PLEASE BE RUDE
And they were roommates. content: 2012 april // lots of yearning // fem reader
April O’Neil never wanted a roommate.
She was fine being by herself, in her humble apartment with aged wallpaper and floorboards that creak. The privacy that comes with having her own space gave her the freedom to do whatever she wanted—no one to complain about unfolded laundry sitting on the sofa, or the unwashed dishes in the sink.
Yet those days come crashing down when you move in.
Apparently, the two of you shared a mutual friend from college, who requested that April let you live with her upon your recent move to the city. Yet, she couldn’t help the resentment that bubbles whenever you eye the dishes in the sink or the piles of clothes that are tossed over furniture, your lips pursing as if holding back a harsh comment. It’s not like she lives like a pig—you just had a very orderly way of living that contrasted with her more busybody lifestyle.
Worst of all, however, was the fact she couldn’t have her turtle friends over unless you’re busy at work. They had to sneak in and out of her bedroom window, which isn’t easy, considering their stature and shells that keep knocking into the frame. Even when she tries to make stops at the lair after her shift at work, you would always scrunch up your nose at the musty scent that lingers from her after she comes back from the sewers.
While you were not the devil’s incarnate, April is convinced the two of you could never be friends. At least, until the day you come back to the apartment on the brink of tears.
Despite her better judgment, she couldn’t leave you alone. She found herself sitting on the fire escape with you, a hot drink in hand, as you cried and ranted about your taxing job, homesickness, and how you felt as if you had no life outside your career. The more April learnt about you, the more your silent judgement and stingy ways felt like a distant past—instead of an annoying roommate, she saw another person just as lost in the world as she is. The rest of the night she spent sharing her own stressors with you, from learning how to renavigate her friendships with “old friends” to trying to prove her weight as a journalist. By the time the sun began to peek over the horizon, you had let out a sniffle, wiping at your red-rimmed eyes before smiling wearily at her.
“Thank you, April.” You had said, hesitating for a moment before reaching out a hand to squeeze her shoulder. Her heart unexplainably stuttered at the contact, and she should have known she was doomed.
You cement yourself as her new ‘normal’. Instead of just a roommate, her mind rewrites you as the person she gets to come home to every day. Her Friday evenings are reserved for you, spending those late hours laughing at bad movies over cheesecake. She finds you in everything, from ordering your favourite drink during her break to a stranger having the same colour eyes—none of them looked as good as you, though. She even takes to name-dropping you around the lair, apparently much more frequently than she realised, because it’s Donnie of all people who wakes her up to reality.
“You’re in love with her.” He states so abruptly and matter-of-factly, as if he’s pointing out the colour of the sky. She raises her head from her laptop, and the lab suddenly drops in temperature as she processes his loaded statement.
“What?” She responds smartly, and just as Donnie opens his mouth, she shuts him down. “Oh, I get it. Jeez, Donnie, just tell me I’m talking too much next time.”
She trains her gaze back to the Word document she’d been reading over—was it something for work or a mission? She can’t remember anymore, her face hot as Donnie lifts his eyes from the gadget he’d been tinkering with. His lips are pressed in a firm line as a tense silence follows.
“I mean it,” He repeats. “You’re in love with her.”
Suddenly, she feels like she’s seventeen again. Two boys are bickering over her, and despite the twisted sense of excitement, she is quickly becoming overwhelmed, and everything around her is crumbling.
She can’t go through that again, not with you.
“April.”
She tears her eyes away from the screen, and there is a familiar burn climbing to the back of her throat.
“What do you want me to say?” She asks him pointedly. She knows it’s unfair, especially when Donnie’s brown eyes crease at the corners. She knows he’s no longer in love with the idea of her, and they are still learning how to be friends again after she left for Chicago. There is no competition or resentment anymore.
“Nothing.” He responds simply, lowering his goggles over his eyes. “I just thought you should know.”
They sit in the stillness, even after she mumbles an apology and he hums in recognition. She doesn’t want to be seventeen again, but her white button-up is turning yellow, and her chest is pounding.
April didn’t see the merit in “dolling up”—she didn’t have the patience for it during prom, birthdays, or even her graduation. Yet, you’re in her room, doing her makeup while she squirms.
“April.” You begin to chide, though you lose any edge as you giggle. “You asked me to do this.”
“I know,” She concedes easily—always losing her stubborn streak with you. “But, ugh, you’ve sprayed so many things on me.”
“Okay, drama queen, it was just thermal spring water and setting spray.” You place your hands over your hips, still holding onto a compact blush. “I haven’t done your makeup before. Hell, I haven’t done anybody’s. I don’t want to be the reason you show up to this important event with dry skin and patchy makeup.”
“Oh, the horror,” She smirks as you circle your brush against her cheeks. “I’d have to fire you as my makeup artist.”
“And on my first day too!” You gasp with mock offence, and she stifles her laughter as you reach for a tube of mascara. A silence falls over her room as she closes her eyes so you can carefully drag the spoolie over her curled lashes. Suddenly, she’s very aware of your gentle touch under her chin, and she hopes the rest of her face doesn’t match the blush you dusted over her cheeks. However, as the quiet stretches on and she tries to think of something to say, you beat her to the chase.
“You’re so pretty that it’s almost unfair.” You comment, sounding a little winded. “Seriously. Putting makeup on you feels pointless.”
Despite herself, her breath hitches. It’s not the first time someone has praised her looks, but the way the compliment comes from you is different. It matters to her. It matters a lot. She curses that she can’t open her eyes and gauge your expression, as you’re still busy applying mascara on her.
“Thank you.” She manages to stammer, her throat tightening. Her heartbeat is ringing in her ears, and she wonders if you can hear it too.
Like everything else that surrounds the turtles, your first meeting with them is utter chaos.
Mikey had mistaken which window belonged to April and had barged into your room like a Category Five hurricane. April had raced over at the sound of your screams, only to find Mikey attempting to pick himself off the floor while his three brothers scrambled to yank him out the window. Once she managed to calm you down, she finally introduced the ‘old friends’ she had mentioned to you in passing. Understandably, it had taken you a moment to process and come to terms with the mutant turtles’ existence. Eventually, you fell into a flow of chatter with the more conversational of the four—namely Mikey and Leo, with Donnie chipping in to answer your more technical questions.
From where she stands in the kitchen, April watches you interact with a mix of relief and nerves, missing Raph sneaking up on her until he’s leaning against the counter with a cola-flavoured popsicle in hand—the thief riffled through her stash again.
“So that’s her, huh?” He comments idly, biting into the ice pop, and she winces at the sight. “She’s taking the mutant thing well enough… I guess.”
“Yup.” She responds, popping the ‘p’ and hoping she sounds flippant enough to bypass Raph’s perceptive eye. “I told you she’s cool like that.”
He doesn’t reply for a moment, and she wonders if that’s the end of the short exchange until he speaks up once again.
“We’ll see, considering how much you hype her up.” He dismisses breezily, striding over to his brothers. “Hopefully your girlfriend is still cool when you have to tell her about the psychic-alien-hybrid-ninja-thing.”
He’s teasing her; she knows this, yet instead of annoyance or dread for the inevitably difficult conversation she will have to have, her mind focuses on how he called you her girlfriend. She never thought she’d like hearing it so much.
April knows she can be a jealous pest. Whether it was over how adeptly the guys moved during fights or being in a college classroom while the girl in front of her always had the right answer, April felt envy often.
This, however, is different. It’s the kind that permeates into her skin like needles, bile rising to her throat as her body burns with something ugly. However, she manages to mask it with cold indifference as you recite an interaction you had at a cafe earlier this morning.
“—And then she gave me her number.” You lean against the couch, shoving a spoonful of ice cream into your mouth. “I mean, she was cute, but…”
“Cool.” She snipes clippedly, and despite the immediate pang of guilt at you falling quiet, she’s too dizzy to backtrack. She doesn’t dare glance in your direction, her jaw set as she stares at the TV where a period drama she doesn’t care for is playing.
“... Why are you being like this?” You question, void of any anger, and her shoulders rise. Sometimes, she wishes you would just get mad at her instead of braving through these conversations. It reminded her of how much she didn’t deserve you.
“Like what?” She tries to swallow down the malice that creeps into her inflection. However, her reply is still dry enough to cause your frown to deepen.
“You know what I mean, April.” You say her name with growing impatience, and fuck, she still likes the way it rolls off your tongue. “You’re shutting me out. You know I care about you, right? So talk to me, tell me what’s bothering you so I can know how to fix it. I don’t want you to hurt in silence.”
How is she supposed to talk to you? How can she tell you that she wants to rip apart the note with that girl’s number scrawled on it? How can she tell you that she wants to keep you to herself? How can she tell you that she adores everything you do—the way you snort before laughing, the way you passionately debate her on dumb things, and the way your touch leaves sparks on her skin?
How can she tell you she loves you?
“You don’t care about me the way I care about you.” She spits it out like a curse, and she feels so young and stupid when she rips her gaze away from your wide eyes. “I… look, let’s forget it, okay? I’m sorry, I had a really crappy day at work and—”
She never gets to finish her flimsy apology, not when your hand lands on her cheek, so gentle as you turn her head to look back at you. You’re close, so close that she can count your lashes and feel your breath mingling with hers. You don’t say anything, your eyes wordlessly darting to her lips, and she feels all the air escape her lungs, suspended in disbelief. Yet, you don’t move, and when she swallows thickly, you finally close the remaining distance.
This isn’t her first kiss, and yet all the ones she had in the past pale in comparison to this one. It’s not like you’re an excellent kisser, but the rush of emotions she feels is unlike anything she’s experienced. Her hands land on your hips while your hands card through her hair, careful not to tug on the thin locks. She can taste the artificial strawberry of the chapstick you tend to lather on, and she blearily wonders if you like how she tastes too.
When you finally pull away, she’s sure her skin must be crimson by now, considering how flushed she feels. You are not any less affected, breathless as you move a trembling hand to cup the back of her head.
“I think I care the same way you do.” You assert quietly, and she belatedly realises what you’re answering to.
“O-Oh.” She stammers, and she wants to slam her head through a wall. All she has to say is “Oh”? Gosh, if any of the guys were here, they would have made her the butt of their jokes for weeks. To her relief, you just giggle, leaning in to press a kiss to her freckled cheek. “Um, what I mean is, uh…”
“You never let me finish what I wanted to say earlier,” You interrupt, twirling strands of her hair. “I told her I already liked someone else—a journalist who likes listening to heavy metal during her commute to work, leaves her laundry on the floor for me to trip over, and gets jealous when other people hit on me.”
There is a stone lodged in her throat, and she resists the urge to grin dopely, especially when you shuffle aside so you can lean against her.
“You didn’t really describe me like that, did you?” She muses as your lips brush against her jaw.
“No, but even if I did, I’d say I love this woman anyway.”
