Chapter Text
Losing consciousness mid-patrol was never part of the plan, not that Casey Jones was a big fan of plans in the first place.
His head throbbed, a dull, rhythmic ache that felt suspiciously like the aftermath of a bad check into the boards. He groaned, pushing himself up onto his elbows. "'Alone... huh." He muttered, his voice echoing weirdly in the sterile, silent space.
"Some rescue mission." He scoffed, rubbing his head.
He was in a square room, all stark white walls, floor, and ceiling. No doors, no windows. Just... blankness.
It was creepier than a power-play penalty in the last two minutes of a tied game. Scrambling to his feet, he instinctively reached for his hockey stick, finding only empty air. His mask was gone too. "Great. Just great."
Pressing his hands against the smooth, cool white wall, he started patting it down, looking for a seam, a crack, anything. "Yo! Donnie! Leo! Anyone copy?" he yelled, the sound swallowed by the oppressive whiteness. "If this is one of Mikey's lame jokes, I'm not laughin'!"
No response. Just his own breathing, which was starting to sound a little too loud.
‘Alright, Jones, don't panic. Think. Bright light... teleportation? Some kind of Kraang tech?’
He wasn't the brains of the operation—that was Donnie's department—but he'd picked up a thing or two from listening to the turtle ramble. But this felt different. It was too clean, too quiet. No weird pink gum-shaped aliens, no robotic soldiers.
He slammed a fist against the wall in frustration. It didn't even make a satisfying thud. The silence was worse than any sound. It made him feel... exposed. The guys were his backup, his team. Without them, the bravado felt thin.
Where were they? Were they in a room like this? Were they hurt?
A new, colder kind of fear started to prickle at the back of his neck. He wasn't just worried about himself. He was worried about them. Especially a certain purple-masked genius who always had a smart remark and a ridiculously complicated solution for everything. The thought of Donnie being scared, or worse, in a place like this... it made his chest tighten.
He started pacing, the motion the only thing that felt real. "Okay, Foot Clan or…Kraang or—whatever! You wanna play with Casey Jones? Let's play." He cracked his knuckles, a grim smirk finally touching his lips. "But you better believe I'm gonna break your scoreboard."
Casey’s bravado paused as sudden as it came, his eyes widening as he noticed something in the middle of the room that he swore hadn’t been there a second ago.
Casey froze mid-pace, his breath catching in his throat. He spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs like a fist on a locker room door. There it was. Impossible. A simple, metal-framed large bed, stark against the white void. And on the headboard of it, a glowing red number: 10.
“What the—” he whispered, the words dying in the sterile air. He took a cautious step forward, then another, his senses on high alert. This wasn’t Kraang tech. This was... theatrical. Messed up.
The number glowed with a cold, pulsing light. Ten. Like…
Like a countdown.
A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. It hadn’t been there a second ago. That meant someone, or something, was watching him. Putting on a show just for him. Casey Jones hated being played with.
“Alright, you sicko!” he snarled, glaring at the ceiling as if he could pierce through it and find his captor. “What’s the game? Huh? Ten what? Ten seconds ‘til my head explodes? Pretty lame!”
As if in answer, the red number flickered.
10 became 9.
Casey’s bravado vanished, replaced by a spike of raw adrenaline. It was a countdown.
He backed away from the bed, putting a few feet between himself and the unknown. His mind, usually focused on the simple joys of hockey and hard hits, raced through terrible possibilities. A bomb? Gas? Some kind of psychic attack?
He thought of Donnie again. Donnie would have this figured out in two seconds flat. He’d be muttering about quantum states and temporal displacement, his staff already poking at the bedframe for weaknesses. The thought was a weird comfort.
8.
Panic started to claw its way up his throat. He was trapped. No weapons. No team. Just him, a bed, and a glowing number ticking down to... what?
He clenched his fists, his knuckles white. Casey Jones wasn’t going out like this. Not without a fight. If this was the end, he’d meet it on his feet, swinging at thin air if he had to.
He dropped into a fighter’s stance, eyes darting around the room, looking for any change, any clue. The whiteness was agonizing. It offered no hiding spots, no advantages.
7.
His eyes snapped back to the bed. It was just a bed. But the number was on it. Was it the threat? Or was the bed... a target?
“Fine,” he growled, a plan forming in his desperation. “If you want me in the bed, you’re gonna have to knock me out and drag me there.”
He planted his feet, waiting for the zero, ready for hell to break loose. The silence was the worst part. What happened when it hit zero?
When the timer hit zero, he expected maybe an explosion—not for a hole to open up in the ceiling and for none other than Donnie be plopped onto the bed. The hole in the ceiling closed once more, and Donnie blinked—clearly confused.
The silent 1 hung in the air for an unbearable second before blinking out entirely.
Zero.
Casey braced for the flash, the bang, the searing heat. He squeezed his eyes shut, muscles coiled like springs.
Thump.
The sound was... soft. Dull. Organic.
He cracked one eye open.
And there, sprawled awkwardly across the stark white bed, was Donatello. The turtle blinked rapidly, his red eyes squinting against the uniform brightness. He pushed himself up on his elbows, his bo staff clattering to the floor beside the bed—apparently, he’d been allowed to keep his weapon. Typical. Of course the nerd would get to keep his gear.
"Ungh... Nonlinear spatial displacement?" Donnie muttered to himself, his voice a familiar, welcome anchor in the bizarre silence. He shook his head, his gaze sweeping the room with quick, analytical darts. "Fascinating. The inertial dampening was surprisingly gentle, but the light-scattering properties of these walls are highly inefficient for a living organism... Casey?"
His focus finally landed on the frozen hockey player. A flicker of genuine relief crossed his features, quickly masked by his usual sarcastic frown. "Oh. It's you. I was hoping for a slightly more intellectually stimulating captive. Did you see the energy signature of the portal? The harmonic frequency was almost Kraang-like, but the carrier wave had a distinct—"
Casey didn't let him finish. He surged forward, crossing the space in two long strides. He didn't hug him—that would be weird—but he grabbed Donnie by the shoulders, giving him a rough, frantic shake. "DONNIE! You're okay! What happened? Where are the others? What is this place? What was with the countdown?"
Donnie blinked, taken aback by the intensity. He straightened his bandaged wrists, a faint, embarrassed flush tinting his green skin beneath his mask. "I... am operating with a significant data deficit, Casey. One moment, I was analyzing a peculiar energy reading near the northwest wall of the warehouse, and the next... well, you saw the dramatic entrance." He gestured vaguely at the ceiling he had dropped from. "The others? Unknown. Logic suggests they've been subjected to a similar translocation event."
Donnie stood up, retrieving his staff, and immediately tapping it against the nearest wall. It produced the same unsatisfying, muted tap. "Fascinating. Acoustic dampening fields. Our captor is thorough." He turned back to Casey, his scientific curiosity momentarily overriding the danger. "The countdown... you witnessed it? Was it a true temporal measurement, or a psychological trigger? The introduction of a second subject post-countdown implies the latter, possibly to maximize disorientation."
Casey just stared at him, his fear now funneling into a familiar, agitated energy. "I don't care about the freakin' dampening fields, Donnie! There was a number, it counted down, you fell out of the sky, and now we're stuck! How do we get out?"
Donnie opened his mouth, likely to launch into a theory about phased resonance or dimensional harmonics, when the bed suddenly emitted a low hum. Both of them flinched, turning to look.
Two new numbers materialized on the mattress, glowing with the same ominous red.
15.
And this time, they were stacked.
One above the other.
The first 15 started to count down, the two of them not having much they could do as they watched it.
The sight of the twin 15s sent a fresh wave of dread through Casey. One counting down immediately, the other... waiting. It was a promise of more to come. "Donnie, what's it mean?" he hissed, his voice tight.
Donnie was already tapping furiously on his wrist Tech-Pad, his brow furrowed in concentration. "An iterative sequence. The first instance is the activation prompt. The second... a quantifier, possibly indicating duration or potency. The gas is likely a—"
5... 4... 3...
"Just tell me what to do!" Casey yelled, panic overriding patience.
"Hold your breath!" Donnie commanded, his own voice sharp with urgency. He clamped a hand over his snout, his eyes wide behind his mask. Casey sucked in a huge gulp of the sterile air and did the same, his lungs burning almost instantly.
ZZZZZT.
A soft hiss emanated from vents they hadn't seen, and a shimmering, pink mist began to pour into the room. It smelled sickly sweet, like rotting fruit and synthetic sugar. Donnie’s analytical composure shattered as the cloud reached them. He tried to hold his breath, but a reflexive, startled sniff brought a dose of the gas into his system. He choked, a ragged cough tearing from his throat.
Casey’s vision started to spot. His chest felt like it was going to explode.
Can't... hold...
His body betrayed him, and he gasped, dragging the perfumed poison deep into his lungs.
The effect was instantaneous and brutal.
It wasn't just heat; it was a furnace igniting in his veins. A wave of scorching, liquid fire spread from his core to the very tips of his fingers, making his nerves scream. He cried out, his legs buckling as he collapsed to the floor next to Donnie, who was already writhing, his shell scraping against the smooth white surface. The turtle’s whole body was trembling violently, his fingers scraping at his own arms.
But the physical agony was only half of it. Casey’s mind... swam. The edges of the room blurred, and a strange, heavy fuzziness filled his head. Every sensation was amplified a hundredfold. The texture of the floor against his cheek was like sandpaper. The sound of his own ragged breathing was a deafening roar. And the smell of the gas was now cloying, thick, making his head spin with a weird, dizzying rush.
Then Donnie made a sound Casey had never, ever heard from him. A high, distressed chirp, thin and reptilian, straight from some ancient part of his brain. It was a sound of pure, uncomplicated agony and vulnerability.
And it shot through Casey’s feverish system like a bolt of lightning. That strange feeling wasn't just sympathy. It was a visceral, answering pang deep in his gut, a raw and undeniable pull that had nothing to do with friendship and everything to do with the confusing, heated fog scrambling his thoughts. He reached a trembling hand out, his voice a strained whisper.
"Donnie...?"
Casey's own world had narrowed to a feverish, throbbing point. The heat was a living thing beneath his skin, coiling and pulsing with every frantic beat of his heart. The white walls seemed to pulse in time with it, a nauseating rhythm that made his head swim. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, a deafening roar that almost, almost drowned out the desperate, hitching sounds coming from the turtle beside him.
Donnie was curled in on himself, a tremoring ball of green and purple. His usually sharp, inquisitive eyes were wide, the red irises glazed and unfocused, seeing nothing in the real world. Sweat beaded on his skin, making it gleam under the oppressive light. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, each one sounding like it was being torn from him. The intelligent, sarcastic genius was gone, stripped away by the gas, leaving behind only raw, overwhelmed sensation.
He let out another pained, clicking chirp, a sound of pure instinct, and dug the tips of his fingers into the seams of his plastron as if trying to physically claw the feeling out.
The sound ripped through Casey's addled mind. All Casey’s bluster, all his tough-guy posturing, melted away in the face of Donnie's utter vulnerability. This wasn't a rival he could fight with a hockey stick. This was something... else.
"Hey... Donnie," Casey managed to rasp out, his own voice thick and strange. He dragged himself closer, the movement sending fresh waves of scorching sensitivity through his limbs. He reached out, his hand shaking violently, and his fingers brushed against Donnie's arm.
The effect was electric.
Donnie flinched hard at the contact, a full-body jolt. But he didn't pull away. His glazed eyes slowly, painfully, focused on Casey's hand. The chirping stopped, replaced by a low, confused rumble in his chest. He was still trembling, but it was different now—less like a seizure and more like a live wire, buzzing with confused energy.
Casey’s own breath hitched. The simple touch sent a new kind of shock through him, cutting through the chemical haze with a startling clarity. The heat wasn't just pain anymore. It was... awareness. An intense, hyper-focused awareness of the strong, green limb under his fingertips, of the rapid pulse he could feel beating there, of the way Donnie was looking at him with a dazed, desperate confusion that mirrored his own.
The second 15 on the bed continued to glow, a silent, terrifying promise. How long did they have? What was phase two?
"Talk to me, brainiac," Casey whispered, his thumb moving in a small, unconscious circle on Donnie's skin. "Gotta be... a way outta this. Gotta be a... a vent. A weakness. Think."
He watched as Donnie rubbed his thighs together needily, the sight making Casey’s throat dryer than normal.
“It’s an…aphrodisiac, Casey.” Donnie whined, weakly trying to push Casey away.
The words hit Casey like a physical blow, icy clarity dousing the fire in his veins for one terrifying second. Aphrodisiac.
Of course. The heat, the sensitivity, the fuzziness, the way every nerve ending felt like a live wire—it wasn't just torture. It was... engineered.
His eyes snapped back to Donnie, truly seeing him now. The rubbing of his thighs wasn't just a shiver of pain; it was a frantic, helpless gesture of need. The weak push against his chest wasn't rejection; it was a last, desperate attempt at control from a mind that prized it above all else. Donnie was trying to push him away to protect him, to maintain some shred of dignity even as his body betrayed him completely.
The realization sent a new kind of heat through Casey, one that had nothing to do with the gas and everything to do with a fierce, blinding protectiveness.
All the stupid, confusing feelings he’d been refusing to name for months boiled over. The flirting, the arguing, the way he’d always seek Donnie out in a room—it wasn't just messing around. Not anymore.
"Hey. Hey, look at me," Casey said, his voice rough but losing its panic. He didn't retreat. Instead, he caught Donnie's weakly pushing hand, his grip firm but not tight. "None of that. It's me. It's Casey."
Donnie's breath hitched, a strained, shuddering sound. His glazed eyes focused on Casey's face, wide with a mixture of humiliation and a terrifying, overwhelming want. "C-Casey... you have to... the parameters..." he stammered, his scientific brain still trying and failing to process the storm inside him. "The second... the second timer... it's the d-dosage interval..."
He was trying to warn him. The second 15 was a countdown until the next wave hit. They were on a clock.
Casey’s jaw tightened. He looked from Donnie’s terrified face to the glowing red number, then back again. All his instincts screamed to fight, to break something, but there was nothing to break. The only thing he could do was... be there.
"Alright, so we've got a couple minutes," Casey said, forcing a steadiness into his voice he didn't feel. He shifted closer, still holding Donnie's hand. The turtle’s skin was burning up. "A couple minutes 'til the next round. So we ride this one out. Together. You got that? You're not alone in this, Don."
He used his free hand to gently brush away some dampness from Donnie's forehead. The gesture was painfully intimate, and Donnie flinched again, a low, involuntary keen escaping him. But he didn't pull away. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around Casey's.
"Just breathe," Casey murmured, his own heart hammering against his ribs. "Just... just focus on me. Not the gas. Not the timer. Me."
The air was still thick with the cloying, sweet smell, and the heat in Casey's own blood was a demanding thrum. But for that moment, seeing the flicker of fragile trust in Donnie's eyes, he could almost ignore it. The second 15 continued its silent, ominous glow, a promise of the storm still to come.
The hiss was silent this time. There was no warning countdown, no dramatic preparation.
One moment the air was merely thick with the lingering, sweet haze; the next, a fresh, dense cloud of shimmering pink gas erupted from the unseen vents, flooding the room in a choking, perfumed wave.
It was too fast. There was no time to even suck in a breath to hold. Casey inhaled on a gasp, and the world dissolved into pure, white-hot sensation. It was a hundred times worse than the first dose. The heat was immediate and all-consuming, a liquid fire that seized his muscles and burned away every coherent thought. A ragged cry was torn from his throat, echoing Donnie's own strangled gasp.
Through the scintillating agony, Casey's swimming vision locked onto the bed. The numbers burned with a vicious, mocking light. The second 15 wasn't a timer. It never had been.
Beside it, a new word had materialized, glowing with the same brutal clarity.
15 times.
The meaning slammed into Casey's fogged brain with the force of a freight train. This wasn't a countdown to another wave. It was a quota. A demand.
Their captors weren't just torturing them. They were scripting them. Forcing them to perform. Fifteen times. The cold, clinical precision of it was more horrifying than any threat of violence. It was a violation so complete it stole the air from his lungs all over again.
Donnie made a sound beside him, a wretched, understanding moan. He had seen it too. The genius who lived by data and logic was being given his most vile equation yet. His body arched off the floor, every corded muscle in his neck standing out in sharp relief as he fought a war against the fire in his blood and the horror in his mind. His fingers scraped against the smooth floor, leaving faint, desperate marks.
"Casey..." he choked out, the word barely recognizable. It was a plea, a warning, a surrender.
All of Casey's bravado, his fists-first approach to every problem, evaporated. There was nothing to punch. The enemy was the air itself. The enemy was the number on the wall. The enemy was the unbearable, twisting need coiling in his own gut, answering the broken, trembling form next to him.
He reached for Donnie, his movements clumsy and fueled by a desperation that was equal parts chemical and something far deeper, something that had been waiting for this catastrophic moment to break free. His hand found Donnie's shoulder, the skin hot and damp.
"The... the word..." Donnie gasped, trying to turn his head away, a last, futile act of defiance. "They're... they're..."
"I know," Casey interrupted, his voice a raw scrape. He didn't let him finish. He couldn't bear to hear the clinical term from his mouth. He tightened his grip, pulling Donnie toward him, until their foreheads were nearly touching. "I know what they want."
The 15 seemed to pulse, a silent, cruel overseer. They were out of time. Out of choices. The gas left no room for resistance, only reaction.
"What do we do?" Casey whispered, the question meant for both of them, a surrender to the nightmare and a plea for the only person who could possibly navigate it.
Donnie just whined, chirping needily on what looked like instinct.
“It hurts…it’s like being in heat.” Donnie rambled miserably.
The words "in heat" landed with a brutal, biological finality that shattered any last pretense. This wasn't just some twisted game anymore. It was a fundamental hijacking of their bodies, reducing them to their basest instincts. Donnie, the most logical mind Casey knew, was being dragged down to a level of pure, animal need.
The chirping was constant now, a high, distressed sound that vibrated through Casey's own chest where they were pressed together. Donnie had stopped trying to push him away. Instead, his hands, usually so precise and controlled, were clutching at the front of Casey's hoodie, fisting the fabric in a white-knuckled grip. His whole body was trembling with an intensity that felt like it might shake him apart.
"It hurts," Donnie repeated, his voice cracking on the word. The admission was one of utter defeat. The pain wasn't just from the burning sensation; it was the agony of a mind forced into mutiny against itself.
Casey’s own mind was a roaring, feverish storm. The gas clouded everything, stripping away social constructs and leaving behind raw, undeniable urgency. But beneath the chemical fire, a different kind of resolve was hardening. He couldn't fix this. He couldn't fight their way out. But he could be an anchor in the storm for Donnie. He could make sure the genius turtle wasn't alone in this primal nightmare.
"Okay," Casey breathed out, the word a shaky exhale. He shifted his weight, his movements slow, deliberate, fighting against the tremors wracking his own body. He framed Donnie's face with his hands, forcing the glazed, desperate red eyes to meet his. Donnie's skin was fever-hot against his palms. "Okay, Donnie. Listen to me. We ride it out. Together. Just like I said."
The touch seemed to ground the turtle, if only for a second. The frantic chirping stuttered, replaced by a low, visceral rumble that felt like it started deep in Donnie's shell. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, swimming with confusion and a terrifying, burgeoning trust.
"But... the parameters... the... the number..." Donnie stammered, his scientific brain still trying to categorize the uncategorizable.
"Screw the number," Casey growled, his thumb stroking the line of Donnie's jaw. It was an instinctive gesture, one that sent a fresh, shocking jolt of heat straight to his core. He ignored it, focusing on the turtle in his arms. "We ain't doin' this for them. We're doin' this for us. To make it stop hurting. You understand?"
He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince more—Donnie or himself.
Slowly, carefully, giving Donnie every chance to pull away, Casey leaned in. He pressed his forehead against Donnie's, closing his eyes against the glare of the white room and the mocking red glow of the 15 times. The contact was electric, a circuit completing that sent a shudder through both of them. Donnie's breathing hitched, and then a broken, relieved sigh escaped him, his body sagging slightly against Casey's.
It was a starting point. A terrifying, unknown precipice. But it was theirs. The silent countdown loomed over them, a shadow they could no longer outrun.
The world had shrunk to taste and touch and the frantic, hammering beat of his own heart. Casey’s thoughts were a fragmented, burning mess, a whirlwind of ‘DonnieDonnieDonnie’ and a searing, white-hot need that left no room for anything else. The sterile white room, the glowing red numbers, the sinister intent of their captors—it all faded into a distant hum, drowned out by the sounds Donnie was making.
He’d never imagined it like this. In his stupid, secret daydreams, it was never like this. There was no chemical fire, no audience, no terrifying counter ticking down their degradation. But the core of it—the shocking, overwhelming reality of Donnie laid bare and trembling beneath him, of his taste, his scent, the trembling of his powerful thighs under Casey’s hands—was a reality so potent it felt like he was hallucinating.
He was eating out Donnie. His face pressed into the turtle’s folds. Donnie had what looked like both female and male reproductive parts, something he breathily explained was a part of his mutation since he was born.
The taste was insane. Sweet, like marshmallows, cloying and addicting, a stark contrast to the visceral, musky warmth of him. It was so uniquely, perfectly Donnie—weird and scientific and inexplicable. Casey buried his face deeper, nose pressed against slick, heated skin, drinking him in like a man dying of thirst. He could barely breathe and he didn’t care. Oxygen was a secondary concern to this, to mapping every fold and ridge with his tongue, to learning the rhythm that made Donnie’s hips jerk and a broken, guttural moan tear from his throat.
Above him, Donnie was falling apart. His bo staff lay forgotten on the floor. One hand was tangled in his own purple mask, the other was fisted in the white sheets, fingers tearing through the fabric. His head was thrown back, a long, smooth column of green throat exposed as he panted and whined. The intelligent, sarcastic commentary was gone, replaced by a stream of unconscious, needy sounds—chirps, rumbles, and breathy, half-formed words.
“C-Casey—ah!—the… the synaptic overload is… is inhibiting my—mngh!—my higher cognitive functions…” he rambled, his voice cracking on a particularly sharp thrust of Casey’s tongue.
Casey pulled back just enough to gasp for air, his own face flushed and wet. He looked up the length of Donnie’s body, meeting his glazed, desperate eyes. “You sound real smart,” he rasped, his voice wrecked. He didn’t give him a chance to formulate another theorem, diving back in with a fierce, possessive groan.
This was hell. It was the most violating, terrible situation of his life. But as Donnie’s fingers released the sheet and scrabbled weakly at his shoulders, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away, as he felt the tremors of oncoming release start to build under his mouth, a terrifying, traitorous thought whispered through the fire in his veins:
Part of him never wanted it to end. The red 15 on the wall glowed, a cold, reminder that this was only the beginning.
Donnie squirmed, making the cutest and sexiest noises Casey had ever heard in his life. They went straight to Casey’s head, clouding it even further.
The sound Donnie made when he orgasmed wasn't a scream or a shout. It was a high, sharp, tearing keen that started deep in his chest and seemed to vibrate through the very floor. His whole body locked up, a bowstring pulled taut, every muscle in his legs and abdomen rigid. His claws dug into Casey's shoulders hard enough to bruise, not in pain, but in a frantic, anchoring grip.
And then he clenched. A powerful, involuntary shudder that clamped down on Casey's tongue, holding him in a pulsating, wet vise. Casey groaned against him, the sensation sending a fresh, blinding wave of heat straight through his own system. He kept his mouth sealed, his tongue working through the intense, rhythmic contractions, swallowing the faint, sweet taste of Donnie's release as the turtle shook apart beneath him.
It was raw. It was primal. It was the most intimate thing Casey had ever experienced, and the sheer, unfiltered truth of it shattered the last remnants of his own resistance.
As the final tremors subsided and Donnie went utterly boneless against the mattress with a shuddering sigh, a soft, definitive click echoed in the sterile silence.
Casey lifted his head, breath ragged, and looked at the wall.
The glowing red number had changed.
14 times.
The reality of it hit him like a physical blow, a bucket of ice water on the afterglow. It hadn't been a moment of connection. It had been a transaction. They'd just paid down their vile debt by one. The countdown wasn't just a threat; it was a scoreboard for their humiliation.
Donnie's eyes fluttered open. The glaze of pure sensation was receding, replaced by a dawning, horrified awareness. He looked from Casey's wet, flushed face to the number 14, and a choked, miserable sound escaped him. He tried to pull his legs together, to regain some modesty, his hands trembling as he covered his face.
"Oh, god..." he whispered, his voice thick with shame. "The data... they're collecting data... on autonomic nervous system response... on... on..."
He was crumbling. The genius was trying to process the violation by cataloging it, and it was breaking him.
"Hey," Casey said, his voice softer than he intended. He didn't move away. Instead, he leaned over Donnie, bracing himself on one arm, using his other hand to gently pry Donnie's hands away from his face. Donnie flinched, but didn't resist. His eyes were wide, red-rimmed with shame and confusion.
"None of that," Casey murmured, his thumb stroking Donnie's cheek. "We survived the first round. That's it. That's all that number means."
He looked directly into Donnie's eyes, ignoring the pulse still pounding in his own ears, ignoring the aching need that was already beginning to coil again in his gut as the residual gas worked its poison. "Forget the science, Donnie. Just look at me."
Donnie's breath hitched. The analytical terror in his eyes flickered, replaced by a fragile, desperate trust. They were in this nightmare together. There was no April here. No rivalry. Just the two of them, and fourteen more ticks on a cruel, red clock.
The sterile white room then quickly became a world of sweat-slicked skin, hitched breaths, and the relentless, oppressive glow of the number on the wall. Time had lost all meaning, measured only in the slow, agonizing decrement of that red digit.
Casey had become a creature of pure, focused intent. The initial frantic panic had burned away, replaced by a grim, protective determination. He’d figured out the rules of this sick game fast: the counter only dropped on completion. That meant he could stall. He could draw this out. He could give Donnie moments—precious, stolen moments—of respite between the crashing waves of forced climax.
He had learned the map of Donnie’s body with a desperate, studying intensity. He knew the spot just inside his slit that made his legs tremble. He knew the rhythm of his hand pumping that turned his clever, sarcastic mouth into a gasping, pleading mess. He knew the exact pressure of his fingers curling inside him that would make Donnie sob. And he knew how to pull back at the very last second, leaving Donnie panting and trembling on the edge, his eyes wide and confused, a low, needy whine building in his throat.
“Shhh, I got you,” Casey would murmur, his own voice rough with strain, his body a live wire of denied need. He’d press a kiss to a trembling thigh, a heated stomach, the junction of Donnie’s neck and shell—anywhere but the places that would push him over. He was walking a razor’s edge, using his own willpower as a shield.
Donnie was a wreck, beautifully and terribly so. He was molten under Casey’s hands and mouth, his scientific mind completely offline, reduced to a series of sensations and reactions. He’d clutch at Casey’s shoulders, his back, his hair, his fingers leaving faint red trails on Casey’s skin—not in violence, but in a desperate attempt to hold on to something real in the swirling, chemical haze. His words were a fragmented mess of pleas and half-formed equations.
“Casey, please, the—the dopamine levels are—ah!—unsustainable… I can’t… the homeostasis is…”
“I know,” Casey would grit out, pulling back just as Donnie’s hips began to stutter. He’d hold him through the shuddering denial, whispering nonsense into his skin until the desperate tension eased back into a trembling, manageable hum. “Just breathe. We’re good. We’re at eight.”
8.
The number was a brutal, mocking testament to their endurance. Eight times they had been broken and remade by the gas and each other. Donnie’s body was slick with sweat, his skin flushed a pinker green. He lay boneless on the bed now, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded and glazed. He looked utterly ravaged, completely spent.
Casey knelt beside the bed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His own body was screaming at him, a constant, throbbing ache that the gas and Donnie’s reactions amplified to a near-unbearable pitch. He was hard and aching, every nerve ending felt exposed and raw. He wanted—gods, he wanted—to finally, finally give in. To sink into that wet, welcoming heat and lose himself until the counter hit zero.
He looked at Donnie’s limp form, at the trust in his dazed eyes even now, and he swallowed hard. He could do it. He could take his own release. It would drop the number to seven. The logic was simple, the need was overwhelming.
His hands, trembling, went to the waistband of his pants. The air was still thick, the sweet scent of the gas a constant, maddening pressure. The 8 glowed, a silent, demanding overseer.
He hesitated, his gaze locked on Donnie’s face. The turtle’s eyes fluttered open fully, meeting his. There was no fear there now, just a deep, exhausted acceptance. And something else. Something that looked like… permission.
It was the most terrifying thing Casey had ever seen.
He took a shaky breath. "Donnie..." His voice was barely a whisper, a question and a confession all in one.
Donnie stared, then turned on his back, ass up in the air with his slit dripping and presented. His tail wagged invitingly, small, green and adorably reptilian.
The gesture was so blatant, so utterly primal, that it stole the air from Casey’s lungs. Donnie, the over-thinker, the analyzer, had been stripped down to pure, nonverbal instinct. The presentation was an invitation as old as time itself, and the small, eager wag of his reptilian tail was a final, devastating blow to Casey’s crumbling control.
It was the permission he’d been waiting for, and it broke him.
All the careful strategy, the stubborn, protective delaying—it evaporated in a single, hot rush. A guttural sound ripped from Casey’s throat, something between a groan and a sob. The sight of Donnie, so open and wanton, completely undone and offering himself, obliterated every last rational thought.
He fumbled with his pants, his hands shaking so badly he could barely manage the button. The fabric felt like a prison. He needed to be free, to feel skin against skin, to be inside that heat that had been teasing and torturing him for what felt like an eternity.
He didn’t say a word. Words were useless here. He crawled onto the bed, his body covering Donnie’s, the weight of him pressing the turtle deeper into the mattress. Donnie let out a shaky, anticipating sigh, his tail giving another involuntary flick against Casey’s thigh.
Casey positioned himself, the head of his cock brushing against the dripping, heated entrance. The contact sent a jolt like lightning through both of them. Donnie tensed, a low, hungry rumble vibrating through his shell and into Casey’s chest.
He looked down. Donnie’s head was turned to the side, his face pressed into the sheet, but his eyes were squeezed shut, his expression a mixture of agonized anticipation and raw need. This was it. No more stalling. No more games.
"Donnie," Casey breathed, the name a prayer and a warning.
He pushed inside.
It was like sinking into molten silk. Tight, impossibly hot, and so wet it was almost shocking. Donnie cried out, a sharp, choked sound that was immediately swallowed by a deep, shuddering moan as Casey slid home. His claws scrabbled against the sheets, his whole body arching to take Casey deeper.
For a moment, Casey just stayed there, buried to the hilt, shuddering with the intensity of it. This was nothing like his fumbled, clumsy fantasies. This was real. Overwhelmingly, terrifyingly real.
Then, the need took over. He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was immediately frantic. Each thrust punched a gasping, desperate sound from Donnie, who met his movements with a ragged, rising urgency of his own. The bed frame creaked a protest under them, a stark, mundane sound in the surreal white hell.
Casey’s world narrowed to the feel of Donnie around him, the smell of sweat and sex and that damn sweet gas, the muffled, needy sounds filling his ears. He drove into him, again and again, chasing his own release with a single-minded intensity, knowing with a part of his mind that was still coherent that the 8 on the wall was about to become a 7.
“Cumming…s’good.” Donnie babbled, cut off by a sharp chirp of pleasure as he orgasmed again.
The plea was raw and unfiltered, a stark, vulnerable admission that sliced straight through Casey. The words, slurred with overwhelming pleasure, were a ruinous confession from a mind that valued precision above all else. It was followed by that sharp, instinctive chirp, a sound of pure, unadulterated ecstasy that vibrated through Casey’s very bones.
He felt it—the powerful, fluttering clench around him, the way Donnie’s whole body seized up and then melted into the mattress with a shuddering, Boneless sigh. It was the most beautiful, devastating thing Casey had ever felt.
And it tipped him over the edge he'd been clinging to for so long.
His own control shattered. A guttural groan was torn from his throat as he thrusted deep, his rhythm fracturing into something desperate and final. He buried his face in the junction of Donnie’s neck and shell, his teeth grazing the scaled skin as his own release crashed over him in wave after blinding, white-hot wave. It felt like being unmade. Every ounce of tension, every shred of fear and frustration and denied need, poured out of him into the trembling body beneath him.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their ragged, rough panting and the overwhelming, sensory aftershock humming through their connected bodies.
Click.
The soft, mechanical sound was a splash of cold water.
Casey’s heavy-lidded eyes drifted open, his head still resting against Donnie’s shell. He looked over at the wall.
7.
The number glowed, a cold, pitiless verdict. They’d paid another installment on their freedom with their bodies, with moments they could never take back or explain. The shame and violation came rushing back, but it was duller now, muffled by the hazy aftermath and the solid, real weight of Donnie in his arms.
He was still inside him, still wrapped around him. Donnie hadn’t moved. His breathing was slowly evening out, but his body was completely lax, his face still turned into the sheet. The fight was gone from him, replaced by a profound, exhausted stillness.
Slowly, carefully, Casey shifted. He pulled out, the movement making them both wince, and collapsed onto his side next to Donnie. The white room felt colder than before. He reached out a trembling hand, his fingers brushing against Donnie’s arm.
“Donnie?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
Donnie didn’t answer for a long moment. Then, he slowly turned his head. His eyes were half-lidded, the red irises hazy with spent pleasure and a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. There was no anger there. No recrimination. Just a blank, stunned acceptance.
He looked at Casey, then his gaze drifted past him to the glowing 7.
“The... the refractory period for my species is... approximately six-point-four minutes,” he whispered, his voice raspy and utterly drained. It was the first fully coherent, scientific fact he’d managed since this nightmare began. It wasn’t an accusation. It was a report. A terrible, heartbreaking assessment of the time they had until the need would be chemically forced upon them again.
He then slowly, deliberately, turned his hand over and laced his fingers with Casey’s, his grip weak but certain.
The silent message was clear. They weren’t done. There were seven more to go. And they would face them together.
They waited those minutes, and the haze quickly took over them completely. Time was no longer a linear concept; it was a cycle of building tension, shattering release, and the soft, damning click of the number on the wall.
Casey was a man possessed, driven by a need that was more than just the chemical fire in his blood. It was a raw, possessive desperation to brand this moment into his soul, to carve out something real and blazing in the heart of this white, sterile nightmare.
He had to make Donnie feel it, too—had to make sure that when they eventually escaped this hell, the memory of him would be the one that lingered, not the shame.
He was moving Donnie’s pliant, sweating body with a strength he didn't know he had, arranging him like a offering to some savage god. On his side, one powerful leg hitched over Casey’s shoulder, Donnie’s face pressed into the mattress as Casey drove into him from behind, each thrust punctuated by a choked, guttural sob from the turtle. On his back, with Donnie’s legs hooked over his arms, giving him a perfect, devastating view of where their bodies joined, slick and messy and utterly connected.
But it was the last position that branded itself onto Casey’s mind forever.
He’d sat back against the headboard, pulling a trembling, boneless Donnie into his lap, guiding him down onto his aching cock. Donnie went easily, his body pliant and utterly spent, until he was straddling Casey, his own cock, hard and flushed, trapped between their stomachs.
And then he started to move.
It was slow at first, a shaky, hesitant roll of his hips that made them both gasp. Casey’s hands settled on Donnie’s waist, his thumbs rubbing circles on the sweat-slicked skin, not guiding, just feeling. Then Donnie found a rhythm, a deep, grinding undulation that took Casey so deep he saw stars. Casey’s head fell back against the headboard with a thud, a rough groan tearing from his throat.
“Look at you,” Casey panted, his voice wrecked. “Just… look at you.”
Donnie’s eyes were rolled back in his head, his mouth slack. His hands were splayed on Casey’s chest for balance, his three fingered hands pricking lightly through the fabric of Casey’s ruined hoodie. Each rise and fall of his hips was a masterpiece of debauched grace, his body taking everything Casey had to give and asking for more. He was stuffed so full, every movement a slick, obscene sound that was the only music in their white prison.
He was the sexiest thing Casey had ever seen. Not just the act, but the complete, utter surrender. The brilliant, awkward turtle was gone, replaced by a creature of pure sensation, lost in the pleasure Casey was giving him.
Casey’s grip on Donnie’s hips tightened, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent, meeting Donnie’s movements with a fierce, driving rhythm. He was close, so close, the heat coiling taut in his gut.
“Gonna… gonna fill you up again,” he grunted, his words slurred. “Make a mess of you. Mark you so they know… know you’re mine.”
The possessive declaration should have sounded absurd. Here, now, it was the only truth that mattered.
Donnie’s answering sound was a high, broken keen. His body clenched around Casey, a vice of heat and wetness, and he came untouched, his release painting both their stomachs as his hips stuttered to a halt.
The feeling of Donnie pulsing around him, milking him, was the final trigger. Casey’s vision whited out. He buried his face against Donnie’s chest, biting down on the strap around his plastron to muffle his own roar as he emptied himself deep inside with a series of ragged, full-body shudders.
They collapsed together in a tangled, sticky heap, breathing in ragged unison.
Click.
Casey didn’t need to look. He felt the number change in his soul.
4.
They were in the home stretch. The end was a visible number. But as he held Donnie’s shuddering, oversensitive form, smelling of sex and marshmallows and them, a cold dread began to pierce the afterglow.
Donnie looked completely out of it, but so so beautiful.
“Cum…too much…” Donnie whimpered, thighs shaking as he cuddled into Casey. It was a pathetic, heartbreaking whimper from a mind that had been pushed lightyears beyond its limits.
The sight was a brutal, beautiful paradox that made Casey's chest ache. Donnie was a wreck—eyes glazed and unfocused, his body trembling with the aftershocks of too many forced orgasms, his skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat and the evidence of their coupling. He was babbling incoherently, curled into Casey like a simply exhausted turtle, his powerful frame looking strangely small and vulnerable.
And he was the most beautiful thing Casey had ever seen.
The unfairness of it was a sharp, serrated edge cutting through the chemical haze. Finally. Finally, after months of stupid arguments and competitive flirting and stolen glances he thought nobody saw, he had him. He could map the scales on Donnie’s shoulders with his tongue. He could feel the way his breath hitched when he bit the soft skin of his inner thigh. He knew the taste of him, the sounds he made when he fell apart.
And Donnie had no idea. None. In his chemically-addled state, this was just a sequence of overwhelming sensory events, a violation to be endured. He had no concept that the hands on his skin belonged to someone who’d memorized the way he tapped his fingers when he was thinking, that the mouth on his was from someone who stockpiled his sarcastic comments like treasures.
Casey swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to breathe. He couldn’t tell him. Not here. Not like this. To confess in the middle of this humiliation would be another violation. It would taint whatever this was—whatever could be—forever.
"Shhh, I know," Casey murmured, his voice rough but gentler than he knew it could be. He shifted on the bed, his own body sore and sated, and carefully pulled Donnie against his side. The turtle went willingly, nuzzling his face into the crook of Casey's neck with a soft, exhausted sigh. His skin was still blazingly hot for someone who was supposed to be cold-blooded. His trembling slowly began to subside as Casey ran a hand in slow, soothing circles over the curve of his shell.
"It's almost over," Casey whispered into the purple fabric of his mask, the words a promise he wasn't sure he could keep. "Just a few more. Then we're out."
Donnie didn't respond with words. He just let out another soft, plaintive chirp and burrowed closer, his breathing gradually deepening into something resembling sleep. He was trusting Casey to protect him, even here. Even now.
Casey held him tight, his eyes fixed on the glowing red 4. The number seemed to pulse, a malevolent, watching eye. The dread was back, colder and sharper now. What would ‘out’ even look like? Freedom? Or simply the end of the experiment? And when Donnie’s brilliant mind finally cleared and processed what had happened… what then?
He tightened his hold, pressing a silent, desperate kiss to Donnie’s forehead. He would cross that bridge when they came to it. For now, his only job was to get them through the last four. To be his shelter in the storm, even if Donnie never knew the true depth of the reason why.
Donnie blinked his eyes open after a minute pushing himself onto his knees, leaning forward towards Casey’s crotch while his thighs shook. “Goes down …every time someone cums—means it’ll go down with you too.” He babbled slightly.
The analytical observation, even in its slurred, broken state, was so quintessentially Donnie that it sent a fresh, almost painful surge of affection through Casey. His brain, even scrambled by pheromones and exhaustion, was still trying to process data, to understand the system. He was offering a solution, a way to pay down their terrible debt, with a heartbreaking, shy practicality.
The feel of Donnie’s large, three-fingered hand, calloused from wielding his staff, wrapping around his cock was a shock of sensation that made Casey’s hips jerk involuntarily. It was tentative, clumsy, but the intent was devastatingly clear. Then Donnie dipped his head, his hot breath ghosting over Casey’s skin a second before his mouth followed.
Casey’s own breath caught in a ragged gasp. He froze, his hands hovering in the air, unsure where to put them. Watching Donnie—proud, brilliant, sarcastic Donnie—on his knees, his shaking thighs struggling to hold him up, his face flushed a deep, embarrassed greenish-pink as he tried to take Casey into his mouth… it was overwhelming.
It was the most intimate, vulnerable thing he had ever witnessed. This wasn't the frantic, desperate fucking borne of chemical need. This was… service. An offering. A shy, clumsy attempt to give back, to participate, to help them reach that cursed zero.
“Donnie… you don’t… you don’t have to…” Casey choked out, his voice strangled. His own need, which had been a dull, sated throb, roared back to life, hotter and more desperate than before.
Donnie pulled off with a soft, wet sound, his red eyes peering up through a half-lidded gaze. There was a pained, determined crease in his brow. “E-Efficiency,” he stammered, his voice husky. “Dual stimulation… increases probability of… of successful… mmmph…” He gave up on the explanation and ducked his head back down, taking him deeper this time.
The sensation was unbelievable. The combination of his clumsy, earnest enthusiasm and the sight of him, so debauched and yet so trying to be helpful, pushed Casey to the brink faster than any skilled technique ever could. His hand finally came down, not to guide or force, but to gently cradle the back of Donnie’s head, his fingers tangling in the damp fabric of his mask.
His thrusts became shallow, helpless jerks of his hips. He was close, teetering on the edge, torn between the mind-blowing pleasure and the heart-wrenching tenderness of the act.
“’m close, Donnie,” he warned, his voice a raw scrape. “So close…”
Donnie’s responding hum around him was the final straw.
Casey’s head slammed back against the headboard, a guttural, helpless cry tearing from his throat as he came, his vision spotting at the edges. He held Donnie’s head in place through the pulses, feeling the turtle swallow convulsively, taking everything he gave him.
When it was over, he sagged, boneless, his hand falling away from Donnie’s head.
Donnie swallowed obediently, He looked dazed, his blush deepening, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—a hint of fragile pride amidst the exhaustion.
Click.
The sound was softer this time, almost anticlimactic.
Casey’s heavy-lidded gaze drifted to the wall.
3.
They were so close. The end was a tangible thing. But as he looked at Donnie, kneeling there, spent and beautiful and so utterly unaware of what this was truly costing Casey’s heart, the victory felt hollow.
What would be left of them when the number finally hit zero?
Casey reached his hand to Donnie’s slit while Donnie swallowed. The turtle whined pathetically, cum dripping out of him. “Caseyy….cant cum anymore…I’ll go crazy…” Donnie whimpered in protest but didn’t make a move to push Casey away.
The protest was a broken, frayed thread of sound, so full of genuine, overwhelmed misery that it should have made Casey stop instantly. And the visual proof was there, a slow, shameful trickle of their combined releases down Donnie’s trembling thigh. He was spent. Empty. His body had been wrung out and used up, pushed far past its limits.
But the gas was a vicious, insistent poison in Casey’s veins, and the sight of Donnie—on his knees, pleading, yet making no move to actually stop him—was a combination that shattered the last of his resolve. The protective instinct warred with the chemical drive and, fueled by a dark, possessive desperation, the drive won.
“I know, I know,” Casey murmured, the words a hoarse lie of comfort. His hand didn’t retreat. Instead, his fingers, slick with sweat, pressed against Donnie’s oversensitive, swollen flesh. He felt Donnie jolt, a full-body flinch, heard the choked, punched-out gasp that was more pain than pleasure. A fresh wave of that sickly-sweet slickness met his touch, Donnie’s body betraying its own protest.
“Just one more,” Casey breathed, leaning forward to press his forehead against Donnie’s, their panting breaths mingling. It was a corrupted version of an intimate gesture. “Just one more for me. You can do it. You’re so good, Donnie. So good for me.”
He was manipulating him. Using the trust Donnie had helplessly placed in him, twisting it to serve the need and the countdown. The shame of it was a cold knot in his stomach, but it was buried under the scorching, undeniable urge.
Donnie whined, a high, desperate sound deep in his throat. His eyes screwed shut, tears of overstimulation and exhaustion beading at the corners. He was shaking his head weakly, a silent no, no, no, but his hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk into Casey’s touch. His body was answering a call his mind could no longer fight.
“That’s it,” Casey encouraged, his voice dark and coaxing. He quickened the pace of his fingers, a ruthless, precise rhythm aimed at dragging a response from the tortured, overworked nerves. “C’mon. For me. Let me feel you.”
Donnie’s protests dissolved into ragged, hitching sobs. His hands came up, not to push Casey away, but to clutch desperately at his wrists, his fingers digging in—an anchor in the storm of sensation he was being forced to weather. His body bowed, tensing, fighting the inevitable even as it rushed toward him.
With a final, broken cry that was almost a scream, Donnie shattered. It wasn't the powerful, satisfying climax from before. It was a hollow, dry, agonized convulsion, his body seizing up with nothing left to give. It was a reaction drawn purely from neurological overload, a brutal forcing of a primal circuit to fire on fumes.
He collapsed forward against Casey’s chest, sobbing openly, utterly broken.
Click.
2.
The sound was a death knell. Casey held him, Donnie’s tears hot against his skin, the cold reality of what he’d just done crashing down on him. He’d broken the person he cared about most to make a number change. The victory was ash in his mouth.
The final number 2 glowed, a promise of an ending that suddenly felt more like a condemnation.
Donnie’s thighs shook as he collapsed into Casey’s chest. “Too…much…cumming too much…my pussy isn’t going to recover.” Donnie whimpered, not realizing just how much he was making Casey both turned on and guilty.
“Need it… need it in me, need it deep.” Donnie whimpered, the confession was a siren's call laced with pure, undiluted agony, and it landed right in the center of Casey's whirling storm of lust and guilt. The raw, vulnerable admission—my pussy isn’t going to recover—should have been a bucket of ice water. It was a plea from a body pushed to its absolute breaking point. It made Casey’s gut twist with self-loathing. He was the one who had done this. He was the one who had taken the brilliant, proud turtle and reduced him to a sobbing, overstimulated mess, begging for a reprieve he wasn't capable of granting.
But the second half of the plea, whispered against Casey’s skin with a frantic, desperate heat, was like throwing gasoline on the chemical fire in his veins.
"Need it… need it in my tummy, need it deep." The juxtaposition was maddening. It was the conflict of their entire situation distilled into a single, devastating sentence: a mind and body fractured, one part screaming in protest, the other begging for more of the very thing that was destroying it.
And then Donnie shifted in his arms, a weak, trembling movement that ended with him presenting himself once more. It was the same primal, offering gesture from before, but now it was a heartbreaking act of total surrender. There was no strength left in him to hold himself up. There was only the need, hollowing him out from the inside.
Casey’s breath hitched. The guilt was a sharp, cold knife in his ribs. But the sight of him, so utterly ruined and yet still asking, still trusting Casey to give him what he needed, ignited a possessive, dark fire in his belly. He wanted to give it to him. He wanted to bury himself so deep inside him that he could erase everything else—the white room, the red numbers, the shame—and leave only the two of them, fused together.
"Okay," Casey rasped, the word sounding like a damnation. He maneuvered Donnie beneath him, the turtle's body pliant and limp. He was crying softly, tears tracking through the sweat on his temples, but he wrapped his shaking legs around Casey's waist, pulling him closer.
Casey entered him in one smooth, deep thrust. Donnie didn't cry out this time. He just let out a shuddering, full-body sigh, a sound of relief so profound it was painful to hear. It was the feeling of a key finally turning in a lock, a terrible, perfect fit.
Casey set a slow, deep, rolling rhythm, a pace designed not for frantic pleasure, but for the feeling of being consumed. He held Donnie’s gaze, both of them trapped in the shared, unbearable intensity of the moment. He was chasing that feeling for both of them—the need to be filled, to be claimed, to be so deeply connected that the outside world ceased to exist.
"Gonna give it to you," Casey promised, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn't name. "Right where you need it. So deep."
Donnie's eyes fluttered shut, fresh tears leaking out. His arms tightened around Casey's neck, his breath coming in ragged hitches that matched the rhythm of their bodies. He wasn't moving, just taking, receiving, his body accepting the deep, claiming strokes as its due.
“Put it in the deepest! Need it, need to be bred…cum please, cum inside.” Donnie whined as he bucked desperately against every thrust.
The plea was a nuclear warhead to the last vestiges of Casey’s control. The raw, unfiltered need in Donnie's voice—the desperation, the primal begging—was nothing like his usual sarcastic, analytical tone. It was pure, animal instinct, a biological scream that bypassed every higher function and went straight to the most primitive part of Casey's brain.
Bred.
The word itself was a detonation in Casey’s fractured mind. It wasn't just about sex or release anymore. It was about ownership, about marking, about a claiming so deep and fundamental it defied the sterile walls surrounding them. Donnie was asking to be ruined, to be filled, to be made irrevocably his in the midst of this horrifying violation.
Casey’s hips stuttered, his rhythm breaking into something frantic and possessive. He drove into him with a new, brutal force, each thrust a physical answer to the plea. The wet, slapping sound of their bodies was obscenely loud in the silent room.
“Yeah?” Casey grunted, his voice a guttural rasp. He gripped Donnie’s hips hard, fingers digging into the green scaly skin, sure to leave bruises. A wild, territorial part of him wanted to leave marks. “That what you need? You need me to breed this sweet pussy? Fill you up ‘til you can’t take anymore?”
He was talking filthy, saying things he’d only ever fantasized about in the darkest corners of his mind, and Donnie was eating it up. The turtle was bucking against him desperately, meeting his thrusts with a weak, frantic energy that spoke of a need far beyond his body's capability. His head was thrashing side to side on the pillow, his words dissolving into incoherent, chirping moans.
“Clutch…need it…please!”
It was biologically impossible. A ridiculous, fever-dream fantasy. But in that moment, with Donnie’s body clenching around him like a vise and that insane, blissed-out request hanging in the air, it was the most profound truth Casey had ever heard.
A possessive, guttural roar was torn from Casey’s chest. He lost all rhythm, all control. His thrusts became a frantic, pounding staccato, a physical manifestation of the storm those words had unleashed inside him. His vision tunneled until all he could see was the curve of Donnie’s shell, all he could feel was the scorching, wet heat milking him, all he could hear was Donnie’s wailing sobs of pleasure.
“Yeah?” he grunted, his voice a broken, ragged thing. He wrapped one arm around Donnie’s chest, locking him in place, holding him captive for the brutal, final onslaught. “Gonna put ‘em it in you. Gonna keep you so full of me you’ll never forget.”
He was talking absolute nonsense, caught in the same delirious fantasy they had been drugged with, but every word felt like a sacred oath. He was going to mark him. He was going to claim him so completely that no one, nothing—not the Foot Clan, not some stupid gas, not even April O'Neil—could ever erase it.
The words, paired with Donnie’s frantic, backward arch, his body trying to impale itself even deeper on Casey’s cock, unleashed something feral in Casey. Any pretense of gentleness, any lingering trace of the protective guardian, was incinerated in the white-hot blast of pure, unadulterated possession.
A raw, animalistic sound ripped from Casey’s throat. His hands, which had been gripping Donnie’s hips, slid around to his front, one hand splaying across his stomach while the other clamped possessively over the junction of his thighs, feeling the place where their bodies joined with every pounding thrust.
“Damn right,” he snarled, his voice dripping with a dark, fierce pride. He drove into him harder, deeper, the force of it making the bed frame shudder. “My hole. My pretty, genius hole. Made for this. For taking every inch I give you.”
He leaned down, his mouth next to Donnie’s cheek, his breath hot. “You gonna be good? Gonna stay just like this, all wet and open for me whenever I want you?”
Donnie’s response was a high, keening wail, his body tightening around Casey in a series of frantic, involuntary spasms. He was nodding his head weakly against the pillow, his words dissolving into a stream of eager, babbled affirmatives. “Yesyesyesgood’m good, so good for you, only for you, always open, always—”
Casey didn’t let him finish. He hooked an arm around Donnie’s chest, hauling him impossibly closer, changing the angle to something that was downright brutal. He was claiming him, branding him from the inside out, determined to make sure that even when this nightmare ended, Donnie’s body would remember who it belonged to.
The 2 on the wall was a joke. It was meaningless. They existed in a feedback loop of ownership and surrender, a perfect, filthy circuit that closed out the rest of the universe. Casey was lost in it, consumed by the reality of a fantasy he’d never dared to believe could come true. He was fucking his rival, his friend, the brilliant, awkward turtle, into a babbling, blissed-out mess who wanted nothing more than to be his.
And he was never, ever going to let him forget it.
Donnie’s answering cry was a sound of pure, shattered ecstasy. His body bowed, every muscle locking as a final, cataclysmic orgasm was ripped from him. It was so intense it was almost silent, his mouth open in a soundless scream, his eyes wide and unseeing.
The feeling of Donnie pulsing around him, milking him dry, was the final trigger. Casey’s own release crashed over him, a blinding, all-consuming wave that felt endless. He buried himself to the hilt, grinding deep as he emptied himself with a series of raw, shuddering groans, pouring everything he had into the welcoming, clutching heat.
They collapsed together in a tangled, breathless, sweaty heap, utterly spent. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by their ragged, rough panting.
Casey, his face buried in Donnie’s shoulder, didn’t need to look. He felt the shift in the air. The oppressive, watchful presence that had haunted the room simply… vanished.
Then, with a soft, almost gentle click, it changed.
The number dissolved, the red light flickering. For a heart-stopping second, the wall was blank.
Then, a single, new word materialized, glowing with the same sterile light.
COMPLETE.
A hidden seam hissed open in the far wall, revealing a dark, ordinary corridor—the first real exit they’d seen since this began.
The game was over. They were free.
The shift was absolute. One moment they were a tangle of frenetic energy and raw, desperate sound; the next, a profound, crushing stillness descended. The COMPLETE on the wall wasn't a cheer; it was a full stop. An ending.
And into that abrupt silence fell Donnie’s tiny, exhausted sounds.
He went limp against Casey’s chest, a boneless weight of overheated skin and shattered nerves. There were no more words, no more delirious promises. Just those soft, reptilian churrs and chirps, quiet clicks of pure, unadulterated exhaustion. It was the sound a turtle might make nestled safely in its pond, a sound of ultimate trust and vulnerability. His face was buried in the crook of Casey’s neck, his breathing shallow but even, finally bordering on sleep.
Casey held him, his own body humming with the aftershocks of exertion and a dawning, chilling clarity. A door that hadn’t been there before beckoned, a slash of promising darkness, but Casey couldn't move. He was pinned not by physical weakness, but by the devastating tenderness of the moment.
He looked down at the top of Donnie’s head, at the purple fabric of his mask, damp with sweat and tears. He listened to those tiny, unconscious chirps. This was the real Donnie. Not the babbling, sex-crazed creature of the gas, but this utterly spent, trusting being snuggled against him.
The ferocious pride and possessive triumph he’d felt moments ago evaporated, leaving behind a hollow, aching fear. What happened when Donnie woke up? When that brilliant mind, clear of the chemical fog, began to process the data? The things he’d said… the things Casey had said… the things they’d done.
The urge to run, to scoop Donnie up and bolt for the dark corridor, was overwhelming. But the thought of jostling him, of disturbing the first real peace he’d found in hours, was worse.
So he stayed. He held Donnie close, one hand slowly, gently stroking the curve of his shell. He watched the door open on it’s own, his senses straining for any sound, any sign of what came next. Were their captors waiting? Was this just the next phase of the experiment?
But the corridor remained dark and silent. The only sounds were their breathing, and the soft, sleepy clicks from the turtle in his arms.
The world outside this room was waiting, with all its complications and consequences. But for now, in the eerie quiet of the aftermath, there was just this: the weight of Donnie against his heart, and the terrifying, beautiful truth of what they had shared, waiting to be faced in the cold light of day.
And After a few moments of waiting, Casey scooped Donnie up, bringing the turtle into the open doorway with a protective grip.
The transition was instantaneous and disorienting. One moment, the sterile silence of the white room; the next, the grimy, familiar air of a New York alley, the distant blare of traffic a shocking symphony after the oppressive quiet. And the yelling. Leo’s voice, sharp with command, clashing against Raph’s guttural roar. Mikey’s sniffles. April’s gasp.
It was like being dunked in ice water. Reality rushed back in with a violent, jarring force.
Casey stumbled, his arms tightening instinctively around Donnie’s limp form. The turtle was a dead weight, still emitting those faint, sleepy chirps against his neck, completely unaware of the world snapping back into place around them. He was a stark contrast to the chaos: a universe of private, intimate devastation in the middle of a family argument.
Before Casey could even process his surroundings, a blur of yellow and red shot towards them. April. Her face was a mask of frantic relief and dawning horror. "GUYS!" Her hug was brief, desperate, and then she pulled back, her journalist’s eyes instantly cataloging the scene.
“What happened? There was this flash of light, and then you guys were suddenly gone! We’ve been trying to find you for hours, but the warehouse was completely empty!” April said worriedly.
Her gaze swept over Casey—disheveled, bruised, reeking of sweat and something else—and then snapped to Donnie. The worry in her eyes sharpened into pure alarm.
"What happened to him?!" she gasped, her hand reaching out to gently touch Donnie's cheek. The gesture was so tender, so full of genuine care, that it sent a fresh, jagged spike of guilt through Casey’s heart. Her fingertips brushed the damp skin, and Donnie, in his deep exhaustion, nuzzled slightly into the touch with a soft, unconscious chirp that was meant for Casey.
The sound, so private, happening under April’s concerned gaze, felt like a betrayal.
Casey’s mind went blank. The warehouse. The flash. Hours. They’d been gone for hours. How long had they been in that white hell? His mouth opened, but no sound came out. What could he possibly say? ‘We were kidnapped by sex-perverts, and I bred your maybe-crush until he couldn't form sentences?’
Leo and Raph had stopped fighting, their attention fully captured. Mikey peeked out from behind April, his blue eyes wide with worry.
"Donnie!" Mikey squeaked. "Is he okay? He looks... super tired."
Raph stomped forward, his usual fury tamped down by concern. "What did they do to him? Did the Foot hurt him?" He glared at Casey as if it were his fault. In a way, it was.
Casey’s grip on Donnie tightened, a possessive, defensive reflex. He looked from April’s worried face to his brothers’ confused and angry ones. The truth was a landmine. A secret that, if revealed, would change everything. It was a secret that belonged only to him and the unconscious turtle in his arms.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry as dust. He had to say something. A lie. A cover story. Anything to protect Donnie from the humiliation, and to protect whatever fragile, terrifying thing had been born between them in that white room.
"He's... he's just exhausted," Casey finally managed, his voice rough and unconvincing. "They... they drugged us. Some kind of nerve gas. Made us... hallucinate. Fight each other." The lie felt foul on his tongue. "Donnie took the worst of it. His system... he just crashed."
He avoided April’s penetrating gaze, focusing instead on the steady, shallow rise and fall of Donnie’s chest. The tiny, trusting chirps had ceased. He was fully unconscious now. The nightmare was over, but for Casey, the real challenge—living with its aftermath—had just begun.
Leo moved to take Donnie from Casey, but the moment Leo stepped forward, his hands outstretched to take his brother, Casey’s body went rigid. It was an instinct deeper than thought, a primal, territorial reflex. His arms locked around Donnie, tightening into an unyielding brace. He didn't mean to challenge Leo—the rational part of his brain was screaming that this was stupid, that Leo was family, that he was helping—but his body refused to obey.
And Donnie… Donnie answered in his sleep.
As Leo’s hands brushed his shell, a sharp, distressed chirp tore from Donnie’s throat. It wasn’t the soft, sleepy sound from before; it was the same high, panicked chirp he’d made in the white room when Casey had pulled away. His limbs, limp a second before, tightened around Casey, his head burrowing deeper into the hollow of Casey’s neck as if seeking shelter. The message was unmistakable: Don’t let go.
Leo froze, his hands hovering in the air. His blue mask wrinkled as his bone-brows furrowed in genuine, bewildered confusion. He looked from Donnie’s unconscious, clinging form to Casey’s tense, defensive posture. A flicker of something unreadable—suspicion? understanding?—passed through his eyes before he masked it with a leader’s practicality.
He just huffed, a soft, exasperated sound. “He’s stubborn,” Leo murmured, more to himself than anyone. He didn't try to pull again. Instead, in a gesture surprising for its gentleness, he reached up and scratched softly under Donnie’s chin, a spot Casey knew the turtle secretly loved. Donnie’s panicked chirping subsided into a faint, unhappy rumble, but he didn’t release his grip on Casey.
Leo’s gaze lifted to meet Casey’s. For a heartbeat, they just looked at each other. Leo’s eyes were sharp, missing very little, but he thankfully seemed to overlook the faint, tell-tale bite mark on the side of Donnie’s neck.
“Did you knock him out cold?” Leo asked, his tone laced with a grudging respect that made Casey’s stomach clench with guilt. “He will need more training if you managed to do that.” It was such a perfectly Leo thing to say, reducing the complex nightmare to a simple combat deficiency, and Casey grasped onto the offered excuse like a lifeline.
He just gave a tight, jerky nod, unable to form words.
Leo finally turned, his shell to them, his leader persona slotting perfectly back into place. “Let’s get him to his bed. Team, let’s go.”
As Leo began issuing orders to a still-fuming Raph and a sniffly Mikey, Casey stood frozen, his arms full of a turtle who trusted him in his sleep more than he trusted his own brother. The walk back to the lair was going to be the longest of his life. Every step would be a reminder of the secret they now shared, a secret that clung to them as palpably as the scent of sex and sweat. And he had no idea how he was going to face Donnie when he finally woke up…or how he’d let him go.
April’s eyes lingered on Donnie for a moment before flicking up to Casey. “You know…maybe you guys needed to smack each other around a little—I’ve never seen you two get along this well…granted, one of you is knocked out but still,” April said, trying to keep it positive without any idea of what Casey and Donnie had actually been doing.
April’s words, meant as a lighthearted attempt to find a silver lining, hit Casey like a physical blow. He felt the heat creep up his neck, a violent flush that had nothing to do with the lingering effects of the gas. Get along this well. The phrase echoed in his skull, so innocent and so staggeringly inaccurate it was almost funny. If only she knew. If only she knew that the reason Donnie was clinging to him like a lifeline was because he'd been thoroughly, repeatedly bred in a white-walled hell until the concept of personal space had been obliterated.
He managed a strangled sound that was supposed to be a laugh but came out as a choked cough. His eyes darted everywhere but April’s perceptive gaze—to the grimy pavement, to Raph’s scowling back, anywhere. “Yeah, well,” he grunted, his voice treacherously rough. “Guess a near-death experience’ll do that. Bonds you.”
It was the weakest lie he’d ever told.
He could feel April studying him. She was too smart, too observant. She saw the way Casey’s knuckles were white where he held Donnie, the protective, almost cradling angle of his arms. She saw the way Donnie, even in unconsciousness, had tangled his fingers in the ripped fabric of Casey’s hoodie.
“Just… take care of him, okay, Jones?” she said softly, her tone losing its forced cheer and shifting into something more serious, more knowing. She wasn’t buying the ‘smacking each other around’ story for a second, but she was smart enough not to push. Not here, with the others around.
Her trust, her assumption that he would naturally look after Donnie, was another layer of guilt laid thick upon the rest. He just nodded again, a sharp, jerky movement, and adjusted his grip, turning to follow Leo’s retreating form.
The walk back to the lair was a silent, agonizing procession. Every step was a reminder of the body in his arms, a body that felt both familiar and newly, terrifyingly sacred. The weight of Donnie was a constant, warm reassurance and a crushing burden. He could still smell the faint, sweet scent of marshmallows on his skin, a ghost of their shared shame.
April’s observation echoed in his mind. I’ve never seen you two get along this well.
He looked down at Donnie’s peaceful, exhausted face. What happened when he woke up? Would the ‘getting along’ vanish the moment his brilliant mind processed the data? Or had something fundamental, something irreversible, truly shifted in that white room?
Casey didn’t know. All he knew was that for now, he was the only one Donnie wanted. And as wrong as the circumstances were, a selfish, desperate part of him never wanted that to change.