Of Lovers with Brothers

BY : Ghost-of-a-Chance
Category: +S through Z > Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
Dragon prints: 170
Disclaimer: I don't own TMNT or any related franchises or nonsense; I'm makin' no money off of this.

Originally posted as part of the Gallery of Memories. This oneshot takes place during the end days of Part II of A New Lease on Life and is no longer timeline-compliant for the main story. Set after the Feud is over and the Purple Dragons are no longer a threat, but before the first rug-munching. (Hence no longer timeline compliant.) If you're left with any questions or confusion, as always, just hit up the main story - A New Lease on Life - on AO3, FFnet, or Tumblr.

Suggested Listening: Ariana Grande "Into You," Ellie Goulding "Love Me Like You Do"


Of Lovers with Brothers

Sometimes the toughest battles are completely devoid of bloodshed. It wasn't a new concept to Donatello; after all, battles of the mind were nothing new to him. Still, he never once considered that he'd someday find himself battling his baser instincts with everything he had.

It all started out so innocently. The bathroom renovations were completed, the Barracks wiring was all repaired, Amber and Daron's former bunks were torn out, and the framework for Raphael's new bedroom was put into place. With everything the family had accomplished, there was still much more to be done; one of those tasks involved the defunct cistern accessible through the Barracks.

From the moment she saw the small round room on the blueprints of the station they built their home from, Amber was fascinated and filled with ideas. Unlike Mercy, who saw a garden in a ruin, Amber saw the cistern – and the room built around it – as a hot tub or pool in the making, or maybe a basking room. At first, Donnie wasn't sure how such a feat could be accomplished; then he managed to break open the old steel security door for a better look. A week after, the cistern was filled in halfway, the visible portions were scoured clean, and the worn brick walkway around it was covered with fresh particle board and ready for decking.

"Was pretty deep, huh?" Amber remarked, curiously leaning over the edge of the round brick-lined pit in the floor. Before her clumsy nature could show its face, Don swept one arm out as a makeshift safety rail, inadvertently brushing her breasts; she didn't seem to notice but his cheeks darkened in a blush. "Probably about the same size as the average rooftop cistern back home – most likely meant to keep the station from flooding, right?"'

"Yeah," he agreed, after clearing the impending squeak out of his voice. "It wouldn't have been much help if the tracks were to flood, but it held about 9.78 hundred gallons. I've filled it in to a little over four feet, but it'll still hold about 500 gallons – plenty of space for a hot tub, right?" She agreed with a shy smile and dark blush, her mind most likely already delving into more risqué uses for said hot tub; she was nothing if not predictable. That, of course, was a problem for Donnie…a problem that has continually led his brain to stubbornly manufacture increasingly suggestive scenarios to torture him with.

It wasn't a new situation, nor an uncommon one. For the most part, he and Amber had been a couple since that first explosive evening when they nearly christened the pantry, but months later, their interactions were still depressingly innocent. They share his bed, but other than the occasional clothed make-out session, they hadn't shared their bodies. It would have made more sense to him if she were the one responsible for the enforced celibacy, but instead, he was the guilty party – every time things between them got too hot and heavy, panic rose in the back of his throat. What he feared, unfortunately, still remained a mystery to him…and Amber was clearly getting impatient.

As focused as he was on pretending he couldn't smell her reaction to the dirty thoughts filling her head, he completely missed the sound of the door closing behind them. "Wha—Hey!" Amber shouted and rushed over to body-slam the heavy door, letting out a pained groan when she bounced right off. "Aw, fark me—Let us out!" On the other side, they heard scrapes and creaks—someone shoving some heavy piece of furniture in front of the door, probably a dresser from the barracks—and Michelangelo almost cackling. Donatello froze in disbelief. No…surely not…

"Mike, ya munter!"# Amber shrieked banging her clenched fists on the door. "This ain't funny—let us out!"

"Not 'til you two sort yourselves out!" Mikey retorted teasingly. "You're stinkin' the place up—just give in already!" Without another word, the youngest strolled away from the door, hands in his pockets, whistling innocently. In the bright beam from the work-light Amber's wide grey-green eyes met Donnie's in absolute befuddlement.

"Stinking the place up?" she asked. "What's he mean by that? I've showered!" The frustrated genius dragged his palm down his face with a loud groan. The situation could only get worse.


Earlier that morning, Donatello would have been completely confident he could survive being stuck in a closet with Amber without embarrassing himself. Now, trapped in the cistern room with her, that confidence was stripped away. If he was honest with himself – and he usually was – he'd admit surprise that Mikey hadn't pulled something like this before. After all, Mikey had played matchmaker between them from the very beginning and the ongoing renovation continually provided unending opportunities for the green-skinned cupid to meddle. Donnie glanced warily from the door to the brunette slumped along one brick wall, sweat dripping down his neck and arms from exertion; no amount of force would break that door open again, not without moving the dresser.

"We ever get out'a here," Amber grumbled fanning herself weakly, "I'm'a skin yer brother."

"Step in line, Hon." He forced himself to breathe through his mouth, stubbornly trying to convince himself he couldn't taste the pheromones thick in the air. As if it wasn't hard enough detecting them by scent… "When we get out'a here, he's getting his shell waxed." …but first, he admitted silently, he and Amber needed to get out of the closet. Before that happened, he'd need to survive being stuck in that small poorly ventilated room with his frustrated girlfriend…most importantly, he'd need to accomplish all that without succumbing to his baser instincts, all of which have done nothing but point out all the wrong things. They were alone, they weren't going to be interrupted, no one had answered their calls for help so the room was probably partly soundproof…

'No! Don't think about it, don't even think about it, Donnie! This is not the time or place to…to…' Against his will, his hazel eyes drifted back to Amber still sulking against the curved wall. It seemed years had passed since he finally comprehended the cause of that delightfully tempting non-scent she was putting off, but in reality, it was only a few months ago. Now he wished he could still claim ignorance – that he didn't know for a fact that the room was stifling with pheromones because she was sexually frustrated – if only because he wouldn't be quite so tempted to take advantage of their situation.

"Maybe I need'a change deodorant," she mused aloud, seemingly oblivious to the direction her boyfriend's thoughts took him. "Y'all've got better noses than us human-types—if y'all think I'm honkin', I'd better make some changes, huh?"##

"What?" Donnie blurted out before he could catch himself, then shook his head. "No, it's not that—just—just ignore him, he's being ridiculous."

"But he said I'm stinkin' the place up!" she argued feebly. "If I ain't reekin 'a BO, what is it?" Instead of answering, he threw everything he had into hammering on the door.

"HELP!"


"Ya never answered me."

"I'm not going to, either." If Donatello ever wondered what it would be like to be trapped in a closet with a woman, he'd have painted it very differently. Amber was way past freaking out over being stuck in the small rounded room and well on her way into grouchy. He gave up on trying to budge the door open—the hallway was narrow and poky, so Mikey probably blocked the door by wedging the dresser in the hallway length-wise—and instead found himself silently contemplating just what cosmic being he must have ticked off.

He was trapped with his girlfriend in a room barely bigger than a walk-in closet, no one could hear them screaming for help, she was a familiar mix of irritable and aroused, the room was absolutely saturated with her pheromones…he was about ready to run up the white flag. "I guess it could be worse," Amber grumbled into her tattooed cleavage.

"How could this be worse?!" Donnie demanded shrilly. As though completely unaffected by the situation, she gave a shrug.

"Someone could need the bathroom."


Amber watched her boyfriend pace the length of the rebuilt walkway inside the blocked door – over and over he traveled that path, each time nervously edging away from the spot she was curled up in. It seemed hours had passed since they first realized their predicament, and while she was actually considering a nap, Donnie was growing more frantic with every lap past the door.

Something wasn't adding up…something didn't make sense. Her brows furrowed in thought, she stared down at the deep round pit in the floor, mentally laying out the facts like pieces of a puzzle. Mikey trapped them in the room and complained that she—or was it they?—stank. Donnie was freaking out badly enough to win gold at the Drama-lympics.* No one was answering their pleas for help. The genius kept giving her frantic cringes in between pacing and hammering the door, his nostrils flaring with every breath. No matter how she put it, the puzzle pieces made no sense…the box had dolphins on it, but somehow she wound up with a rose, a bird, and a cactus.

"Ya know freakin' out ain't gonna help any, right?" she pointed out dryly as her despairing boyfriend clawed at the back of his neck and – for what had to be the fiftieth time – checked every single one of his pockets for the phone he managed to leave on the kitchen table. "We've got air, we've got light, we've got space – they'll figure it out eventually, right?"

"You're not helping, Amber!" he ground out. "We've gotta get out'a here, now!" Realizing he was only getting more wound up, Amber snagged a bit of loose brick from the edge of the pit and chucked it at him, the impact on his carapace resounding with a loud thonk. Annoyed hazel eyes accused her over his shoulder.

"Dee," she groused, "shuddup an' go sit in the corner."

"What corner?! This room is round!" he protested.

"…exactly."


Donatello sat before the door, staring at it in deep concentration. Before the renovations started, the door opened into a small corner of the Hashi-turned-barracks. Fast forward a couple months, the laundry setup was relocated to the second bathroom and the utility room was dubbed 'storage overflow.' Now that the cavernous room was used for living quarters instead of pounding lessons into their thick skulls, they needed better access to it. To facilitate said access, a section of the utility room's back wall was knocked out, and the odd corner became a poky hallway.

He hated to admit it, but Mikey clearly put more thought into this prank than usual. The unfinished hallway was barely wide enough for the cistern room's door to fully open. If it opened inward, he could have taken it right off the hinges…but if it opened inward, Mikey couldn't have blocked it shut from the outside. The faintest sliver of light from the utility room shone through underneath the door, but the gap wasn't wide enough for him to attack the dresser through it. The only tool in the room that would fit was a rust-stained handsaw; granted, he could saw the legs off the near end of the dresser, but that wouldn't help them any.

"Donnie." The sudden address tore him from his thoughts and he met Amber's eyes with a wince. "Is it too dark in here? Is that it?" It took him a moment to catch up, then he shook his head.

"No, that light's plenty. Why?" She had the nerve to pin him with a hard stare.

"Yer actin' like me when ya drag my arse out in the rain—like the shadows're about to bite ya." Before he could get out a protest of 'I'm a ninja, I live in the shadows!' she stood, padded over to him, and framed his face in her hands. "It's okay to be afraid, remember? I know you're not crazy about bein' in the dark…ya don't have to hide it." It took a moment for the unspoken part to register. With a wry smile, he gently pried her fingers loose from his cheeks and held them away, awkwardly lacing their fingers.

"I was afraid of the dark as a kid," he admitted, "but I'm an adult—I've conquered that fear. The darkness has nothing to do with…" He blushed, searching for words that could accurately explain his discomfort. "…that is…uh…" Her scent was driving him out of his mind, all the blood from his brain racing for the southern border. Despite his best intentions, his arms wound around her of their own accord, pulling her soft curvy body into his chest. With his nose buried in her hair, the coconut fragrance was a welcome distraction from the womanly musk that had been driving him to distraction…until, as she reacted to the embrace, the musk strengthened twofold. "You're killing me, Braids."

"Killin' ya?" the brunette echoed back in confusion leaning back to meet his eyes. "I don't understand…This got anythin' to do with what yer brother said? –'bout me stinkin?"

"We both stink," he admitted weakly, "just like we stunk up the pantry." …the…pantry? Her brow furrowed in confusion, she mulled over his words searching for answers.

The PANTRY. It hit her like one of Raph's punches; she leaped backward, gaping at Donnie in mortification. "You can—You can smell me?!" she squawked squishing her legs tightly together and slapping both hands over her crotch with a dark blush. "—as in—"

"…yeah…every time you get gutter-brained." He yanked at the back of his neck with a cringe, avoiding her eyes. The kicker was, she was always gutter-brained. "If it was just smelling you, I could handle it, but you're giving off enough pheromones to choke a goat. That's what Mikey's complaining about…that's why he locked us in here."

"Lemme get this straight," Amber demanded in blatant horror. "Not only can you tell when I'm hot'n bothered, your whole family can tell." Finally meeting her eyes, he nodded weakly. Her pale cheeks flushed almost scarlet and she buried her face in her hands, sliding down the wall to the floor. "That's it—I'm dyin' in here. Please say nice things at my second funeral." That declaration spoken, she fell to grumbling under her breath into her tattooed cleavage; every now and then a word would reach him but his mind was in other places.

His relationship with Amber was almost at a standstill. Their explosive encounter in the pantry occurred in late June and October was just around the corner but as of yet, their interactions were still mostly innocent. Well…as innocent as any interaction between them could be. Neither had seen the other unclothed other than that one time he burst in on her during her shower, and they'd gone no further than the occasional tentative grope and grind. She was ready to go further, he could tell—the constant cloud of pheromones she emitted was proof of that—but he couldn't help worrying that first big step would lead them right off a cliff. Though he was mutated with human DNA like the rest of his family, he wasn't fully human…he wasn't like any of her previous partners.

Even so, she'd never judged him for being less than fully human; why would that change just because he took his clothes off? It wouldn't, he admitted to himself, but that didn't make his fear go away—fear of rejection—fear of being judged and found lacking—worst yet, fear of hurting her even if she wasn't put off by his non-human side. Normal turtles, after all, tended to be rather alarmingly large to compensate for their shells, and the average human female only had about six inches of space to work with. He was small for a turtle, but for a human…well, suffice it to say even if she didn't wind up injured, she wouldn't be able to walk straight for a while. In the meantime… Steeling his nerves, he cleared his throat and settled down next to her.

"Maybe…" He faltered, gave a noisy swallow, then tried again. "We could…you know…maybe we could…" Realizing what he was struggling to say—why was it so hard to express himself around her?!—she looked up in surprise.

"—take the edge off?" she finished curiously; he nodded weakly, a blush streaking across his cheeks. "If you want to…you're nervous about somethin', though…I ain't gonna push ya if yer not ready." All the while, her needy ovaries were screaming obscenities at her for being mature and compassionate instead of mounting and humping him into the floor. No matter how desperate she felt, though, his comfort and confidence meant more to her than anything else. Her internal monologue fell silent at the rasp of a callused palm cupping her cheek; green met hazel, the former hopeful and the latter nervous.

"Braids." Amber blinked at the seriousness in his low voice. "Tell me…tell me you…" When it became clear he couldn't finish, she did so for him

"I love ya, Darlin', all of ya—you could be totally junkless an' I'd still love ya." She shrugged. "Would be awkward as hell, but—" A pair of chapped lips pressed to hers cut her off, pulling away then returning in a series of soft brushing pecks; with her heart at her lips, Amber eagerly returned each kiss. By the time he moved on to her neck, it hit her that she was no longer fully vertical.

Pheromones…sweet, pungent, mind-numbing pheromones filled the air. Refusing to relinquish her lips for more than a breath, Donatello eased his lover to the floor, one arm behind her lower back more to keep her close than for support. A breath later her legs drifted apart in invitation—an invitation he could only accept—and her calves tucked around his hips, hauling him into the cradle of her thighs. The particleboard walkway underneath them was almost cold, but he couldn't feel it—not over the heat Amber's body was putting off.

By the time her ankles locked behind his rear, Donnie was lost—lost in her, lost in her scent and warmth, lost in the instinctive buck and pull rhythm they fell into. The sudden sting of teeth sunk into his shoulder tore a whine from his throat and spurred him to steal her lips again. "Honey," he asked when they parted, his eyes insistent. "Do…do you trust me?"

"Always," she answered pulling him in for another kiss. He seemed to gather his courage, then with one more lingering brush of the lips, he pulled away, backing toward her feet. 'No way…no farkin' way! He ain't gonna—iz'ee?!'### Her hopeful and doubtful internal monologue fell silent as he made short work of her jean shorts, tugging them down and off one ankle after the other. A violent shudder ran through his body; without the denim obstruction, her scent was even stronger, and he couldn't resist pulling away the last obstruction. In the back of her mind, Amber thanked her lucky stars that she gave herself a trim the week before. Even with her normally overgrown nethers trimmed down to a crewcut for comfort, she still squirmed in embarrassment; it wasn't long enough to floss with but men tended to get squeamish about furry women.

"Braids," Donnie urged softly, his eyes meeting hers with a shy smile that silenced her worries. "Let me take care of you?" So many times she'd heard him say those exact words in her dreams; hearing them now, with his breath teasing her bare skin, made her throat clench with emotion. She nodded. He hesitated only long enough to discard his glasses and hoist her meaty thighs onto his shoulders, then set about exploring the flesh newly bared to him.

This, he decided as his lover let out a long keening whine and clawed at the tails of his mask, he could definitely get used to.


Raphael stood in the utility room doorway, silently contemplating the obstruction before him. Earlier he took the shortcut hallway through the utility room to the barracks, intent on checking on Mercy. Though his intentions were innocent from the start, she had other ideas and insisted he stay a while. After an hour of necking and heavy petting, she finally let him go on the condition that he bring back lunch.

Now, the hallway to the utility room was blocked…by a dresser. Raph stood regarding the article of furniture wedged lengthwise in the hallway, wondering how and why it was there. "Hullo?" he called out curiously but received no answer. Shrugging off the mystery, the burly ninja vaulted over the top of the dresser and set about shoving it back among the other spare pieces of furniture piled up in the barracks. Now that the dresser was out of the way, a trace of light shone from beneath the closed door it had blocked; muted sounds echoed through the door, almost like voices.

"Someone in da cistern room?" he wondered aloud, then shrugged it off. Without further ado, he took hold of the handle and swung the heavy iron door open. "Da fuck?! My eyes!"


That night, Briallen crept through the front door of the Lair. Though she saw no one, a dramatic soundtrack emanated from the common area. "Go along now," a male actor urged his female co-star as Bree strolled past the kitchen. "I won't be chasing you anymore. Fare thee well."

"I don't wanna run, anymore," the co-star admitted.** Suddenly, the top of a green head popped up over the back of the lumpy sofa, two hazel eyes noticed Bree and widened, and the occupants of the sofa scrambled to right themselves.

"Hey, Bree!" Donatello greeted sheepishly, the greying brunette sprawled across his lap echoing the sentiment with extra twang. The two looked too stinking cute cuddled up on the sofa, Bree decided, and she almost felt sorry for interrupting their snuggle-fest…almost. "How're your classes going?" Bree gave a melodramatic groan and fairly threw herself on Mikey's bean bag chair.

"I'm supposed to graduate next Spring," she reminded them dryly, then added, "I won't make it that long. Professor Robbins is still allergic to showers, and he stinks!" A scarlet flush streaked across Amber's cheeks at the last word; she choked on the sip of tea she'd taken and so commenced beating it out of her lungs. Donnie accomplished what she couldn't with a single calculated whack on the back, then gave Bree a nervous grin as his girlfriend gasped for breath. 'What's gotten into those two?' she wondered.

"Well, that's lovely," he remarked dryly. "At least you're almost done, right?" Bree nodded. As fun as Donnie and Amber two could be, she had to admit, she hadn't come to visit them—she came to see her Mikey. "He's in his room." The unexpected explanation made her blink in surprise, then a grin split her still-painted lips.

"Thanks! Enjoy your movie, you two!" Before either could point out that the movie was over, Bree was on her way up the stairs. When she opened her boyfriend's bedroom door, however, she halted, staring at his bed in disbelief. Michelangelo was bound to the bed—hogtied naked with his wrists bound to the footboard, his ass in the air, and his legs tied down with a fitted sheet. A familiar pair of Hawaiian print boxers wedged in his mouth functioned as a gag. "Do I even wanna know?" she asked him dryly as he attempted to protest his innocence around his boxers. As Raphael lumbered down the catwalk outside, he answered for his brother.

"Nope."


NOTES

* Drama-lympics - Another lovely little made-up word from my friend Autumn. Basically, if someone's trying out for or winning at the Drama-lympics, they're being totally over-dramatic to the point of being ridiculous. "Trying out for the Drama-lympics" is WAY worse than simply being "Dramatastic" and "winning" or "placing at the Drama-lympics" is worse than both combined.
** Quote is from the 2009 film "Sherlock Holmes." TECHNICALLY this is "Old life" versus "New Life," but it was just too good to pass up, considering Donnie and Amber BOTH have a history of running from their problems. (Amber more than Donnie, of course.)

Translations

#Munter – "an ugly person." Another Scotch slang term Amber's twisted; Munter means ugly in appearance but oftentimes, in certain parts of the US, ugly is used to describe a person who is cruel, rude, or generally ill-behaved. (IOW, ugly on the inside instead of on the outside.) Amber isn't saying Mikey's unattractive, she's saying he's being a horrible person for locking her in a veritable closet with Donnie.
#Honkin' – Scotch slang, smelly and/or dirty.
#Iz'ee – Is he, a common pronunciation in the Midwest. (Remember, we like to drop syllables.)



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