Author's Note: Hello all! I have been chipping away at this story for a while now and am really excited to have finally completed it. It is my first attempt at an 'M'-rated story in several years and my first ever for the TMNT fandom. It contains graphic sexual content and situations. If you are not of age, do not read. You have been forewarned. Now that I've gotten the obligatory disclaimer out of the way, I hope you all enjoy the story! As always, constructive feedback is welcomed and encouraged!

The Siphon and the Reservoir

"What am I still to you?

Some thief who stole from you?

Or some fool drama queen whose chances were few?

That brings us to who we need,

A place where we can save

A heart that beats as both siphon and reservoir…"

- "Morning Theft" by Jeff Buckley

I lie awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, a tangle of blankets cocooned around my legs. I'm exhausted. I can't remember the last time I had a decent night's sleep. Weeks ago, maybe; months is more likely. It seems whenever I get the chance, my mind won't cooperate. Some thought or memory will rattle around until I'm wide awake and frustrated; until I'm so restless that the walls seem to close in and I feel uncomfortable in my own skin. Then all I can do is ride out the storm and try to hold it together until morning. It's easier for me during the day. There's movement and conversation; chores to be done and things that need tending—all welcome distractions. But at night, when it's quiet and I'm alone, I can hardly stand it.

A knock at my door cuts through the silence and makes me jump. With a deep breath, I bury my head in my hands and ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my gut. I know it's her. She comes around when she's feeling lonely; when staying away hurts more than giving in. Sitting up, I kick and pull at the covers until I'm free and open the door. There, in the dim light, she stands. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to. I don't know if she comes to remember or to forget for a little while, and maybe it doesn't matter, but I know what drives her from her bed in the middle of the night. I know what chases her out of her apartment and drags her down here sometime between last call and first light. And I know what she needs because I need it too.

She pulls her hands from the pockets of her jeans, smooths the rumples in her t-shirt and looks at me with the whisper of a smile on her lips. It's a mask that she wears to avoid the truth, but I find myself smiling back anyway. The last thing I want is for her to feel guilt or shame or think that what we are doing is wrong, even if I wonder that myself sometimes.

I step aside and let her in. As soon as I close the door, she wraps her arms around me and presses her cheek into my plastron. I hold her close and breathe her in. She smells of something sweet and spicy that I can't place and it makes my head swim. Her hands wander. Her fingers trace the grooves in my carapace and rake across my sides; mine knead the muscles in her back, working in circles and figure-eights, before finding their way to her backside. She coos like a dove and I tighten my hold on her, savoring her softness and warmth. Her lips meet mine, shyly at first—feather-light and tender—but grow more passionate, filled with purpose and longing. Each exchange leaves me wanting more. Wanting to feel her. To explore her. To satisfy her. And when her tongue glides along my bottom lip, want turns into need.

"Mmmm… A-April… I…"

"Shh… Don't speak…"

She pulls away, peels off her t-shirt, and lets it fall to the floor. My heart jumps into my throat. Her every curve calls to me, begging to be touched…tasted…yearned for. Wasting no time, she unclasps her bra and slides it off at my feet. I kiss her with all that I have—with all that I feel for her—and work from her lips to her neck, where I suck and nip, and graze her skin with my teeth. It drives her wild. Trembling, she moans and throws back her head, breathing heavily and deeply, wordlessly asking for more. I lift her off her feet, lay her across my bed, and kiss her from her neck to her collarbone. Cupping her breasts softly in my hands, I can't help but appreciate the smoothness of her skin and the beauty of her form. She gasps when I flick the tip of my tongue over her nipples; her body spasms in pleasure when I take one in my mouth, sucking delicately to start, but then with more force.

Her hands reach out to me. One brushes against my cheek and runs along the line of my jaw while the other grips my shoulder, her fingernails digging in ever so slightly. A groan crawls from the back of my throat and my attention slips to a spray of freckles near her navel. I sweep across it with the tips of my fingers, barely making contact, and then with my tongue; goosebumps rise up on her skin and she half-giggles, half-purrs. Taking her reaction as a green light, I kiss my way to the waistband of her jeans, hook my fingers beneath it, and unbutton them. With a steady pull, I peel them off and drop them to the floor. Her legs—long and shapely, toned and smooth—have always turned me on. I run my hands from her ankles to her calves and then from her thighs to her hips; she arches her back as I slide her panties down her legs, taking in the sight as my desire builds upon itself.

The sound of her breathing fills the room. Droplets of sweat bead on her skin and catch the light, sparkling like precious stones. Waves of heat pour off of her and I can tell by the look in her eyes that she wants more. Taking hold of her ankles, I pull her to the edge of my bed and drop to my knees; she gasps, giggles, and leans back on her elbows. Predicting my next move, she spreads her legs. For a second, I stare, completely dumbstruck. A woman's body is a thing of wonder—tender in all the right places but tough where it counts; unquestionably strong but also delicate. And hers is beyond compare. My heart hammers and blood rushes, laced with lust, to the four corners of my body.

I kiss my way up her inner thighs, driving her crazy with anticipation. I take my time—there's no need to rush—and bask in every whimper and moan; every hitched breath and contented sigh. And then, moving deliberately, I pay homage to the most intimate part of her. With just the tip of my tongue I trace her folds, up one side and then the other. Her fluttering eyes, fixed on me, burn brightly.

It's hard to describe how she tastes. Whenever I try, I find the words are just out of reach. It could be because it's a combination of sweet and sharp that's hard to compare to anything else. Or, it could be that as I take her in, my attention is elsewhere—completely on her: on the way her chest fills and falls when I get her going, or how she bites her lower lip to keep from crying out, or even how her thighs jerk inward and press against my cheeks when I hit just the right spots. I suppose it doesn't matter. Knowing I can make her feel good is enough; that every wave of pleasure that rolls through her is partly my doing. And it excites me.

"…" She whispers.

Please. It's both a request and an order and I'm more than happy to oblige. Gently, I massage her clit with my thumb, stroking at first before switching to small semicircles. She gasps and grabs fistfuls of blanket in her hands, twisting it into tight braids. Her body trembles and jumps. Her breaths are shallow and quick, escaping in soft, wavering moans. I glance up at her and see she's staring back at me, her eyes hazed over and lustful. It only encourages me to consume her; to part her with my fingers and tongue until she loses herself; until nothing else exists but her and I in this room at this moment. And so I do. I work a finger inside of her, savoring her slickness. I tease her. I lap at her steadily and then flit playfully and then suck greedily, driving her closer to the edge.

Everything, from the quivering of her sweat-soaked body to the languid ease of her expression, has a cumulative effect on me. My tail swells and the throbbing between my legs intensifies, growing from a dull ache to a maddening twinge. I do my best to ignore it—to separate myself from it—but it isn't easy. My will is strong, but the urge to take her here and now is equally so. I know I can't hold out much longer. With a deep breath, I steady myself. I keep my tongue roving and my finger probing within her. Before long, I feel her walls shift and squeeze and she cries out, bucking and thrashing, her eyes squinched shut all the while.

And then, she's still. She stares at the ceiling, heavy-limbed and breathless, and I can't quite tell what she's thinking. Worry whittles away at me. Is she alright? Did I do something wrong? The longer she goes without saying anything, the more anxious I get until finally I muster the nerve to break the silence.

"April, are you..?"

"Shh…" She presses her index finger to her lips and pats an empty spot on the bed beside her. "Why don't you come and join me?"

I don't need to be asked twice. As soon as I plop down next to her, I am met with deep, hungry kisses. She plunges her tongue into my mouth as her hands explore my body—one trails along the lip of my plastron while the other runs along my thigh, venturing inward. My hands find her breasts as she walks her fingers up my inner leg. I savor their weight and gently roll her nipples between my forefinger and thumb. She whimpers in delight and pulls away, a devilish gleam winking in her eyes.

The next thing I know, she's pushing me down onto the bed. Her aggressiveness takes me by surprise. She titters lightly and I can tell she has me where she wants me. Her hands are everywhere—grazing the skin where my plastron joins my chest, brushing along my sides, pressing into my outer thighs—but it's the warmth of her body that eats away at my resolve. Every wave of heat that pulses from her sends a jolt through me and it takes every iota of self-control to keep myself concealed. But she knows what she's doing to me because when I moan out of need she slides down onto her knees.

I can't see what happens next, but almost lose control when I feel it: her fingers dancing along the length of my tail. The sensation is incredible. My muscles clench and knot and my toes curl. Just as I recover, she strokes faster. The world fogs over and my thoughts become a jumbled mess of images and words. I close my eyes and ride the tremors of ecstasy. It's as though everything's enhanced: scents are stronger, sounds sweeter, and every touch seems capable of setting the air around us on fire. Lost in my imaginings, I hardly notice her grip on my tail loosen or her breaths—to point, cool against my skin—grow hotter. But when her tongue swipes across it, I not only notice, I crumble.

I gasp as my erection springs free and stands at attention. The cool, dank air of the Lair nips my sensitive flesh and sends a shiver through me. She, however, is unfazed. She laces her hand around my shaft and begins pumping up and down in a steady rhythm. My legs straighten out and drop, rendered useless by her touch. I reach to her, brush her cheek with my hand, and run my fingers through her hair. I want to tell her that she's beautiful; an angel; a goddess. I'd carve it into the sky if I could. But when she takes me in her mouth and sucks down hard, all I can manage is gibberish.

Her head bobs in unison with her hand, taking me in a little deeper every time. Just when I adjust to the feeling, she does something new or different and I'm floating on air again. She speeds and slows the pace, swishes her tongue along my length, and then—when I least expect it—takes my tail in her opposite hand and massages it affectionately. The combination is devastating. The pressure in my loins expands and ripples outward and it feels like raw, unmitigated energy. Release becomes my top priority, fuelled by unrelenting need, and before I even realize it, I'm surging toward the brink. My breath catches in my throat and I barely manage to warn her:

"Ap-April… I'm go-gonna…"

She takes note and releases me. I swallow hard as she gets to her feet, stretches out beside me, and presses her lips to mine. I can taste myself on her; hints of musk beneath the airy sweetness of her kiss. It makes me feel both wanted and complete and I respond by tracing her form—from the slope of her shoulder to the curve of her hip—with my hand. I'm so caught up in all that's happening that I barely notice her throw a leg over my lap and straddle me. With another deep kiss, she pulls away. She takes my member in her hand, positions the tip at her entrance, and eases herself down onto me. She takes it slow and rolls her hips back and forth and then in small circles, taking me in a bit more each time. It's as wonderful as it is torturous. Feeling her around me is almost indescribable—the purest of joys. I want to lose myself inside of her, but I have to be patient. I have to give her body time to adjust to mine, and so I let her do as she pleases. After all, some things are worth the wait.

With a low moan, she closes the space between us. It's overwhelming, like being surrounded by liquid velvet. Though I don't mean to, I grunt and yelp, overcome by the feeling. My eyes slide shut. In my mind, sprays of fireworks erupt like geysers of fire and light, flaring and fading in-time with her movements.

Her hands find my shoulders. She leans forward, bracing herself against me, her breasts barely out-of-reach and her nails digging in harder with every down-stroke. Our bodies move in time and she controls the pace. She swells like a wave, pulling herself up gradually before crashing down upon me; I grab hold of her by the hips and bear down tightly, as though she's the only thing keeping me afloat. Strands of hair, slick with sweat, stick to her cheeks and neck, but I can't think of a time when she's looked lovelier. Feeling bold, I wrap my arms around her, pull her close, and kiss the space between her neck and collarbone. Her muffled whines fill my ears. With her body pressed to mine, I can feel her heart race as she loses herself in the moment and surrenders to me.

"Do you want me?" She asks breathlessly.

"Y-yes…" I barely manage.

"Tell me…"

"I… I w-want you…"

In a blur, she untangles herself from me and lies back on my bed. She runs her hands up and down her body and, with a lick of her lips, says: "Then take me…"

I do as I'm told. Scrambling to my knees, I position myself in front of her, splaying her legs as I do. I enter her gently and bury myself to the hilt; her breath hitches and the smallest of sighs falls from her lips. At first, my motions are conservative—deep and slow—but when her legs wrap around mine, I understand what she wants and thrust harder and faster.

With her eyes closed, she writhes beneath me. Her hands are spread across my carapace and she, lost in the moment, digs and claws wildly. But the pain is nothing compared to the pleasure. My body tightens and my innards coil. Pulsing waves of energy burn through my limbs and settle in my gut, swirling like a funnel-cloud. I can tell I'm getting close.

"F-faster!" She pleads.

I can't deny her. Leaning forward onto my elbows, I work myself in and out of her as quickly as I'm able. Sweat drips from my brow. My breaths grow ragged and hoarse; hers fill the room, shrill and desperate. And as she reaches her climax, quaking and crying out, I kiss her neck lightly and breathe her in.

"Oh, Donnie…" She moans. "D-Donnie…"

The tension in my core drifts to my manhood and expands. Just as the storm within me erupts in claps of thunder and flashes of lightning; just as I soar to the highest heights and share with her the most sacred of pleasures, she cuts me down.

Stunned, I roll to the side and lie next to her, feeling wounded and fulfilled all at once. She cradles her face in her hands. I can't tell whether she's trying to catch her breath or hide her tears. Either way, she refuses to look at me. It seems every time I try to do right, I only end up making things worse. I should've known we were doomed from the start. Shame pulls at me and I'm right back where I was—staring at the ceiling and waiting for the moment to pass.

"I…I'm so sorry." She squeaks. "I… I didn't mean…"

She's misty-eyed and choked up, shaking like a leaf in the breeze. I can't stand to see her so upset. I never could. That's how I got into this fix in the first place.

"Ya don't need t' apologize… 's ok…"

"No… it's not." She insists, her voice breaking. "It's really not."

I drape my arm over her shoulders. "It's fine. Really. I understand."

She sniffles, sighs, and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "I… I just… I just really miss him."

"I know." I say as tears sting my eyes. "I do, too."

We all miss him, but it's harder for me and her. If it wasn't bad enough for her knowing that he gave up his life to save hers, that she never got the chance to apologize to him made everything that much worse. And me? My suffering stems from regret. What if I didn't complain about going with him that night like Leo asked? What if I found him sooner? Would any of it have mattered enough to make a difference? The others grieved, sure. They went through a lot of the same stuff and asked themselves many of the same questions. But it's different for us. Different because, deep down, we know we're to blame.

"I should go." She says, sitting up.

"Ya don't have t' go…"

"I do. It's almost morning…"

She knows that Leo will be up soon. She's never said so, but I know she doesn't want the others finding out, even though I'm almost certain that they already know. Whenever we spend a night together, the next morning is a lesson in unspoken accusation: icy stares, conversations that end when I walk into the room, clipped greetings and quick exits, the works. It's hard to hold it against them. She was the love of his life; I just happened to be around when she was vulnerable… and selfish enough to take advantage.

"But I…"

She's out of bed and collecting her clothes before I can say another word. I don't know if it's out of embarrassment or anxiety, but she gets dressed faster than she ever has before—probably as fast as any person can. Once she smooths the wrinkles from her shirt with her hands, she heads for the door. I leap from the bed, almost stumbling as I do, just as she opens it.

"April… please, wait…" I want to tell her how I feel about her. I want her to know how much I care and what she's come to mean to me. "I'd… I'd trade places with him if I could…"

She stops and turns to me, her expression caught between sadness and sympathy. "Don't say things like that. You know I wouldn't want you to…"

She kisses me on the cheek and smiles. It's a mask she wears to avoid the truth, but I can't bring myself to smile back.

"Take care of yourself, Raph."

"Uh…yeah. You, too…"

As she turns and walks away, I hang my head. Because I know the truth. And because nothing I do or give or offer her will ever change it. I may look at her and see an angel…a goddess, but I know she doesn't feel the same. Because when she looks my way, all she sees—and all she'll ever see—is me…

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed the tale, sad though it may be. If you are wondering what happened to Donatello, you need only read my story "Forever on a Winter's Eve" to find out. If not, it's cool; some things are better left to the imagination. I would be remiss if I did not give a shout-out to Terraform and Jay Jones for not only writing very inspiring erotica, but also for their boundless encouragement, inspiration, and advice. And thank you, dear readers, for reading!