastical positions. Oh, and his voice, gruff and musical in her own opinion. He could reach an octave that oozed confidence, or drop to a contemplative tone that hurt her heart. A phone call could do no justice to the way it burrowed in her ears, bouncing deep within her body towards her core. If she was a freak so be it.
Unfortunately this meant less nights in his home, on his bed of mattresses, buried under a shared blanket (her favorite of his was used for hugging these days), with his long, fluid body there to press against when it was cold. Disciplined as she was, in the world of dreams there were no barriers, only lucid sensations that would set off a chain of events neither of them were ready for. And he noticed the lack of her as well, because his questioning came within weeks.
“It is not my place to bring up, but you haven’t been down here in week now.”
She had been on the sofa, both feet soaking in a tub of ice water. Her head lifted from the magazine in her lap to see his back at the lab table. “Yeah, have to keep up appearances or else they’d think I was missing.” She had practiced her excuses.
“No we would not want to worry anyone.” He raised a beaker of clear liquid and stared at in under the light. This was one of the ways he kept himself regulated: distracting his mind. She had noticed it a few times when he was upset, and what was more upsetting than your closest friend not being around (avoiding you, if he was practiced in social experiences to realize it).
She could have kept it there, but her heart began to ache. “There’s no easy way to say I’m pretty much roommates with a gator-croc underground.”
“...we’re roommates?”
“Well, yeah -- you can’t tell me it wasn’t obvious.” Or was this another part of her looking too deep into matters?
She watched him swirl the beaker, eyeing the way his lab coat formed to his backside so well, showing off his heavy torso, then hanging off his slender middle, and finally draping over his large tail. When he turned his head to give her a side-glance, her lips turned upward at the image. “It sounds far lovelier spoke aloud rather than in my mind.”
And he seemed to have caught his slip up, for he turned his full attention back to his rack of test tubes and flattened specimens on the desk. She could only imagine his face turning a shade of scarlet under the small plates over his maw, and longed to see it -- proof she was not a fool.
Well if he was going to slip up, so was she, only better. “Agreed, you’re an amazing bedmate.” far better than any other person or stuffed companion she had ever slept beside.
Whatever the effect that had on him, there was no indication. She longed for him to cough, accidently break something -- hell, turn around and throw a glare heated by more than embarrassment. Her mind went haywire again, painting pictures of burning lava and heavy claw tears. There was nothing -- save his self-discipline -- stopping him from striding over to her with risque intentions clear in his demeanor. The sores on her feet from rehearsal be damned, she would happily stand and jump into his large arms even if he would only meet her half-way there. The sofa would last a good few minutes before it would begin to break under their (his) weight, but that was all they would need if they were to be on one another at that momen. What a tale that would be too.
Nothing happened though, leaving them in stagnated silence as opposed to the comfortable one earlier. Her mind could not focus as it had, fighting against further details surrounding their imagined coupling. The heat was pooling at the tip of her core, begging for her thighs to press tighter for relief, but she did not oblige.
“Tomorrow I’ll be back, it’s the weekend so it won’t cause an uproar.” It sounded so childish to talk about it, as though she were a highschooler once more trying to sneak away with lies. Her fellow tenants were not pests as she was making them sound, but then at the same time they were ever since she began sleeping down below without a mention of it. Some had speculated she had a secret lover, which was not far from the truth in perspective. Annoying and intrusive, her excuse was not a lie, backed up by the gossip around her personal life.
“I’ll have the bed nice and warm for you.”
And whether or not he was playing the game she felt to have officially started, or simply that naively sweet, it was no help for her heated mind that would engulf her that night as she curled into her small, cold bed. Or once cold bed, because with him clouding her imagination, everything would be set in flames. At night she would burn under the thick, featherdown blanket as a hand frantically swept over her swollen nub. The ache in the center of her cunt would sting so painfully, yet her wrist couldn’t move any quicker or press any harder to alleviate it; her nights were longer than ever, but she supposed the reason was his superior form and abilities that no other man could meet even in her imagination. The worst part was her fingers: unable to fill her like before. Two usually did it, three on occasion, but four? That was frightening, specifically when they did little to aid her feverish pumping -- and she wouldn’t dare put a whole fist in there, strangely more horrifying than a toy larger than it. Each slap of her soaked palm against wet folds that glistened from her point of view was gorgeous, and irritating as the leg shaking ecstasy did little. The whole ordeal became horribly tiring rather than reliving by her fourth attempt. The first time she had dejectedly laid there after the initial orgasm, it had been clear she was not feeling the typical glow during or after, and the next few confirmed she would not be able to achieve that feeling with her usual skills; the fourth try finally had her snap, filling her with determination to get what she wanted (or something to mimic it at least).
A mistake, a huge one at that, on account that her quest found a solution in no time through her fellow dancer and friend -- her best friend since moving to New York. A click of a mouse, then a two-day wait, and finally it was there: half her forarm’s thickness, but the same length elbow to wrist. Starting out slow and steady sounded like a logical plan, but it seemed like she had put too much on her plate. She always said ‘why have a whopper when I could have a Big Mac with fries and a large drink? ’ Foolishly, though, she also always forgot her trouble finishing even that . Thus she was left staring at her new toy with doubt like lead in her stomach, repeating the same old, same old she had since realizing she had a romantic interest in the mutant: ‘You’re so fucken foolish.’ There was no stopping her though. Slow and steady, patience and determination, both of which continually made her laugh as she hyped herself up. If she could endure twelve years of ballet classes three times a week for five hours a day, long performances, and seven years in companies where she had done a few solos, then she could take what was only described as a ‘monster cock’ on the website. And if she had overestimated her companion, then she would be more than ready if she ever was brave enough to confess.
The latter was another foolish and dumb frusteration of the whole ordeal, but that was self-analysis for later.
She had an itch to scratch.
Did she feel the same as he? Was he delusioned in what he thought might be more than what it seemed? It did not take a scientist to see his lingering gaze had gone noticed; she would stop for a split second, and the moment she turned to peek back his eyes would be elsewhere. They were innocent enough, especially in the beginning while in awe with her elegant movements. Her limbs were toned, long, and made little to no sound, as if she were gliding. She was like a ribbon, or even strokes of ink by a quill, nimbly going about his home like some sort of nymph sent to distract him. She would rehearse her dances, then flounce with twirls and sudden on-pointe poses as she partook in simple tasks like making coffee, all the while glowing under the artificial lights his world offered. He observed the fake yellow and white hues dance off her tawny skin, pale in the poor excuse of lighting; in photos where the sun was bright, he could see it’s glare give the red undertones of her flesh justice as she took a darker hue. Nevertheless, she shone like a natural light in his dark world, causing a realization: he had never been so bitter of living in the sewers until she came and shared the sun with him. The longer he gazed upon her, the more wicked he felt.
His feelings had grown naturally over the time they knew one another. It felt like years had passed instead of the simple one and half of being together. She was an anchor to reality and the Earth whenever he felt his feral instincts kick in, or depression washed over him. Her wide grin with the two crooked teeth and one metal cap was his own personal sunshine; when her long, skinny fingers would wrap around his own she would gently rub them together, grounding him to the concrete floors. The simple touches started out so sweetly, then wantonly as the sensation of smooth flesh over leather scales warmed him. Finally he would stare -- his sharp claws and large hand a grim reminder of their differences: a human and a mutant (an alien one at that too). He’d taken down hundreds of humans in his lifetime, been hurt by them in the most despicable ways, yet he yearned for her touch -- to feel her fingers trace the shape of every little plate on his hardened skin, feel her body heat so close to his. The muscles in his arms would flex, prepared to catch them both off guard with scooping her up and cocooning her against his chest. It was dangerous to have her down below with him, but he ignored the cautionary flags in his mind in favor of the desires in his heart.
And desire he did, for it never stopped after that. Maybe he had more time under his belt to let his feelings grow, because until her little accident during what he learned was a grand jeté, she had never looked to him like that. A nasty bit of a fall from her own tired shaky limbs, the thud echoed throughout his chamber, perking him from the workbench. Before either of them knew it he was beside her, fighting the urge to pick her up by offering a hand for support instead. It was then he saw her eyes take on a whole new gleam, but it was also then he realized how lovely she looked below him, neck craned upwards with her Hazel eyes wide in what he could only describe as tenderness -- yearning, if he let his heart do all the thinking. Even when she was safely on the sofa and he was crouched so he could apply first-aid to the scratched knee, her stare bore into his -- tempting him to lean in and count the little flecks of dual color. A lovely sight that was sometimes brown with green, other times the opposite, and occasionally only brown. If he had followed such a simple act, he knew for a fact it would escalate further. He’d want to cradle her face in his horrible hands, part her glossy lips with the large pad of his thumb, pull her close until her legs were stretched to accommodate him between her hot thighs, trail his heavy tongue over her buttery smooth flesh and taste her sweet essence. He could see it so vividly that his stomach would churn from the spike in heat burning down his veins, and his chest rose faster with each passing second. These lascivious thoughts and emotions had grown, but not out of hand fortunately, though definitely at such a cruel time. He had come to terms with his moments of rage, they were only natural with the torture he had endured by Bishop’s hands, and her patience and courage were a big help towards calming himself; he could call her to talk it out, or even imagine her voice leading him into meditation. So to now crave her touch in a less than friendly ways was a new loop the universe had thrust upon him. Hadn’t he been through enough friendship destroying afflictions for one lifetime? Did he even want to truly act on his new feelings and risk losing the only other (besides Donatello) person he could talk to and trust? He could handle his issues alone these days, but her presence just made it all the easier.
He’d keep quiet until he had to pull away, or hopefully she could possibly grow and admit her own feelings. A hard task on his part since she was with him for the better part of the week (month even). It was no longer a ‘bachelor pad’ as Michaelangelo and Raphael proclaimed it, instead a symbiotic habitat between him and his female companion. There were more than a dozen signs of her living there, the domestically obvious being her comfort food, lounge wear, pile of pointe shoes, and of course hygienic and skin care products. The latter two had taken time, innocent convincing on his part that she could shower in his curtained off washroom, and necessity on her part with the need to wash up before and after work. A mistake, a horrible, regret filled mistake that was one of the underlying signs only a mutant (or anyone with keen senses) could sense. Such a lovely aroma of vanilla and cinnamon, like a fresh pastry out of the oven being drenched with sweet icing. Whatever she touched clung to her scent as if they wanted him to suffer. It tied a knot around the little fibers of his makeshift bed and their sofa. The moment he parted the curtains to bathe he would flinch, taking a step back as if hit physically. A trail he could trace her every movement with; an annoying distraction lodged in his nose. Made worse when dried sweat engulfed her skin, mixing a natural musk to the beguiling perfume and body wash she boasted. Relief only came with the recent month or so. She had gradually stayed over night less and less, giving him much needed space to grab his bearings and release the pent up tension in his shoulders and between his thighs.
Never on their bed where they slept in comfortable companionship -- he could never besmirch the place she found safety in.
Always in the large tub which laid flat on the cold floor, ready to wash away any all filth that filled it.
Embarrassingly to the thought of her imperfectly perfect grin and pouty lips ; her languid twirls and strong limbs that rose and stretched with practiced ease in the most difficult ways; and like a heavy curtain over his being, her aroma, always teasing at his nose. What started as cautious beginnings now easily turned into something of a chore as he grew confident each time. Starting with paranoid thoughts that he may caught, that she may find out, soon began its descent into ecstasy with each passing minute. Silent and tamed, flames which overtook his veins and muscles, sweat washing over his leathery skin with a shameful gleam. Faster and faster to obtain more and more electric bolts into his swollen arousal, whether by squeezing his fingers tighter, or rolling his hips into the barren air. Betrayed by his own mind her voice would ring out so vividly, crying for more, reaching her hands to bring him closer to her body -- so small compared to his; wearing only her rehearsal outfit of a leotard and mesh tights showing off the tanned skin underneath. She brought him comfort, making him believe he could do her no wrong with the trust shining in her eyes. The moment his peak hit with a less than quiet growl, reality crashed all around, burying his fantasies under guilt and disgust. How could she trust him when he did foul things like this?
How could he trust himself to not hurt her when his entire being was sharp and heavy -- monstrous.
The aftermath of his containment in Bishop’s horrible labs -- where polished metal and loud whirring overwhelmed him -- left Leatherhead scarred. Not only emotionally, but physically, with long faded craters in his torso he could not hide under clothing. They were his proof of what talons could do with no more but a simple motion; an instrument of science, or a naturally grown part of a creature, there was little difference when he was the latter. She had seen the damage Bishop had done internally, but only knew the surface of the external cruelties. If a man like Bishop could do this to him (a mutant twice the human’s size), then he could do the same by accident to his dearest friend. Even if they were ever to be together, the anxiety of one mistake happening would hang over them both; her fall had been a mistake, and that almost cost her a career haltering broken ankle -- enough data for him to validate these fears.
Was it a blessing that his contempt for humans after his torture finally cooled after meeting her? She never alarmed his instincts to keep away, maybe because they had met during a vulnerable moment for her where a gentle confession of anxiety to a man in the sewers outside a theatre touched his heart. He could always see her snugly tied pointe shoes back then, and the moment she had crouched to thank him for his listening ear, he was filled with happiness as she flashed a pretty smile. Tentatively the months passed, their hands touched, their hearts opened, and his animosity subsided. Had she ever felt a flourish of flight beg her to run from his lumbering form? He could not blame her if she admitted it, but he already felt it true without her even saying so. It was a blessing he was once again at ease like before his days strapped to a sterile, iron bed, yet also brought so many new fears, that many days it did not feel worth it.
She was no help either, because she flirted with him like it was nothing. First and foremost in obvious jest as friends did, and now with a teasing wink as if she were testing the waters. Not enough to give him the assurance to confess, but just enough to make his eyes threaten to turn narrow from rushes of blood boiling desire. His mind simply went wild when her hips swung side to side in plain view for him. Not the most buxom girl unless emphasised in her rehearsal clothes and costumes; she had a chest almost flat as a table, and only the muscles in her legs as cushion; she was not what magazines and television shoved into the public eye, but it was enough for him . She sure as hell knew how to use what she owned, for there was no denying it had caught the gaze of others in her life -- past or present. He hated to think about the people topside who she flirted with in serious ways, who could be under the sun with her amongst the public, and the past lovers who broke her heart, because it all sent a horrifying swarm of jealousy over him, and that just wasn’t fair. She would not like it, they were not binded in a monogamous relationship, there was no valid reason for him to demand her for himself when her life was her own. No matter how hard he turned from those thoughts, hey still lingered. If she liked to flirt with those she liked, then she could and with only her own consent and no one else’s leading the way; if he wanted to act like a dumb beast, he could, and he’d only prove that he did not deserve her favor. He would take whatever she graced him with and be happy, then quietly pay it back with a smidgen of bitterness over her cruel teasing. Without a doubt it was a game, one that she always initiated. It was in his nature to enjoy a good game too, whether from his mutation or Bishop’s own tampering, and pridefully he was quick learner of the rules. The only new addition was his desire to win and drive her to put a foot down in either confirmation she was only playing, or finally to admit something more.
Did these little bouts of war mean she was not averse to seeing him in a less-than-friendly way? If she could bear to lay her hands on him without hesitation any more, that meant she was ok with him. If she could look upon him without wide eyes, for longer than a few tense minutes, that meant she was accustomed to him. If she could lay with him in a bed where he would wake up many times practically spooning with her, then surely that meant she trusted him...and then something? He had little experience or knowledge with romantic or sexual situations, and what he did know did not match the intensity of affection he held for her. Their games felt like the beginning of something more, but with the way she went about them and acted afterwards, it seemed she too was a tad lost, perhaps because it was treading new grounds since her other partners had been human -- easier to approach. It made logical sense, and if Leaterhead was one thing, it was genius enough to be logical.
It was the long, introspective days like these that lead him to believe that this would be the day a confession would come from him. All the anxieties and tightness in his body were just too much, but every day he kept his maw shut,
With luck, she’d find someone else (no matter how much the thought made his heart clench), and slowly forget about the sewers.
It was the only safe path for them both.