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A New Lease on Life	By : Ghost-of-a-Chance Category: +S through Z > Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Views: 3157 -:- 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
- 37
- 38
- 39
Precautions for some violence, explicit smut, (oral, female receiving) and a cliffhanger that might endanger my life. Also, heads-up for some Scots in this chapter, marked ( ♦ ) and defined at the end in order of appearance.
If you have a moment, I'd love to hear your reactions to the story. (as with ALL chapters, but especially one particular scene in this one.) Hell, I'd settle for unintelligible screaming and keyboard smashes. ;)
Suggested Listening: Sick Puppies "You're Going Down," Skillet "Salvation"

37: This Is How the World Ends
Kimber's storage locker
If Budget Store-It-All was in a more densely populated area, someone might have called the police after the first loud crash. Three more crashes later, it was plenty clear that no one would be reporting them. As he had four times before, "Lefty" Jackson went flying across the interior of Kimber's storage unit and landed crumpled in a pile of junk, wondering just where he went wrong.
It seemed simple—cut and dry—obvious even to a numbskull like him—he sensed no danger when Raphael texted him for another meeting at the storage shed. Upon arriving, swagger intact, it became clear that he was wrong—dead wrong. The turtle didn't call him to exchange intel…he called him over to beat him senseless.
"Raph, stop!" Like every time before, Mercy's protest went unheard as the hulking ninja again yanked Lefty up by the shirt and hurled him into another wall. The impact sent tremors through a nearby shelving unit full of miscellaneous junk. This time, Lefty didn't try getting up—he just slumped on the floor, physically shaking off a sudden bout of dizziness. Being tossed around like a rag doll could be fun—if, like Lefty, you enjoyed a little pain with your play—but this instance ceased being fun the second time he hit head-first. "Dammit, Raph, lay off! He ain't even fightin' back!" Raphael shook off the blonde's grip with a warning snarl.
"No," he shot back at her, "you lay off! He broke da agreement—he wen' aftah Bev an' Bree!"
"'oo?" Lefty piped up wide-eyed. Mercy could have been wrong, but it looked almost like one steel blue eye was slightly more dilated than the other.
"Shut up!" Raph snapped at him. "We can't trust'im, Merse—he'll jus' turn around'n stab us in da back again!"
"'oo's Bev 'n Bree, huh?"
"Shut ya mouth, scum!"
The longer the two men fought in the storage shed, the worse the situation grew. Beverly and Briallen were unharmed and settled in at the Lair, but Raph was angry—furious at being left out of the trip to bring them home and even more furious at Lefty's betrayal. Mercy was sure if she hadn't tagged along, the con would be in even worse shape than he already was.
Mercy cared for Raph—was well on her way to loving him, if she was honest with herself—but in moments like this, she wanted nothing more than to turn tail and run, to put as much distance between them as possible. Raphael was a good man, an honorable man, and she knew he'd never intentionally hurt her, but his temper absolutely terrified her. Fear aside, though, she knew what she needed to do…and she hated it.
In the moment between Lefty's latest awkward landing and Raph yanking back to belt him again, Mercy dove between the two men. Though she crossed her arms to block the impending punch, faking all the bravery she could, she still trembled and cringed into her shoulder, unable to watch. The punch never came. When she finally managed to open her eyes again, she hated what she saw: Raphael's horrified and betrayed expression, both hands slack at his sides, and a multitude of questions in his eyes.
"This ain't accomplishin' anythin'," she reminded seriously once she could speak around the lump in her throat. "At least hear 'im out, Red." The succession of emotions crossing Raphael's face told Mercy everything—he was furious at Lefty, but now, he was almost as angry at her for using his feelings for her in the con's favor. She knew he'd never hit her and banked on that knowledge, but she never once considered that doing so would do anything more than pull him out of his rage. The ninja was putting walls up all over again—walls she'd slowly torn down over the months since they met—and she couldn't fight the fear that she'd have to start all over again. Sharp golden amber turned on Lefty again – eyes stubbornly avoiding Mercy.
"Explain, Punk," he growled, crossing his arms in defiance.
"Dunno what ya want me ta 'splain, huh?" Lefty admitted with a shrug but winced when the movement pulled a sore muscle. "Dunno any Bevs 'er Brees—Hun ain't sent me aftah anyone, eitha."
"Can da lies, Jackson!" Raph snapped. "Da three'a ya broke inta a place tonight—an empty shop wit'a loft over it. If ya weren't afta da people dere, why'd ya break in?" To the ninja's surprise, Lefty was honestly, and obviously, bewildered.
"Ya mean da garage, da drugstore, 'er da ol'lectrahnics shop?" the con asked with his pierced brow arched dubiously. "We ain't broken inta any lawfts, Hotstuff." A stare-off commenced between the two men, one skeptical and one oblivious, but it was Raphael who eventually broke it.
"Ya din't know?" he muttered. "Ya din't know dere's people livin' over dat ol' PC Shack?" Again, Lefty shrugged, winced at the pull in his shoulder, then shook his head. "Well, dere is—ya bastage brotha tried ta break inta the loft t'rough da shop underneath—ya sayin'—" His question fell silent at the loud curse Lefty spat. When Raph called Lefty to the storage unit, he felt sure the con played them; now he begrudgingly realized it was Lefty who was played. "What happened ta keepin' ya nose clean?"
"Ya t'ink Hun wouldn't figyuh it out, huh?" the punk grumbled, scrubbing his grimy hand over his greasy blonde buzzcut in frustration. "I'm sick'a dis life, but 'til Kim 'n Truman's restin' easy in da uddah life, I can't jus' quit—an' dat means playin' da game like awlways. Hun says jump, I'm'onna do a fuckin' backflip fer 'im so 'ee doesn't figyuh out I's turned." Steel blue met amber gold in a surprisingly bitter glare. "What's takin' ya so lawng, anyway? I t'ought ya was takin 'im down! Ya gotta git off yar 'asses a'ready 'fore he stahts takin' a page out 'a da Foot's book!"
"You don't mean—" Lefty turned to address Mercy with a grave nod.
"Ezac'ly." He sat up against the wall, arms dangling limply off his bony knees and his head bowed. "Kimbuh ain't showed up on 'er own, da other Dragons ain't found'er, an' Hun's tired 'a waitin'. If ya don't take 'im down, an' soon, 'e ain't gonna wait anymaw…'e's gonna staht takin' hawstages…an' I ain't stickin 'roun' if dat happens. 'e stahts bringin' in civs cuz 'a yer lazy asses, I'm hittin' da firs' train out." Exhaustion clear in his pierced face, Lefty turned to stare through a plastic tote packed full of books.,.
When he first joined the Purple Dragons, Leon Jackson was just a teenager—just another arrogant punk eager for a place to belong. It seemed fun at first, really. He got to do all the crazy stuff his dad never let him do—got to stay out all night, got to smoke, drink, and piss his life away all he wanted. Then Norton started changing, started using…and Truman killed himself over a failed mission…and Leon started really looking at the people he called homey. He wasn't a kid anymore, but even at thirty-two years old, he hadn't moved beyond that rebellious lifestyle.
He tried to get out, of course. He tried talking Kimber out of joining but failed. Unable to keep her out, he instead took her under his wing—taught her how to fight, how to keep her nose clean, and kept her safe. After a joint robbery went bad, he got his twin shit-faced drunk and convinced Kimber to turn them in. North broke out, of course—it wasn't surprising the prison couldn't hold him. Then Kimber went missing and died, and now it seemed like the fallout after Truman's death was happening all over again.
A hesitant touch on his tattooed bicep startled Lefty from his ruminations; the mouthy blonde crouched beside him, a promise in her denim blue eyes. "We'll get 'im," Mercy promised. "We won't let 'im go after anyone else…can we count on ya Jackson?" A straight man would have been distracted to uselessness by the impressive cleavage right at eye level; fortunately, Lefty had never been straight. His pierced lip quirked upward in a lopsided smirk and he offered her his knuckles.
"Ya sure can, Toots," he teased as she returned the knuckle-bump, then he turned to address Raphael more seriously. "I meant it, Turtle, I'm in dis fer da lawng hawl. Now quit screwin' aroun'—Hun ain't gonna take 'isself down."
Daron Williams wasn't a sociable person, nor was he the friendly sort. The only person who'd ever really seen his less prickly side was Kimber Bryant, and look where it got her. He was quite happy to simply hide in his apartment all the time, run his hacking business from it, and order in every chance he got, and if not for Kimber's counterpart, that would never have changed. He never had a problem saying no to Kimber, but her more mature counterpart was a completely different story…Amber could ask almost anything of him, and no matter how much he might piss and moan about it, nine times out of ten, he'd comply without regret.
Look where that led him. He was stuck as a houseguest with four of his least favorite people on the face of the earth. He had to share his bourbon with Kimber's crush and watch Raphael and Mercy flirt and grope each other while 'sparring.' He couldn't get any of his for-hire work done because Donatello kept booting him off the wireless whenever he tried. The one time Daron confronted him about it, his computer inexplicably locked up from suspiciously timely ransom-ware he couldn't back-trace.
Daron was fed up—absolutely sick of it! At this rate, he was going to go stark-raving-mad from being locked up in a veritable closet all day, and when that happened, Lord knew what he'd do. As happened so often anymore, this internal bitching spree drove the blond out of his hiding hole to the kitchen for another swig of his favorite bourbon. The moment he crossed the threshold he froze. The four turtles, their master, Amber, Mercy, April, Casey, and two unfamiliar women were crowded around the kitchen table with serious expressions. If Daron didn't know any better, he'd have thought he intruded on a war meeting…then again, he admitted with a sour frown, that probably was just the case.
"We're out of time," Leonardo reminded the gathered crowd, meeting each of their eyes in turn before glancing over at a black-haired woman hooked up to an IV drip. Daron didn't recognize her, but then again, he did tend to avoid everyone else as much as possible. Which one of the mutant assholes what that one screwing? "Hun usually sends his lackeys out to commit robberies, but tonight, he personally broke into three different buildings accompanied by his seconds-in-command—he's sending us a message. Add that to Lefty's warning tonight, the truth is clear." The leader ceased his pacing with a frustrated sigh. "We can't put this off any longer."
"Put what off?" Daron demanded sharply. His sudden comment seemed to suck all the air out of the room as the occupants finally noticed him. "What're you planning?"
"You know what, Daron," Amber reminded gently. "It's the same thing we've been working on this whole time—finding a way to stop Hun. You agreed, remember?" The blond startled, fixing an accusing glare on Leonardo.
"I did agree," he snapped in reply, never taking his eyes off the leader. "I also offered to help." He scoffed, his unshaven lip twisted in a lemon-sucking scowl. "I guess my invitation to this little pow-wow got lost in the sewer-mail, huh?" Mercy lunged out of her chair and stalked over, rolling her eyes.
"Quitcher bitchin', Fuzzy," she groused pushing him over to her chair and shoving him into the seat. "Siddown, shut up, an' drink yer sludge." The bottle of bourbon slammed down in front of him made his mouth shut with a snap, cutting off whatever retort he was working on. Feeling so many eyes on him at once, he scoffed, poured himself a tumbler, and tossed it back without even tasting it. "Good Dickhead." Amber sighed at Mercy; some people never change.
The rest of the meeting went rather smoothly other than a few hiccups. Casey loudly scoffed and argued every time Amber said anything. Daron pounded back bourbon like it was his last day on earth and repeatedly sniped anyone who so much as looked at him. Strangest, though, was when Mercy and Raph got into a surprisingly explosive argument. That argument lasted several minutes without any sort of explanation or solution, and those who knew them best were bewildered by the pair's uncharacteristic bickering. After over an hour of such drama, the plans were settled and the meeting was adjourned. Daron, halfway drunk and stinking of alcohol, slunk back into his corner of the barracks again without so much as a goodbye. He had some thinking of his own to do…and he hated it.
He spent so many years alone—blissfully independent of all but his mother and stepfather—but Kimber's reappearance in his life changed all that. Now, Kimber was gone but he had others—some he even dared consider friends. Amber…Mercy…he was even starting to see April O'Neil as more of an acquaintance than that annoying brat next door. Even more unbelievable, though, he found another friend in the most impossible of places: the mutant meathead he once warned Kimber away from. After two months of shared bourbon and bitching sessions—bitching that sometimes veered more into melancholic remembering once they were sloshed enough to forget they hated each other—Daron was starting to consider Raphael neither an enemy nor a rival, but a begrudging sort of friend.
Friends. The word made him snarl in disgust in the perpetual darkness of his barracks stall. Hunter Williams was Daron's blood—his brother!—but from the moment they first met, Hun threw himself into fulfilling the role of bully. Even so, they were family—siblings! Daron hated Hun—hated his condescending sneers, his violent behavior, his bullying and the rancid, smelly armpits he always jammed Daron into—but they were family! Hun had to be stopped—had to be taken down—but could Daron really, honestly go through with it? Could he really betray his older brother?
The world continued to turn, but for Daron Williams, time stood still, frozen by doubt and fear.
Spring in Willsdale once brought only fear to the brunette hunched over at the old Formica countertop. Now, she is stronger—now, she doesn't fear rain. Has it really been less than a year since she last saw this town? –saw the people she left behind? Tucking one lock of vibrant blue hair behind her ear, she scans the crowd in the pub wistfully, recalling the lives and stories of every face therein.
"This place's changed a lot, huh?" Aaron teases her over his stein. "Course, yer a fancy-pants city-biddy now—Ya prob'ly think we're all just a bunch'a rubes, now, right?"
"Rubes?" Amber teases back with a friendly shoulder shove. "Nah…ya kin take the gal out'a the country, but ya can't take the country out'a the gal. Gawd, I've missed this place…missed everyone in it…" Aaron falls silent, clears his throat awkwardly, and turns to stare down into his beer. Realizing she made everything awkward—when doesn't she make everything awkward?—Amber stares down into her tattooed cleavage, silently turning her scotch glass on the countertop.
An unseen, unheard warning skittered down her spine; the fine hair at her nape stood at attention. What was she missing? "I'll be right back—no spikin' my booze." Before her longtime friend can fire back with some of his usual smartassery, she slides off the stool and hurries to the back. At first, she was swept away by the warm-and-fuzziness of the situation—too thrilled to finally be home to question how she got there. Now, without Aaron's off-kilter blue eyes watching hers askance, she can't wrap her head around the impossibility. It's not right…it doesn't make sense. She died…so how is she back in Willsdale? She's in Kimber's body still, but how can Kimber's body be in Willsdale? It just isn't possible—it can't be happening!
Halfway down the poky hallway to the restrooms, someone body-slams her through the door of the women's room. "Hey, watch—" Her protest falls short at the tall woman staring at her in undisguised contempt. Sharp bottle-green eyes, impeccable makeup, thick auburn hair in a fancy up-do, a black waitress' apron tied at her neck and waist… Amber blinks, shakes her head, and looks again as though expecting the woman to look familiar. She feels like she should know her, but she's never seen her before in her life! …has she? She glances over at the cracked mirror over the stained sink, comparing the woman's appearance to her own.
"Who…Who are you?" Amber finally asks the other woman. Sure enough, as though the very question infuriates her, the other woman snarls and shoves her into the tiled wall. Amber hits with a pained grunt, bewildered at the other woman's aggressive behavior.
"Oo'm I?" the stranger snaps, her voice rank with the smog of New Jersey. "Dat ain't da question! I'm Kimbuh Bryant, ya hussy! Da fuck're ya doin' in my bawdy?!"
Amber jolted upright with a screech. Her heart pounded a frantic tattoo in her ribs, the dream running breakneck through her mind. "Well," she mumbled rubbing her stiff neck, "that was weird!" A dream…of course it was only a dream… Her heart rate slowing and her lungs catching up, she took stock of her surroundings to anchor herself in the present. The sofa—the baskets of clean clothes and linens—the bin of freshly folded towels—the pair of clean coverall trousers slung across her lap waiting to be folded…she dozed off while folding laundry?
"What just happened?" Donatello's sudden question startled her from her thoughts; the tall, lanky ninja bolted toward her like he expected to find her on fire.
"Huh?" she asked eloquently. "Whaddaya—" Before she could finish the question, he shoved his phone at her, and she fell silent in disbelief. The screen showed a familiar stoppered vial—the same vial that held the Freaky Space Glitter. Since the evening it was discovered, the vial had appeared empty; now, a translucent powder spilled along the bottom, glowing like a star. The light pulsed in time like a clock counting down the seconds…nothing ominous about that. "That's…" She trailed off, unable to even put words together, and stared up at him, shaking her head in denial.
"Yeah," he confirmed seriously, his lips thinning around the words. "I've had it under constant video-surveillance since the first of the month." July first? She searched her memories for answers. That's right, she realized as she reached up to her healed cheekbone—On July first, Donnie checked on her healing fractures and they wound up necking on the Needle Room's exam bench—then he bolted out to the lab without warning or explanation. If he saw the vial glowing, it would certainly explain some things! "This is a live feed, Amber—it's fluorescing again as we speak—that's three times this week alone!"
Amber took a moment to let that sink in, studying the screen. Something caught her eye—a timestamp reading nothing but colons and zeroes. "How can you know when this has happened if the timestamp—" Donnie's grim expression made her trail off without finishing.
"Every time the dust reacts, there's an unexplained malfunction with the timestamp," he explained, his eyes darting back and forth between hers to gauge her reaction. "Every time the fluorescence fades, the malfunction corrects itself without leaving any discernible sign of the cause." He gave a noisy swallow, glancing warily at the open door of the lab. "If I just hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't believe it...even having seen it, I can't believe it." As though mocking the mortals trying to work out its mysteries, the bizarre glow swiftly faded away; just as the genius said, the screen flickered and the zeroes and colons were replaced by the correct date and time.
"This can't be happening," Amber groaned in dismay, digging her fingertips into the sides of her nose. "How can this be happening?! As if we didn't have enough bullshite to deal with a'ready!" Donnie shifted from one foot to the other and back again, a perplexing gleam in his eyes. "As if that dream wasn't freaky enough, now the Freaky Space Glitter's gettin' freakier!"
"Dream?" he demanded, his voice cracking; clearing the squeak from his throat, he tried again. "What dream?"
"It—" Amber shook her head in denial, scoffing at how ridiculous it sounded. "It was stupid, really…I was back in Willsdale, havin' a sesh at the pub with Aaron…then this rude gal asked me what I was doin' in 'er body!" Suddenly realizing how that sounded, she cringed. "That was not sexual—I don't swing that way."
The glowing vial—the strange dream—Kimber demanding answers—the impending confrontation with Hun—Donatello's pulse pounded. His lungs hurt from trying to keep up with his racing heart. Even as Amber grumbled into her covered cleavage about yet another untimely filter failure, he scrambled to catch up with the thoughts running unchecked through his brain. Surely not—surely it was coincidence—surely— Physically shaking off the panic building in his blood, he snatched his trousers from her lap, dropped them back into the basket of clean laundry, and with only a glance of warning, unceremoniously hauled her up over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.
"What the—?!" she squawked, cheeks blazing at the spectacle they must be making of themselves. She hoped no one else was around to see her arse in the air.
"The laundry can wait," he insisted in a deceptive deadpan, stalking through the doorway of their bedroom. The moment they were through, he shoved the door shut…and locked it…and roughly shoved the battered dresser in front of it as a barricade. He begrudgingly set down the bewildered brunette, enfolding her in a tight embrace and burying his nose in her hair. Every time before, that very embrace calmed his racing thoughts—every time before, the soft tropical scent of her soothed his fears—not this time.
"Speccy, yer scarin' me…" He didn't answer; he just held her like she was about to be ripped out of his arms. Amber couldn't wrap her head around what was happening. One moment, everything was fine—at least, as fine as it could be when the next day would see her new family facing down Hun—then the genius flipped out and went all cave-turtle on her without explanation.
A faint sound sent her racing thoughts to a grinding halt: a choked sniffle. All the tension faded from her body at the sound, migrating instead to her heart. The strong arms holding her tightened even further; the warm snout buried in her hair dug in even deeper as though its owner sought to shut out the world around them. Finally, her lover's strange behavior made sense…finally, she connected the dots she should have connected long before. Impossible glitter…strange dreams of being back home…ticking clocks and unseen footsteps…could it be her time with Donatello was nearing an end?
No. She physically shook off the thought, latching onto Donatello's suspenders as if to anchor herself to him. She waited a lifetime for him—wasted her whole life yearning for a man she knew only in dreams—now she finally had a chance to know Donnie, had a chance to live out the life she longed for—no way was she letting some stupid freaky space mumbo-jumbo tear them apart!
"I won't leave ya," she swore vehemently into his plastron. "I ain't gowanna let it happen, Dee, so dinnae e'en think it!" ♦
"You say that so easily," he mumbled into her hair, "like you could actually keep something from—from—" He couldn't finish. Amber wriggled out of his arms, and tugged him down by his suspenders to meet her eyes, her own full of determined green fire.
"I won't let it happen," she repeated sharply, her words gruff and twisting in the emotion of the moment. "I don' care what Ah goat ta do—Ah waited a lifetime fer ya—suffered a lifetime'a dreams—Ah ain't gowanna go back ta tha'! E'en if Ah do get carried awae, Ah'll do anithin ta git back—Ah won't lose ya like this!" ♦
"It's just a dream, Speccy."
Donatello blinked in confusion, bewildered at the half-remembered words. They seemed to come out of nowhere…but the moment the thought formed, countless more followed on its heels like whitewater following a failed dam.
"Even if ya gotta live in the shadows, Ya got nothin' to be ashamed of, Dee…ya never gotta hide yer eyes from me." •
Amber stared up at him, bewildered at his sudden silence and blank expression. Even as she vied for his attention, her lips forming words he couldn't hear, strange words flowed through his mind like memories—memories he shouldn't, no, couldn't, have.
"The Crazy Celt's undefeated yet!" •
He tore loose from Amber's grip, pacing restlessly as he fought to make sense of it all without drowning in the onslaught. He'd never heard Amber say such a thing before…had he? –how did he come up with that nickname?
"You must remember, Donnie!" ••
Remember what?! Yanking at his neck, eyes darting back and forth as though scanning a multitude of thoughts taking form before him, he froze, swallowing around a lump in his throat.
"I'm tired of dreamin'…Dee, I'm tired of bein' apart like this…Tell me yer real—tell me I'll find ya if I wait long enough!"
He shook his head, his heart racing. It made no sense—he'd never heard Amber say anything like that before…so why was the—memory?—why was it attributed to her?
"Ye've goat to r'member!" ••
…but remembering would change everything…why would it change everything?! What was he supposed to remember?!
"Let me take care of you?"
His racing heartrate faltered; wide hazel eyes fixed warily on the frightened brunette who seemed a mere step away from panic. Something wasn't right…something was horribly wrong…but how…? He couldn't wrap his head around it, but finally, his thoughts were clear again, as though a fog was partially lifted. The last words were his—words he'd never spoken aloud to Amber, only urged silently when she grew stubborn and pushed him away. 'There's no need to be afraid…Let me take care of you.' Eventually, those words came to have a different meaning—a wanton plea he only ever uttered in his dreams of her, dreams which always led to a different sort of surrender.
Finally, calm settled over the bewildered genius. The hand yanking at his neck fell limply to his side as he studied his lover silently. "Tell me you didn't just have a stroke?!" Amber whimpered, and, biting her lower lip, frantically compared the dilation of his eyes. Soft hands framed his face and sought the pulse in his neck; he reached up to clasp one of them in confirmation of his health. He was stunned—confused—suspicious that his brain was fractured, despite the very idea being absurd—but he was safe. Finally, he found his voice.
"Don't go gnawing that off…I happen to like it." Pure shock washed over her expression, and the abused lip popped free when her jaw dropped. Another reaction cataloged; another reaction that made no sense. He'd never said that aloud, before—it'd never once left his lips outside of dreams—so why did she seem torn between confusion and shocked recognition?
"…Dee…?" Amber whispered. "I…ya…wh'd'ya?!" The last was slurred too horribly for him to ever discern what she actually said and finally dulled his shock. One eyebrow arched, he studied her in hopes of translating the untranslatable. "Never mind," she urged breathlessly. "Are you—are you feeling okay? Do I—"
"We're going after Hun tomorrow," he reminded catching her by the shoulders. His posture, though she couldn't understand it, showed none of the fear and confusion from before. Instead, the genius was puzzled—curious—maybe even nervous. What happened in that brain of his? "If whatever put you here decides to take you back—well, we'll cross that bridge when we get there. Hun's no pushover…I'm…" He took a steadying breath, catching her other hand and awkwardly lacing their fingers; Amber once said it required a remarkable propensity for Vulcan gestures but it comforted him more than it hurt her. "I'm worried, Honey…worried about what might happen."
"Ya won't get hurt," she declared seriously. At his dubious expression, she elaborated. "If Hun knows what's good for 'im, he won't touch a hair—er—uh…" She blushed at the mistake. How was it so easy to forget he wasn't entirely human? How could she so easily, so frequently, forget that he wasn't just a man, but a mutant? "Whatever," she grumbled, "if he so much as lays a finger on ya, he'll get a whole semester's worth of Dinnae piss aff Celts 101 in one session."♦ It did the trick—a low rumble of laughter proved that much. Finally, the tension filling the air was fading away. Hazel met green, both softening.
"I know we…we haven't really…" His stammering trailed off; he couldn't seem to find accurate words that didn't sound juvenile. We've been taking it slow. Are we taking it too slow? I want so much more from you but I'm afraid to push you...am I overthinking this? He shook off the absurd inner debate and tried again. "If you're—if you don't mind, I'd like—like to…try…something?"
He winced, looking away and trying to calm his racing pulse. He felt like an idiot—why rush things?—but something familiar silenced his inner lecture. Pheromones. He blinked a couple times, his nostrils flaring in recognition, then he turned back to Amber. The brunette was blushing and clearly trying not to fidget; his delivery was pretty awkward, but she seemed to approve! "Amber?" She mumbled her answer into her cleavage, but he couldn't hear a word. "Pardon?" he asked with a knowing smile.
"I—" Her voice cracked and she paused to clear her throat. "Y-Yeah. I'd—I'd like that…if you want to." A wide, relieved smile split his face, showcasing that familiar, if narrowed, gap between his front teeth. She wasn't surprised to find herself gathered in his arms again, or feel him nuzzle her frizzy hair. All of that was old news…all of it was just what they always did. What blew her mind was a single, simple phrase she'd heard time and time in years before, but never heard once since her new life began.
"Don't worry, Sweetheart," he murmured into her hair. "Let me take care of you."
Aw Hell. Hello, gutter.
When Donatello asked if he could try something, this wasn't at all what she thought he was referring to. In her previous reality—at least, outside of dreams—she'd never had a lover who wasn't initially focused on their own pleasure. Honestly, she wasn't bitter about it in the slightest. Her turn could come next, or if he wasn't ready, she could work in a little DIY time later. She was totally cool with being the bigger person, especially since she wasn't the virgin in the room. Donatello, however, blew all that out of the water without a backward glance.
From the moment he switched on the lamp over his bed and laid her across the sheets, she tried not to get her hopes up—tried to fight the memories of dreams past—tried to not expect what, at least in dreams, had always followed let me take care of you. Every action was silently explained away, but with every argument, she found herself running out of lies to tell herself.
Appreciative hands roamed her clothed curves—he was getting in a few gropes while he could, nothin' wrong with that. Dextrous fingers made short work of her button-up shirt—men like boobs—then the frontal clasp of her admittedly plain bra—it was an eyesore, and again, boobs. He kept his eyes averted from her naked breasts with a forced and noisy swallow—he's tryin' to be a gentleman, but boobs! The running internal commentary made Amber feel like a horny teenager sneaking off with her mum's dirty novels.
Donnie hesitated, his nerves getting the best of him. Eyes anchored to the gleaming metal button of her jean shorts, he recalled the day he discovered firsthand the effects of light and shadow on cloth. In his mind's eye, he saw Amber's silhouette projected onto the changing curtain in striking detail. He recalled the way she massaged the feeling back into her newly-freed breasts, and the way the mounds tightened and swelled under her fingers. In his dreams, he could still hear her guttural moan of relief at being free to breathe unhindered.
When he finally found the courage to lift his eyes, he found himself torn between two reactions: the awe and wonder of a straight, red-blooded man discovering real, human, in-person breasts for the first time, and resentment at the purple-inked reptile sprawling between those breasts. A soft hand cupped his chin, urging him to meet her eyes. "I get it," Amber professed softly. "Jus' pretend it's a gecko 'er somethin' 'kay?" A gecko tattoo? Yeah, he could work with that. Even so, he moved onto the next target, too nervous to confront the serpent. As he drifted lower down her body, Amber continued arguing away what couldn't be coming.
His trembling hands peeled away her jean shorts—he probably just wants some eye-candy not covered in gang signs. His mask fell discarded on the mattress—it's gotta be itchy or sweaty—and he shoved his glasses up his snout, exhaling loudly through his nose—he wants a better view, duh. Her underwear slid down her legs at his behest, a pair of calloused hands eased her thighs apart, he situated himself between those spread legs right over her embarrassingly furry mound—no, this can't be, he's not—no way is he—! IZZEE?!
A single, nervous breath ground every thought to a staggering halt. Wide-eyed in disbelief, she sat up on her elbows—knocking her head on the edge of that ridiculously placed shelf on the way—and stared owlishly at the turtle sprawled between her legs—legs propped up on his broad shoulders, not his hips. He was still depressingly clothed. "You—" She hated how her voice squeaked around that one word. "Dee, it's a lil' late to pretend yer junkless—several hours'a wumpin' too late."
"I'm not pretending any such thing." His lips curled in an up-to-no-good smirk that made her ovaries—and their many needy siblings—faint dead away. What a way to go… "Are you really in such a hurry to—" His bravado cracked with a squeak and a blush but he cleared it away, still holding her eyes prisoner. "I wear less. Don't rush me." As though he hadn't just blown her mind, he nuzzled the soft swell of her belly, breathing in the siren song of her pheromones. Suddenly realizing something, he looked back up to her in open worry. "Would you rather not?" The question was quiet, honest—he wasn't reprimanding her, only asking if she was uncomfortable. "If—If you don't—" He cleared his throat again. "We don't have to." As if she could ever say no to him with his face next to her fanny…
"It's just…" Amber cringed, avoiding his eyes and shifting awkwardly. "Guys don't like that…I just—"
"Guys don't like that," he parroted back with a mischievous grin. "But…women do?"
"Well, duh." Granted, not all women liked it, but ever since the first time Dream Donnie munched her rug, she couldn't get enough of it! Perhaps that was why, in her dreams, he took every opportunity to thus drive her out of her mind…but…this wasn't her Donnie…was he? He never showed any signs of remembering her, so surely he wasn't the same one...right?
She expected him to laugh—to tease her or shrug off her unfiltered remark—but his silence sent her skin prickling. It was such a simple, offhand remark…she never expected it to encourage him…she expected wrong. "Then what's the problem?"
She hesitated, scrambling for any excuse, her heart racing at the vulnerability of their position. All her life, she dreaded admitting weakness—hated letting others see her in vulnerable moments—and she couldn't think of many positions more vulnerable than lying spread out before the man she loved like a naked Sunday dinner. Clearly recognizing the emotions warring behind her eyes, Donnie drew her attention back to him with a kiss to the meaty thigh draped over his right shoulder. Aw, Hell…there was that you know you want me smirk again! She was doomed... Eyes screwed shut, head falling back onto his pillow, she nodded consent.
If she were to ask him where he got the idea, he'd have no answer—it just felt right, familiar in a way it couldn't be. Or, at least it started like that. Now he knew it was right—accepted it as surely as the potent pheromones flooding his lungs, the salty-sweet taste of her skin, and the nervously curling toes digging into his carapace. He knew this was right, it was wanted and welcome…and if he had a single doubt, her shell-shocked reaction to the familiar but never spoken phrase blew it out of the water. He would puzzle out the strange memories and her stranger behavior later, though. For now, he wanted to ease her heart and calm her soul, and cave-turtle as it sounded, he wanted to stake his claim on her in a way no meddling force could mistake.
He tried to approach the situation logically—logic dictated that one should gradually ease themselves into any new practice to minimize mishaps. Her first sharp, unhindered gasp, however, told him logic was completely over-rated. Nails dug into his bare scalp as he mapped out the newly discovered flesh with gently eager tongue and lips. Keening whimpers broke through clenched teeth in time with the tightening and loosening of her thighs.
He was a novice—largely unfamiliar with sexual intimacy outside of dreams, and articles and videos furtively scanned under the catchall excuse of 'biology research.' Despite his lack of experience, déjà vu swept him into a routine he knew like his own name without ever learning it firsthand. Nip thigh. Nuzzle mons. Tease clitoris with a pointed tongue then follow up with a nibble—when she jumps, seize and suckle before she can squirm away. When her pitch rises and her limbs stiffen, detour South—explore her entrance so she can catch her breath—when she recovers, start all over again. Repeat until she fights back.
"D—Dee! You—AH! Y-Ya don't—" Even now, he realized halfway between annoyed and amused, Amber thought he was willingly suffering for her sake. Please. If this was suffering, he couldn't wait to see what agony was like. Before she could get out another feeble whine of protest, he wrapped his arms around her thighs from beneath and dove in without the slightest reservation. Finally...finally she stopped pushing him away, and, instead, started pulling him closer. Blunted nails raked along his bare shoulders. Heels instinctively dug in their invisible stirrups. Grey-green eyes snapped shut, flew wide, and rolled back into her head in no certain pattern. Despite her best attempts at stifling it, a strangled whine broke past her teeth.
How can he be so good at this?! Amber struggled to keep her voice down—she even sank her teeth into her wrist to muffle herself!—and fought to wrap her head around the impossibility of the moment. In her dreams, Donnie loved this—he went down on her every chance she let him!—but this…this wasn't a dream, it was nothing like a dream! In dreams, she could manage to keep her voice down if she wanted…every sensation, though magical, was muted by the haze of dreams. This was no dream…every single sensation, from the softest to the strongest, tore through her without mercy or warning. Without her wrist to muffle her cries, she was sure she'd be wailing like a cat in heat.
An unexpectedly sharp nip at one swollen lip drew a yelp from her lungs—she couldn't help suspect it was a substitute for popping her on the nose. Sure enough, her glare was met with a teasing wink and soothing tongue. This was Donnie, after all—her sweet, gentle, eager, and oh-so-fooking-brilliant lover. She could trust him…he wouldn't let her fall, not without diving off with her. Finally, after a lifetime of fearing and dreading surrender, she gave in. She surrendered to Donatello whole-heartedly—to his soft touch, his lapping tongue and suckling lips, and to the tension coiling in her core. Funny how he was the only one who'd ever truly accomplished that surrender...
Just when she thought she was acclimated, he threw her for a loop again. A lifetime ago, she was sure his fingers would be too thick, too rough, and would sting at the very least. In this lifetime there was only pleasure—stretching and some discomfort from his callused skin, yes, but she felt no pain. Though he started off with one finger he retreated once she was loosened up, then slowly worked in both at once. Now there was some pain - burning and stretching - but not enough to warrant stopping him. She felt too full, too sensitive, and this was still only the beginning…and what a beginning it was. Already she was fighting to keep her voice down, and she half-worried half-hoped he'd push her beyond her limits. 'Ya dinnae have'ta be su sof' wi'me, ya sweet Speccy—I dinnae want ya to!' ♦ …Amber was a glutton for punishment if nothing else.
When Donnie looked up again, pupils blown wide behind his smeared glasses, he found himself caught between awe and amusement. The lamp overhead shone as brightly as ever, bathing Amber in warm yellow light. Perspiration beaded her flushed skin, her soft belly and full tattooed breasts shuddering with every breath. Now, he didn't just resent the dragon in her bosom; he envied it. If ever she'd looked like an angel to him, it was now. So beautiful…so perfect…and now he knew how she was managing to keep quiet. A corner of her pillow was jammed between her teeth as a makeshift gag. A warning flashed through her eyes. You laugh, her eyes threatened, an' you'll die an angry lil' virgin! He did snort against her snatch, but to his credit, he didn't laugh at her.
So many sensations registered at once—so many stimuli called for his attention. Musky womanly pheromones—the tangy salt of her skin and the bittersweet nectar on his tongue—the clenching of the legs draped over his carapace—the hot silken grip of her insides—How could anyone not enjoy this? How could she think he was doing this out of duty? Most importantly of all, how could he convince her to let him do this more often?—nay, much more often? What about daily? Yes, he could get behind repeating this every day…maybe when they woke in each other's arms, and again when they fell into bed at the end of the day. Maybe he could even talk her into a romp or two in the Lab. There were so many places he wanted to christen with her scent, maybe his as well...
Just as on the afternoon when they boiled over and collided in the dark, empty pantry, one taste and he was hopelessly addicted…one taste would never be enough! …he could think of worse addictions.
Soft muffled cries tore through her pillow-gag. Her back arched helplessly in time with spasms of her internal muscles. 'She's close,' he realized, grinning smugly against her wet lips. 'Time to shine, Donnie, this is all you!' Without giving her so much as a moment to breathe, he nudged her legs higher—urged them to his neck with one shoulder-roll after another. Sure enough, they latched on and squeezed in time, hauling him closer when he could get no closer. Silently sending up a hallelujah for the impressive lungs of his non-human ancestors he pushed himself to the limit, bearing down and relishing the pheromones flooding his with lungs with miserly greed.
Suckling sharpened into nipping. Nibbles grew into tugs. Fingers straightened, curled upward, and straightened in turn, frantically beckoning her to the point of no return. Fingers dug into his scalp almost painfully, the other set lashing down to his free hand and clenching it with surprising strength. Heavy-lidded hazel met frantic green, unspoken promises and pleas passing between them with squeezed fingers and smothered whimpers. The world around them faded away at the edges—anything beyond Amber and Donnie went completely unseen. Perhaps if not for that tunnel vision, she wouldn't have knocked her skull against that damned shelf again…perhaps Donnie would have seen the lamp teeter and topple in time to warn her to duck. She didn't.
Someone once said the world ends with a whimper, and any day before this, Amber would have agreed. Now, as her eyes rolled up in her head and her body went limp, she knew the truth—sometimes the world could end with a helluva bang.
"So ya finally crawled out'a ya lil' hole, Runt." Hun sneered down at the younger, weaker person approaching him across the dim parking lot. "I knew ya'd see sense with enough pushin'." He sneered down at his company. "So whaddaya say? We doin' this tha easy way aftah all?"
"I've come to make a deal, Hun…" Daron scowled up at his much taller, much stronger half-brother, hating himself for every word, more than he'd ever hated anything before. "Kimber Bryant's alive, but she's got friends—tough ones, and they won't let her out of their sight…but they trust me. Guarantee my safety and I'll bring her to you tomorrow, just after sunset." Piggish black eyes scrutinized Daron for any sign of deception, gleaming at the fear in the younger man's eyes and the stench of bourbon reeking from him.
"What can I say?" Hun belted out a barking laugh that made Daron feel absolutely filthy inside. "Even you gotcher price, Piss-ant. Ya gotcherself a deal, lil' Brutha…ya made tha right choice."
Daron disagreed…it wasn't the right choice…it was the only choice.

UP NEXT: a Helluva clusterfuck in Resurgam
Translations
♦ I ain't gowanna let it happen…dinnae e'en think it! – I won't let that happen…don't even think about it!
♦ I don' care what Ah goat ta do – I don't care what I have to do
♦ Ah waited a lifetime fer ya—suffered a lifetime'a dreams—Ah ain't gowanna go back ta tha'! – I waited a lifetime for you—I suffered a lifetime of dreams of you with no hope for finding you—I refuse to go back to that misery!
♦ E'en if Ah do get carried awae, Ah'll do anithin ta git back—Ah won't lose ya like this! – Even if I do get stolen away from your world, I'll do anything to get back to you—I won't lose you like this!
♦ Ye've goat to r'member! – You've got to remember!
♦ Dinnae piss aff Celts 101 – Unfortunately, not a real college course. "Don't piss off Celts" in Scots, plus course-level abbreviation.
♦ Ya dinnae have'ta be su sof' wi'me…I dinnae want ya to! – You don't have to be so gentle with me…I don't want you to take it easy on me!
Memories:
• Gallery of Memories: Dream Lover (Has not made it to this site just yet, the rest of the GoM will follow when this story is up-to-date here. Until then, you can wait or find it at FFnet or AO3, or just wait and give AFF your time.)
•• 33: Lines
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A New Lease on Life