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A New Lease on Life	By : Ghost-of-a-Chance Category: +S through Z > Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Views: 3267 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own TMNT, any of its characters or devices, or any songs/books/movies referenced. No money is made from this story. I DO own any & all OCs included in the story...and a Woozle.

Chapter List
- 27
- 28
- 29
FINALLY you get some Donnie and Amber shenanigans, yay! Not full-out horizontal mambo shenanigans but still shenanigans. If you've already read this on another site...well, the pantry scene has been EXPANDED for posting here!
Precautions include major spoilers for "Out of the Shadows" and the first non-dream sexual content.
Suggested Listening: Pat Benatar "All Fired Up," Sofia Karlberg "Crazy in Love," REO Speedwagon "Can't Fight This Feeling"
27: A Taste Without Tears
June 24th, Brooklyn
Vern Fenwick's day started out fine—he woke up early, beat the crowd to his favorite coffee shop, and even managed to arrive on time for the appointment with the Barbux Coffee Advertising team. From there, however, everything went south. The secretary outed him for dumping an empty Donut Heaven coffee cup in the lobby trash, painted him as being 'disloyal' to his impending business partners, and lost him the commercial deal. When he retreated with his proverbial tail between his legs, a crazy cabbie sprayed him with muddy water instead of stopping. When he finally got a taxi, he'd like to have gagged from how badly the car and cabby smelled. By the time he finally got back to his loft, he was sure his day couldn't get any worse.
…then he found April, Donatello, and Leonardo in his living room…and gave a decidedly feminine screech of surprise. A cup of coffee and mustard sandwich later, he sat glaring at the two ninja-nuisances across the coffee table. They only came to him when they wanted something and boy did they want something this time. "Lemme get this straight," he grumbled into his mug. "You want me to buy an abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn and put something there."
"One specific building," Donatello piped up helpfully, "and specifically something that'll use massive amounts of water and electricity." Vern glared up at him; Donnie shrugged. "It's relevant." The older man gave a sarcastic smile and shook his head.
"Do I even wanna know?" he asked scrubbing one palm along his stubbled jaw. "Real estate ain't my thing. I'm a cameraman—"
"A camera wingman," April pointed out in a huff. "You haven't been behind a camera since Shredder was arrested, you've been in front of them!" With a smug expression, he leaned back in his chair and gestured vaguely to her.
"Jealous, O'Neil?" he teased. "How's that froth and foam coming?" April glared at him; clearly, he saw her recent coverage of the women's gym that opened in Manhattan. "No trampolines, granted, but you really rocked those yoga pants."
"Guys, come on," Leo reprimanded. "Vern, we know it's asking a lot, but it's important. There's an abandoned railyard right below that building and we're going to be using it a lot in the future—if there's nothing upstairs, the electricity and water usage and heat output will draw attention from the authorities." Vern visibly wilted.
"If you're growing pot, I'm not covering for ya." While Leo was still stammering in disbelief and outrage Donnie blurted out,
"Vegetables!" He gave an appalled cringe. "Mercy's offered to grow fresh produce to feed the family—she grew up in the country and has some experience!" As the blonde's name sunk in, Vern visibly perked up. Mercy…that was a woman's name!
"Ya got a chick living with ya?" He gave a sharp laugh. "That's why you guys're going through groceries like this?"
"Technically," Don admitted lowly, "the count's up to three humans—Mercy, Amber, and for the meantime, Daron. We're going through groceries like crazy, but if Mercy can grow produce it'll make supplies last longer…and it'll cost you less in the long run." It was right on the tip of his tongue, but he decided that reminding Vern why he was now 'stupid-rich' wasn't in their best interests. Vern visibly debated it a moment, running one hand nervously over his buzz-cut.
"Can it wait 'til next week?" he finally asked. "I've got a check comin' in then—royalties—and I can't put a lot of money into this, either, maybe 5k tops." April rolled her eyes.
"Vern," she reminded shortly, "you've already made a killing selling bags of your own breath—peddle some toenail clippings or something!" His first inclination was to rise to her bait just as he always had, but thought better of it; after all, he was now more than the sassy sidekick and she was always more than just a petulant reporter. Just in time he tore his eyes away from her neckline and stared into his mug. He missed their playful arguing.
It would be a real gamble—going along with the turtles' scheme could end very, very badly for him…but if he was honest with himself, without them he'd never have been more than an over-worked and underpaid cameraman. He was rich—stupid rich—and living the kind of life he'd never expected to live, but without their intervention, he'd still be poor as dirt and eating mustard sandwiches for monetary rather than nostalgic reasons. His mind made up, he smirked up at Leonardo.
"I'm not making any promises," he said smoothly without betraying a hint of his true feelings. "But I'll see what I can do…with conditions, of course." April, clearly having expected this, face-palmed, and he ticked off his conditions on long skinny fingers. "Keep me in the loop—If I see the railyard beforehand, I'll be able to plan around it. You're introducing me to your lady-friends, both of'em. Make sure this cockamamie plan of yours actually decreases the grocery bill. And lastly, depending on what you grow in this garden of yours—" He threw up air quotes for good measure. "Don't be stingy—share the good stuff. Oh, and no pot."
Leonardo was suddenly glad he'd left Michelangelo at home; his brother would probably have piped up with something like "Oh, so kettle's okay?" which wouldn't have done anything more than annoy him. Ice blue eyes turned to Donatello; the genius nodded. "We have a deal, then," Leo acknowledged lowly. "We're in your debt, Vern." Vern laughed as he stood to usher the out the window.
"You're gonna die there, ya know," he teased. "I'm chargin' interest." April socked him in the arm as she passed him, but he caught a teasing smile afterward; it was good to see that being rich didn't change everything.
About an hour after the trio left, Vern stared in dismay at the screen of his laptop. Before he did any research on the building in question, he was sure the plan would work. That, however, was before he found out that the building was condemned because of a fire, gutted and left to rot, and heavily infested with bugs and rats, and the price tag was still in the eight-digit range. 'Who'd pay 20 million for that heap?!' he wondered in disgust, his eyes riveted to a full-color photograph of a massive rat nest in the remains of a shattered support beam. Clearly, the turtles hadn't done any real checking out of the building before approaching him about it!
He wanted to help—really, he did!—but… His eyes drifted to a shadowbox hung on the living room wall and the ostentatious metal key displayed inside; he sobered, considering the object and the reason it was on his wall in the first place. He stilled.
"Bah," he scoffed reaching for his cell phone and dialing the number from the online ad. "I'm so screwed."
At one time, Bree Hardy looked forward to her hours at the childcare center; years later, she finally understood why her boss always looked like she'd gone five rounds with an angry cat. With Summer on the way the kids in the daycare were being even more ill-behaved than usual and that, in short, meant she had to work harder than ever to reign them in. So, after another long afternoon of Kid Practice, she wanted nothing more than to spend what remained of the day with her boyfriend.
Michelangelo, however, was still confined to the Lair with the rest of his family. They'd had an admittedly brief visit—barely more than a quickie in the closet—on the seventh, but on the way home, Leo spotted heavy Purple Dragon activity too close to home for comfort. Reportedly the whole family was on homebound for the time being…which meant no nookie for Bree…dang it. Almost pouting at the thought, Bree slammed the front door, chucked her keys into the wooden bowl on the hall-stand, then for good measure, stomped into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine.
"Rough day?" Beverly asked from the kitchen table, her dark eyes grinning over the screen of her laptop; sure enough, Bree let out a loud groan and slumped into the chair opposite her cousin, leaving only her glaring eyes visible above her crossed arms.
"Lemme put it this way," Bree grumbled into her arms. "I picked a heckuva week to go on a diet." Stunned by Bree's admission, Bev gingerly shut the laptop and stared her down over it.
"What?" Bev asked giving her cousin a quick once-over; she couldn't detect any sign of weight gain, so why the sudden interest in losing it? "Since when do you diet? Since when do you need to diet?" Bree blew a lock of springy ash brown hair out of her face in annoyance and answered dryly,
"Since an anorexic intern asked if it's a boy." Bev snorted before she could stop it. "Traitor," Bree groused and took up the longstem glass of dry fruity red wine.
"Bree-a-may," Beverly chuckled shaking her head. "You're not fat. You're petite and curvy—curves show up easily on petite women." Feeling mischievous, she waited for her cousin to take a sip of her wine then pointed out, "Mike certainly seems to approve." With impeccable timing, she ducked to the side to avoid the spray and grinned like a Cheshire cat while Bree beat it out of her lungs.
"That was mean!" Bree whined between coughs but couldn't hold her feigned insult long and dissolved into laughter. For a time, the two chatted and teased one another, then Bree got it into her head to make another batch of Snickerdoodles—the house favorite. As she leafed through her recipe box, though, her phone rang with the theme song of some old side-scroll video game—Mikey!—and with an excited grin at Beverly, she ducked into her bedroom to answer. "Hey, Sweetheart," she greeted as she locked the door. "Missed me?"
"You know it," Mikey returned as she flopped onto her still-made bed. "Still on lockdown—this sucks!" Seeming to realize he was complaining, he asked, "So how was your day?"
"I got called pregnant by a skinny intern and she still has her teeth," she answered blandly. "You tell me."
"Don't tell me you started a diet, Bree." Before, she could hear his grin as if she could see it right before her, but he was now dead serious. "You're not fat, Babycakes…you're perfect from head to toe." Bree grinned, sure she was blushing.
"Even my butt?" she teased already knowing his answer.
"Especially your butt!" Mikey proclaimed eagerly, and because he couldn't help himself, he propped his phone between his head and shoulder and with both hands visualized that very butt for his own benefit, adding a few virtual squeezes for good measure. "It's perfect, so round and plump and squishy and—" As he lauded the merits of her posterior—then the rest of her—his energy and affection melted away the stresses of her rotten day. His family's safety came first, there was no doubt, but she really, really missed her Mikey.
Michelangelo stared up at the drab metal ceiling overhead, torn between happiness and loneliness. The source of the first, Bree chattering in his ear, was just barely enough to balance out the second. He missed her—missed the way her big brown eyes lit up when she saw him, the way her soft hands latched onto his neck when they kissed, the way the rest of her latched onto his everything when they—
Dammit. He was stuck at home with his brothers—he really didn't need to be thinking about that right now! Already feeling a little too big for his shell, he squirmed, hoping the pressure would go down on its own.
"Are you—Are you in bed?" Bree asked suddenly. Mikey gave a sheepish laugh.
"No….well, yeah," he admitted. "My chair's out'a commission right now." Bree knew without asking that he'd piled comics and clothes on it again and was too lazy to clean it off; she was a bit of a neat freak so she couldn't understand why he'd be happy living in what she termed a pigsty.
"You know," she pointed out innocently, "if you'd keep your room clean, you would have a chair—and you wouldn't lose things so much. —and didn't you say you found a spider under your bed the other day?"
"Oh, that wasn't a problem." Bree could hear his grin through the line and felt her own lips spread to match it. "I just put'im in Raph's room."
"Raph's the one afraid of bugs, right?" she giggled. "Oh, Mike, you're horrible!" Though their conversation was innocent, Mikey's problem was only getting worse. If they didn't always wind up naked and tangled every time he visited, would he still wind up pitching a tent just from hearing her voice? He didn't have an answer. The pressure from keeping himself confined was getting more painful by the minute. Having reached his limit of tolerance, he flexed his pelvic muscles and dropped down, wincing at the sudden rasp of denim on skin; he knew he should'a worn gym shorts today.
"I miss ya, Angelcakes," he murmured unable to stop himself from adjusting his jeans—or, rather, his tent—with the heel of a hand. "Wish you were here—Wish Leo wasn't being such a butt about letting you and Bev into the family." He gave a hopeful smile. "You could'a been stayin' over instead'a wakin' up alone."
"Yeah." Bree sighed in his ear, then he heard rustling. "Miss you too, Blue…Miss ya so much it hurts."
Blue. Once the nickname confused him; the more they got to know one another, though, the more it made sense. Bree had lived a remarkably unremarkable life. She did well in school, she never really got into trouble, she never experienced any sort of crime more shocking than someone running a red light or keying her car—Mikey suspected she didn't even dream in color before he met her. For the most part, she only had three unusual things happen to her, the first being raised by a single father and her single uncle alongside Beverly, and the second, meeting Mikey and Leo while Bev first ended up in the hospital.
The third thing was more unexpected than unusual, and it happened during her first years of college - a threat in the form of a brown-haired blue-eyed Texan majoring in business management. At the time, Beverly was worried Rick and Bree were moving too fast and voiced her distrust of him, but Bree couldn't see it. It wasn't until she moved in with him that she realized Bev was right. When she moved back in with Bev almost a year later, she was traumatized—afraid of her own shadow—and unable to accept that what happened was really abuse. After all, she reasoned, Rick wasn't violent—his punches never touched her—and he didn't try to isolate her—except from family and friends. No matter how many excuses she made for him, though, finally it sunk in…she made it out just in time.
Years after they broke up, the man she now referred to as "Dick" didn't have much of a hold on her unless one counted her bizarre Dick-spawned phobia. Blue eyes. Blue eyes, Southern accents, and the smell of cigarettes all triggered anxiety attacks of various intensities. The day they met, Mike and Leo had let themselves into the girls' loft to pick up some things for Bev, never realizing she didn't live alone. Two huge home invaders with vibrant blue eyes…Bree was petrified. She screamed her lungs out and even fainted, but because of their eyes rather than their general appearance. Now, Mikey's bluer than blue eyes, the very eyes she once feared, were comforting and calming, and the inspiration for her favorite pet name.
Briallen and Michelangelo shared a companionable silence for a moment, both wishing to be where the other was. On the other end of the line, Mikey thought he heard rustling and shuffling. "Hey, Hon?" Bree asked suddenly with feigned nonchalance. "Ya got your computer handy? There's something you've gotta see." Believing she was sending him either a cat video or a news clip, he dug out his battered notebook and logged on only to notice something odd. Had he really forgotten to shut down video-chat last time he used it? Wait…
A wide grin split his face at the blinking icon on his dashboard. Oh, Bree, you stinker, he thought with a chuckle; when she finally appeared before him that laughter died. Lying across her bed on her belly put her visible curves and generous cleavage on display in the best of ways. Curly ash brown hair framed her big brown eyes and still-painted lips. "I have a problem, Dr. Angelo," she teased batting her eyes at him and hanging up the phone. "Can you help me?"
"Maybe," he shot back with a wolfish smile, stealthily adjusting himself again. "What might be this problem of yours?" She slyly uncrossed her arms and propped her chin on one palm, revealing she was, in fact, starkers.
"You see, Doctor, my…um…downstairs is…is wet…and…" Her face suddenly scrunched up. "This is creepy. Just strip." While he complied with her order and made himself visible as well, he caught a glimpse of green over her right shoulder—the last paper promise he left her, but definitely not the last he'd ever leave. He'd hoped that Leo would realize Bev and Bree weren't going to hurt his family or be hurt because of his family; he'd hoped that with enough pushing, Leo would relent in his determination to shut them out. Mike had done nothing but push, wait, and push some more; desperate times call for desperate measures, and if he and Bree were kept apart like this much longer, he was going to go beyond desperate.
Funny how he trusted his girlfriend's judgment better than his own brother's.
No matter how many times Amber looked in the fridge, it remained the same…mockingly empty of enough of anything to make a full meal. Not enough meat, cheese, vegetables…the only thing they had an excess of was space. It was well past time for a grocery run but everyone was grounded to the Lair until further notice. Yanking on the frizzy grey-streaked braid draped over her right shoulder, Amber stared down the fridge as though willing it to suddenly become full again.
It was nearing dinnertime and the entire household would need feeding—the turtles, of course, would be ravenous after an entire day of construction. Even though she, Daron, and Mercy hadn't done nearly as much, they spent most of the day clearing out the old railyard. Amber was ecstatic to have her legs back again—the ER orthopedist gave her a clean bill of health the other day and cut off her cast—but her feet were killing her after so long of not using them as much. In her mind, it was like starting work at Willsdale High after summer break — every year when school let out, she took on temp work a couple towns over, but by the time school started again, muscles she hadn't used were threatening to secede from the union.
Glaring venomously at the empty egg tray, she shuffled through her mental Rolodex for any possible recipes she could work with. Poultry and dumplings…she could throw in the last of the turkey with the last of the baked chicken…but they were out of eggs. They could substitute egg noodles or pasta but they didn't have enough to go around. Meatloaf…no, they didn't have any ground beef. Perhaps…or…maybe… Before she died, she never would have struggled so much with thinking this through; since her 'revival,' though, she couldn't get her thoughts straight and she was very easily distracted. Some random tool clattered to the floor in the ladies' room nearly sending her through the roof. She was, in short, sick to farking death of Post-Traumatic Stress and all its little ass-buddies.
A pair of heavy work boots clomped through the utility room door. "Hungry?" Donatello asked conversationally as he refilled his canteen at the sink. Amber, unfortunately, was distracted by more interesting things—the violet tails of his mask draping down his bare shoulder, a sheen of sweat glimmering on his arms, a dusting of plaster particles clinging to his suspenders, the lower rim of his carapace and the way his trousers stretched across the tight ass right below it— Suddenly, it occurred to her he had turned around and was giving her a strange look. "What? Have I got something on my pants?"
Amber choked, her face turning scarlet; God forbid he should figure out she liked him covered in grease and grit! As though oblivious to her frantic scrambling, he craned his neck to look over his shoulder, swiped a bandaged palm over his behind to dislodge any grease or dust, then studied his clean hand in confusion. "You see it, right? Maybe it'd be easier if you got it off." She couldn't help focusing on the 'got' and the 'off.' How long had it been since she had something other than her fingers?!
'Sure, Dee,' she thought sarcastically, 'invite me to skelp• the dust off yer arse! I totally won't grope you while I'm at it!' Instead of saying a word, though, she turned back to the fridge, beet red, and hobbled past him to the walk-in pantry. He watched the blushing brunette curiously as she stared through an empty shelf at eye level, pondering whether or not something might be wrong with her. Cold water rushing over his hand startled him from his thoughts; he hurriedly switched off the tap and took a deep swig of water.
Pheromones. He blinked in surprise, pulling the canteen away from his lips and taking another whiff. Yep…she was practically dripping with the mysterious non-scent he'd come to both relish and dread. Every now and then he'd convince himself that the presence meant she was attracted to him—that she wanted him—but he always talked himself down. Perhaps, he considered with another steadying sip of water, another experiment was in order…hopefully one that wouldn't be as disastrous as the last.
A massive warm hand at her back made Amber go completely rigid; slowly, almost fearfully, she turned to meet the darkening hazel eyes a head above her own. Soft eyes—hopeful eyes—curious, intrigued, wondering eyes veering brown in the shadowed pantry—she forced a swallow hoping he couldn't hear her heart pounding in her tattooed chest. The hand at her back turned her bodily toward him, its brother rising to cup her chin and cheek. "What do you want from me?" he asked softly, his eyes dropping to her lips before darting back up again.
'Wha-doo I want?' she thought with a nervous chuckle. 'Fer you to hawd yer haverin'• an' bend me o'er the farkin' sink a'ready!' Instead of voicing her scandalous thoughts, though, she blurted out, "Harsher sentences fer parole violators an' world peace." Finally, her filter worked, Hallelujah! He smirked, one bare brow tilted upward, and brushed the pad of his thumb across her still darkening blush,
"You, my dear, are a strange bird." Slowly, as though giving her time to back away, he bent toward her, repeatedly glancing from her lips to her eyes. Her breath stilled in her lungs; at the first hesitant peck, they greedily sucked in air as though she was drowning in more than just his scent, his touch, his taste…
The first time Donatello tasted her lips, they were salty from tears and smoky from Scotch whisky; this second time, he tasted only her. Once, he realized as his left hand swept up her back to dive fingers-first into her loosely braided hair, would never be enough. One kiss turned into another, then that one into another, then after several more brief brushes and nips, he gave up on counting. When her back met the wooden rack behind her, a whimper escaped, but the greedy hands latching onto his neck and cheek told him it wasn't from pain. His hands dropped to the over-plump rear that made his brain short-circuit; digging his fingertips in and squeezing her cheeks he effortlessly hoisted her up, bodily pinning her between the empty shelving and his hard plastron. If she wasn't already lost, the way it took him no effort to lift her would have done the trick.
Pheromones. Sweet, pungent, mind-numbingly delicious pheromones were clouding his senses and growing stronger by the moment. Finally, everything made sense…even as he lost himself in her, words rang through his memory, a thousand moments when he wondered but wouldn't believe.
I tried tellin' ya—ya didn't believe me.
Deceptively strong legs wrapped around his hips, hauling him into the blistering hot cradle of her meaty thighs. The moment of impact tore a grunt from his lungs and a cry from hers. Heat - blistering heat radiated from her denim-clad skin, soaking into his tightening trousers.
Here I am drookit an' gantin'• over a man who barely knows me, an' he's probably into waists!
One trembling hand roamed her ample curves, the other digging fingers-first into her denim-clad backside. She was so soft - so wonderfully soft in his hands - how wasn't he hurting her with his oversized fingers and rough skin?
If I died and was reincarnated, how can I still remember Donatello?
Blunt nails dug into his bare shoulder and carapace, scratching and pulling; teeth closed harshly on his lower lip and tugged followed by a soothing lick and needy whine. This woman was like a wildcat! He'd never seen this side of her before—how had she managed to keep it locked away all this time?
How can you put a lifetime of memories into a single conversation?
A feminine hand latched onto his, pulling it away from the love handle it was mapping out and guiding it instead to a full heavy breast. Under his touch, the tip firmed and tightened, jabbing eagerly into his palm. He choked, easily identifying the culprit and cause. The first time she kissed him, he felt sure she was faking attraction to distract him; there was no doubt in his mind now. She couldn't fake this.
She waited a lifetime for you.
Hips instinctively sought each other, ankles crossing behind his rear and urging even more frantic instinctive bucking. Every impact, every meeting of their bodies, sent up another wave of musky come-ons; every desperate meeting of their lips began and ended in a shaky breath sucking in more of their combined scent. Was this what intoxication felt like? Was intimacy supposed to leave a person feeling so raw, like exposed nerves in an open wound?
Just what the truth is I can't say anymore 'cause I love you...
Soft hands framed Donnie's face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones and fingertips tangling in the tails of his mask. Lips danced with his in an intricate pattern of brush, press, nip, and gasp. The truth could never again be hidden.
Oh, how I love you!
Love...love...she loved him! How could this be anything otherwise? Drunk on Amber's pheromones, her taste, her scent, her warmth, Donatello urged her lips apart with his own, his tongue sweeping past them for a deeper taste.
That's when, as Amber would put it, everything went pear-shaped.
She cried out, tearing away and clutching her jaw in pain—curiously, not the side under a healing fracture. Lungs heaving for breath she stared through his plastron in dismay. Frustrated tears welled in her moss green eyes. What happened? What changed? She—she was enjoying herself…right…? She did want this...right...?
"Ah…Ah…" She swallowed hard, unable to meet his eyes. "Ah cannae…we—we can't…" His heart plummeted to his stomach; he carefully lowered her back to the floor and backed away a pace. Amber grabbed the nearest shelf to steady herself the moment her feet hit the floor, but even with the support, she still wobbled in place.
"Why?" Donnie demanded flatly when she didn't elaborate. "Is it me? Is it because I'm—" Before he could finish, she yanked him down by his suspenders and stole the hateful words right from his lips. When they parted again, her eyes were drying…and angry. Last time she did that, she was crying and wouldn't meet his eyes...something had definitely changed.
"Dinnae e'en think it!"• she snapped through kiss-swollen lips. "It's no' goat a thing t'do wit—" She visibly shook herself taking a moment to collect her thoughts and chase the thick gruff accent from her voice. "It's got nothing to do with what you are or aren't," she admitted with carefully measured words. "It's got everything to do with me being a farkin' train wreck right now. I can't—not yet—but don't you dare blame yourself, Donatello, don't you dare!" A tense silence fell over the pantry, Amber panting and staring him down and Donatello silently considering her posture, words, and action. He sighed. His hackles lowered.
"Not now...at least that's better than never. It's not never, right?" She nodded and allowed him to pull her into a tight—if chaste—embrace. As so often before, he buried his snout in her hair and sucked in a deep breath of her shampoo. God, she missed this—she missed having him hold her so closely, so tightly it seemed he feared the world would tear her away from him. Her eyes watered, but this time, not in hurt. Already missing his lips, she pressed a comforting kiss to the juncture of his neck and shoulder; his pulse stuttered under her lips, and with a sneaky smile, she gave the spot a gentle nip.
"Mercy was right, Dee," Amber mumbled into his shoulder taking a deep lungful of his scent—coffee, sweat, grease, and now, a primal musk telling her she wasn't the only one affected by their stolen moment…she wasn't the only one aroused beyond comfort. "I've waited a lifetime fer you…I'm not goin' anywhere."
"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Amber snapped at herself under the freezing water, repeatedly smacking herself in the forehead. "What happened to backing off?! What happened to keepin' away 'til my head's on straight?! STUPID!" As though she could make everything go away—the frigid water, the sound of rain, the sting of her skin, the still-burning want Donatello triggered in her, the works—she scrubbed her skin raw with mango-scented soap and cursed a blessed blue streak. All the while, an annoying little voice in the back of her head shrilly berated her for once again pushing Donatello away. "Stupid farkin' SCUNNER!"
Though she never heard it over her own ranting and the showerhead spilling over her, the soft ticking nearby grew slightly louder. "Yep," an unfamiliar voice grumbled at the cursing brunette, "whatever that is, you really are." Across the Lair, a soft glimmer of light flickered in a forgotten corner of the lab. For a moment, the source—a stoppered specimen vial—glowed without obvious cause. The light pulsed in a slow rhythmic pattern of brightening and dimming, brightening and dimming, then, as the last faint tick faded from the bathroom, the light vanished without leaving any evidence it was ever there. As it had been for months, the glass vial was indubitably, inexplicably, impossibly empty.
Back in the pantry, Donatello leaned face-first on the shelf he pinned Amber against before, silently committing everything to memory. Every gasp—every sigh—every kiss, scratch, pull, and press—he wanted to remember it all. Not now was better than never, but he couldn't help but worry that now would be far too distant. Although the wait would be miserable, he had to admit that Amber might have a good point—after all, she still hadn't admitted what she hid from him and he still wasn't ready to apologize for his clinical response to that secret. If they weren't ready to apologize and forgive, were they really ready for a physical relationship?
Subconsciously he wet his lips; underneath the tang of sweat, he could still taste Amber on them. He'd spent months wanting to steal a kiss, to taste her lips, maybe even more…now, he realized with a small smile, he had—he stole too many kisses to count and had just as many swiped from him—and he knew just how sweet and sultry she tasted without the taint of tears.
He was hopelessly addicted to her…one taste would never be enough.

Y'all didn't think I forgot about the Freaky Space Glitter, did ya? ;)

UP NEXT: how not to hide that you got freaky in the pantry in Love Amidst the Loss

Amber's Scots translated:
• Skelp – to smack or hit something.
• Hawd yer haverin' – stop talking nonsense
• Drookit an' gantin' – wet and wanting
• Dinnae e'en think it—It's no' goat a thing t'do wit [that] – Don't even think it—It's got nothing to do with [that]
• Scunner – used when something pisses you off or hurts you; compare to English "Mother-fucker." Currently Amber's pissing herself off, both for giving in to her desires AND for DENYING those desires. Yup, she's a piece'a work.
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