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The Blonde and the Beefcake	By : Ghost-of-a-Chance Category: +S through Z > Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Views: 983 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, any of its characters, or any songs, media, or other such entities referenced in this story. I'm making no money by the writing/posting of this work of fiction.

Chapter List
- 1-The Blonde and the Beefcake
- 1
This mushy-smutty one-shot takes place in the storyline of "A New Lease on Life," my ongoing series; it can be found as a chapter in the one-shot collection "A Gallery of Memories." You can read the main story (work-in-progress, no longer updated on THIS site) and the current installments of GoM on FFnet or AO3. Established relationship, established storyline, all characters are in their twenties, appearances are mostly Paramount-verse. Sharing this story here because it's a smutfest and Tumblr is run by duplicitous dicks.
Something to keep in mind here is that the two main female characters (Mercy, and although she's not in this one, Amber) are from another reality; they both died in their thirties and full of regrets, and were granted a second chance at life in another world. The catch is that they weren't reborn - they were summarily stuffed into still-warm corpses and expected to make their way from there, conquering the previous occupant's problems on the way. Mercy, specifically, went from dependant on her abusive alcoholic mother to living the live of a formerly homeless alcoholic named Donna Mays. There will be references to death, to old life VS new life, and other such changes, so just keep that in mind. Again, if you get lost, just hit up this chapter or the main story on FFnet or A03 - I've been told it's well-worth the read and the party's getting started!
Normally chapters/stories I write have a dialect-used glossary and notes at the end, but AFF has limits on the afterstory notes. For that reason, I've omitted both this time. If you want the notes or have trouble deciphering the accents portrayed, just hit this story/chapter up on one of the other sites mentioned above. Otherwise, hope y'all enjoy and hope to hear from you!
Suggested Listening: Survivor "How Much Love" and "American Heartbeat," KISS "I Was Made for Lovin' You," Boston "To Be a Man"
The Blonde and the Beefcake
The Lair, November 11th, sometime before Dawn
Denim blue eyes pried open a crack; free, they focused on their immediate surroundings, taking stock of what they could see. Dusky tan, scarred and scuffed—deep green, mottled in some places and paled in others—faded burgundy and even more faded black—ah, yes, that's right. Despite the compromising situation, Mercy's lips quirked up in a small smile.
Warm, chapped lips brushed her disheveled hair with every breath, the snout above them intermittently nuzzling into her scalp. A beefy arm around her waist held her close—anchored her against Raphael's bare side in his nest of pillows and blankets. The large hand attached to that arm cupped her distracting rump, fingers tangled in the hem of her favorite nightgown intent on keeping the powder-pink cotton from riding up in their sleep. Just above her head, Raph snored to beat the band, every now and then nuzzling into her scalp with a sleep-husky grumble or a sigh.
Mercy shifted a little more onto her side, leaning on his bare plastron and pillowing her pointed chin on her crossed arms; the powerful arm around her waist squeezed a fraction, urging her tighter against his side. All her life, she dreaded any sort of intimacy, disdained romance, and loathed all things mushy. With a mother like hers, it really wasn't that surprising. Now she found herself relishing everything she once reviled. Now she couldn't help focusing on the silliest of details—faint lines of ruddy brown and pale green splintering from the outside corners of his eyes, the way his scarred lips tilted up in a content smile, the way he nuzzled and cuddled her in his sleep… Raphael was already one of her favorite people in her life, and now sleeping Raphael was well on its way to becoming one of her favorite things in life.
'Why'd it take so long to get here?' Mercy wondered wistfully. If she knew how safe, how secure, how cherished his embrace could make her feel, would she still have dawdled as she did? The blonde had no answers…and really, if she was honest with herself, she was still dawdling to a degree. After all, this was only a sleepover on the sly—a mostly innocent situation meant only to bring them closer and comfort them while her friend and his brother were gone. Heck, Mercy even went against her usual habit and wore her panties to bed, but Raphael was still nervous about her nightgown riding up. As though confirming that realization, his fingers clenched at her hip, tangling in the hem of her nightgown. Once she feared he would hurt her—that he'd use her and throw her away just like her mother told her all men would. Now she knew she could trust Raphael; even in his sleep, his only wish was to keep her safe, if necessary, from himself.
One of these days, the tension between the couple was bound to snap. Until then, Mercy decided, nestling into the warm crook of his neck and chin, she was thankful for Raphael's patience with her. It was funny really…his personality gave no hint that he could ever be so tender with her. When she first met him, she was sure he was nothing more than a bratty meathead with no sense of humor. It just went to show that her first impressions of him were entirely, incredibly, undeniably wrong.
The Dojo, around five in the evening
'Hear them pound - young and proud:
It's the American heartbeat!'
The sounds of grunts, curses, and flesh smacking flesh echoed through the dojo; panting for breath, sweat beading on their already slick skin, the opponents held a tense gaze of blue and gold. A heavy industrial beat filled the air, courtesy of an old boom-box and played-to-death CD. Just like that, the standoff ended—the blonde dove at her partner fist-first, intent on knocking the smartass grin right off his lips.
"Yer gettin' a lil' betta, Merse," Raphael teased easily dodging her punch, and before she could retreat again, gave her a taunting poke to the arm. "At dis~ rate, ya might actually manage to hit me!"
'It hits us like a bolt of lightning.
Deeper down
It's the sound of the American heartbeat!'
"Shut yer mouth, Asshat!" Mercy barked back at him already winding up for another lunge. "Stay still an' lemme pound ya!" For a time, the pattern continued unchanged—Mercy threw everything she had into her assault, Raph jeered and taunted her while easily evading and blocking, she snarled threats aimed at his various body parts, and the pair bantered almost non-stop.
To an outsider, the whole scene might look pretty offensive; anyone witnessing might rage at his harsh words and provocation and pity Mercy for putting up with his 'abuse.' That couldn't be further from the case, though. Raphael loved his Mercy—loved her far too much to ever intentionally hurt her. In moments like this, when he pushed her to surpass her limits and she pushed herself to wipe the grin off his face, he felt like his heart could burst right through his plastron; he couldn't tear his eyes from her, couldn't help but take in her sweat-slicked hair, flushing skin, and burning grey-blue eyes.
The massive mutant was proud of her—so proud he could just spit. Granted, she still couldn't land a punch on him unless she caught him off-guard, and she still struggled to acclimate to Donna's left-hand-dominance after being right-handed in her previous life. Never let it be said that getting a new lease on life came without challenges to overcome. Even so, she was improving and Raph wasn't having to hold back as much now; little by little, she was slowly catching up to him, and she was already beyond the level of the average New Yorker. He pitied the mugger who ran into his Mercy in a dark alley. Now he didn't have to worry about some asshole getting the drop on her—she'd break a punk's teeth before he even got close enough to touch her.
The tides turned suddenly, the only warning a loud growl of "Fuck this!" from the over-heating human. Right before Raph's eyes, Mercy snatched at the hem of her sodden green tee shirt, wrenched it up and over her shoulders, and hurled it off to the side. The dismayed ninja followed the flying garment the whole way, wincing at the wet smack as it hit the wall and slid down to puddle on the floor. Swallowing around the knot twisting his throat, he slowly turned back to Mercy, wide eyes frantically fastened at her eye-level. 'Don't think about da rack,' he thought in a near panic. 'Don't think about it—don't look, it don't even exist—just don't even think about it!' As focused as he was on keeping his eyes above the shoreline and his instincts in check, he was stunned to feel a set of knuckles sink right into the middle of his face. Even more surprising, the blow managed to off-balance him entirely.
Mercy gaped in disbelief as her hulking lover hit the mat ass-first. She closed her eyes, shook her head as though to clear out the cobwebs, and looked again, but the scene remained unchanged: Raphael still half-sat half-lay in a crumpled heap on the mat, visibly stunned. Without a second thought, she dropped to her knees in front of him, gingerly examining his bleeding—and possibly broken—snout. "Jeez, Hon," she muttered yanking out her red paisley kerchief to dab away the blood. "I'm sorry, I didn't—" Thick callused fingertips latched onto her wrist; she hesitated, cringing at the blood still dripping from his nose.
"Ya got me," Raph remarked in a daze. "Ya actually fuckin' got me." He shook his head, increasingly peeved with her. "If ya wanted ta hit me dat bad, ya didn't have ta strip fer a chance."
"I didn't strip, Dingbat," Mercy retorted yanking her wrist free and poking him soundly in the plastron. "I'm still dressed." On the verge of shooting back an argument, Raph glanced pointedly down at her chest but fell silent. He expected the worst—expected her to be down to a bra or, even worse, completely topless, considering she slept in nothing but a nightgown—but instead, he stood corrected.
"Da heck's dis thing?" he demanded, picking at the noodle-thin strap of her black camisole with derision, but froze at the sight of a wider strap underneath. Red satin, he realized with a muddy blush—sleek, silky fabric the exact shade of a ripe Bing cherry… He couldn't tear his eyes off the flash of red even long enough to meet hers. "Ya weren't tryin' ta distract me, were ya?"
"No," the blonde answered rolling her eyes. Men and boobs, honestly. "I'm gross an' sweaty so I took off a layer. Big whoop." Raph said nothing. His eyes were riveted to the strip of crimson peeking out beneath the spaghetti strap—his nostrils flared, already drying blood cracking and flaking with the movement. Red… His woman was wearing his color—even more so, she wore it where only she would see it. Before he met Mercy, back when he and Kimber Bryant were dancing around each other, it used to irritate him when he found Kimber wearing his color. Whether it was punch-red dye in her hair or cherry red paint on her nails and lips, it always felt like she was using his color to stake her claim on him. With Mercy, it felt like the opposite—it felt like she was acknowledging his claim on her.
Red never looked that good on Kimber…but Mercy…
If his head wasn't in the clouds, perhaps Mikey would have realized that the dojo was occupied. Perhaps if he wasn't daydreaming about his sweet little Angel-cakes, he would have registered the music and noises coming through the bead-strung doorway and run the other direction. Instead, he was completely zoned out, and upon realizing what he missed, he froze in horror, oversized feet rooted in the doorway and eyes burning.
It was no secret that Raphael was training Mercy in self-defense—the practice began while Hun was still after Amber but over time, it intensified. It was common knowledge in the Lair that the mouthy couple spent entire sessions flirting with their fists and screwing with their eyes only to vanish into some other room for hours afterward. Every time, when they finally reappeared with sly grins, Mikey shuddered to think of what happened behind that closed door. Alas, now he knew exactly what he was being shielded from…and it was worse than he thought.
"Oh, gross guys!" Mikey screeched at the couple tangled up in the middle of their favorite mat—Mercy straddling Raph's lap, Raph grabbing her backside in fistfuls, and both locked at the lips in a sloppy, tongue-y kiss despite blood drying on his face from a likely broken snout. All the while, Raph's favorite pirated Survivor album played on shuffle, "Eye of the Tiger" blasting from the speakers. "Seriously?! We train in here! Get a room!" The couple separated a second but before Raphael could confront his brother, Mercy yanked his head down into her half-bared cleavage and turned to scowl at Mikey.
"We have one," she snapped at the horrified mutant. "Yer in it—git!" Mikey found it hard to argue with that logic. He bolted for his room, a shrieked EW! bursting from his lips every time his feet hit the pavement. At the sound of his door slamming, Mercy turned back to Raphael with a grin; he was struggling so hard to stifle his laughter that his face was turning almost purple. "Now," she teased him as a loud guffaw finally broke loose, "Where were we?"
Raphael's Room, the next day, around Dawn
In her previouslife, Mercy was accustomed to a relatively strict schedule. She'd wake up around dawn to help her stepfather with the cattle then work with the calves until quitting time. After the ranch-hands went home, she'd spend a few hours in her garden or the barn, or with her friends, then she'd crash for the rest of the night around nine. She was used to that schedule and rarely found herself waking up too early or sleeping too late. Now, in this life, she often woke at odd hours and had difficulty sleeping. This night was no exception.
For a time, she simply stared up at the ceiling of Raph's bedroom in disgruntled confusion trying to figure out what woke her. The answer came from the least expected source—the door creaked open. She bolted upright, denim blue eyes instantly fixing on the massive ninja-turtle-shaped silhouette hovering in the open doorway. "Whur ya goin'?" she demanded, her voice thick from sleep. Raphael froze, the outline of his shoulders tensing and his head ducking.
"Couch." Mercy shoved the blankets off her legs and scooted toward the edge of his mattress, but before she could make it the whole way, he cut her off. "Don't," he warned still not looking at her. "Stay dere…an' cover up a'ready." The blonde shook her head in hurt confusion and reached over to turn on his lamp; he dared not look back, knowing exactly what he'd see. Long, damnably long legs, bare beneath her nightgown—sleep-mussed hair the color of ripe wheat—big denim-blue eyes hazy from sleep—maybe even the smooth curve of a full breast or the corner of a lean shoulder peeking up behind her sagging neckline… Mercy was fast becoming his greatest temptation.
"What's wrong?" Raphael said nothing, still holding tightly to the open door like a lifeline. Her voice cracked on a rephrased repeat of the question but he couldn't get out a word. He dared not open his mouth to speak knowing what might come out of it. His room was his normally his haven, his place of refuge in a home with three brothers, their father, and one brother's girlfriend. Mercy, of course, normally didn't count among those stressors; normally, however, his bedroom wasn't stifling with her pheromones. "W…What'd I do?"
"Ya ain't done nothin' wrong," he insisted, hating the quiet creak in her voice. "I just…" Exasperated, he stepped back, let the door swing shut, and slumped against it, pressing his forehead to the cool wood in hopes it would center him. "It ain't yer fault," he rumbled low in his chest. "Ya can't control what yer dreamin' about…an' ya can't control what it does to ya, or what dat does to me." The room was silent a moment, long enough for him to think he got through to her, then her response blew that out of the water.
"The fuck're ya talkin' about?" He cringed against the door panel, highly tempted to bang his head against it, but settled for a single light thump. "What's dreams got to do with the price'a beans?" She was really gonna make him say it, wasn't she? She really had no idea what she was doing to him. Before Mercy, Raph would have noped his way out of the room long before now—left before she had a chance to try dragging the embarrassing truth out of him—that, however, was before Mercy. Now, he knew running wouldn't solve anything; now, he had a reason to stay, no matter how the very idea made him want to bolt.
With a deep, steadying breath, he pushed off the door and lumbered back over to his bed, cautiously sitting on the far edge of it. His blonde lover watched him, her eyes seeing more than he wanted her to, as always. He always felt naked when she turned those too-intelligent eyes on him, but now, without even his mask and leather to hide behind… "I can't sleep, Merse," he admitted, absently popping his neck. "You were dreamin'…good dreams, da best kind…"
He glanced up, hopeful she could fill in the blanks as usual; instead, she was completely lost and responded with a shrug. The burning in his cheeks made him grimace with embarrassment. She was such a virgin… "See…" He looked away again, unable to meet her eyes. "…ya…ya smell too good…yer keepin' me up…" Sure enough, shocked blue eyes shot down to his boxers-clad groin, offset by a blush that nearly matched his shorts. "Yeah," he added with a feeble smile, "in more ways dan one."
"Lemme get this straight," Mercy demanded belatedly tearing her eyes away from his all-too-visible tent and forcing them back to his. "You can't sleep 'cause I was dreamin' about'cha." About…him?! Before he could demand clarification—confirmation that she was having a wet dream about him—she added to it. "You can smell me, ya know what yer smellin', an' it's keepin' you awake…an' yer runnin' like a pussy 'cause yer worried yer gonna do something stupid. Ya think you're gonna push me into somethin' I ain't ready for."
"Give da lady a prize," Raph snorted, sure his cheeks were blazing. "Nailed it." For a moment, neither said a word, then her left hand shot out knuckles-first and a sting blooming in his bicep. "'ey!" he snapped clutching the muscle she just socked. South-paws really irritated him. "What's dat fer?!"
"Fer bein' an idjit," she retorted crossing her arms under her unbound breasts; it took all the willpower he possessed to tear his eyes away from the flashes of blushing skin peeking up over her neckline. God, his Mercy was tempting… "You invited me to stay over, to begin with, an' ya know what I woke up to? Your hand tangled in my nightgown keepin' it from ridin' up." He blinked at her, thrown off-guard. "Even in your sleep, you're afraid of pushin' me too far, an' it's ridiculous. I trust you," she finished off her rant, her tone softening and one small hand making its way up to his cheek. "When are ya gonna start trustin' yourself?"
"Ya trust me?" he asked softly, humbled, but quickly shrugged it off along with her hand. "Ya shouldn't trust me." His jaw clenched, his mind obstinately replaying a multitude of his own dreams for his torture. "You have any idea what ya do to me, Kid? You got even a clue what happens when—when I start smellin' ya like dis? –what it makes me want?" Mercy crossed her arms and leaned back against his headboard with a lopsided shrug, the very picture of nonchalance.
"I grew up on a ranch, Raph," she reminded dryly. "Granted, people probably go about it differently than barn-cats, but it's basically the same thing, right?" He cringed; she had such a way of making thing awkward. "You're not an animal," she reminded reaching up to his jaw and tracing her thumb over the scar splitting his lip. "An animal wouldn't stop. If a bitch is in heat an' a dog smells'er, he ain't gonna ask'er 'you good with this?' He ain't gonna hold back if she don't want'im—he'll just plow'er with or without her consent if'n she don't bite'is ass."
"Yer makin' dis real weird," Raph warned; she rolled her eyes in response.
"The point is I trust you," she explained softly. "If I say no, I know you'll stop. You'll stop if I freeze, or if I get uncomfortable, or show any sign ya might not ought'a continue. I trust you…an' that trust ain't misplaced."
Raphael said nothing, outwardly dubious but inwardly marveling at her faith in him…and worrying it might be unfounded…and also wondering if his lack of faith, instead, was unfounded. Maybe he worried for nothing…maybe she was right and he should start trusting her. Mercy's eyes shifted between his, searching for something in them, her face softening and her cheeks pinking.
When it became clear he couldn't speak, she shifted away and went to let him go; he caught her hand in his, anchoring it at his jaw, hopeful she would be able to read between the lines. "Raph," she sighed in an almost reprimand, "if you don't trust yourself around me right now, I get it, but you don't have to sleep on the couch. It's your room—I'll just go back to mine for the night, no harm, no foul." Golden hazel, nervous to the point of fearful, burned into denim blue.
"Yeah," he rumbled, releasing her hand and lifting the other to brush her spiky blonde bangs behind one ear; his fingertips then trailed down her neck, detoured along her angular jaw, then caught her pointed chin in a gentle cradling touch. "You could leave…or…" His eyes shifted away, his cheeks darkening with muddy brown, then he met her eyes again. "…or I could…take care'a ya."
Mercy stilled, balking. Raphael could see it in her eyes as surely as if it was written there—he could see her recalling the unfounded accusations, warnings, and outright abuse she lived with before they met. She still worried that allowing herself to experience physical affection would prove her mother right—that giving in to her emotions was an unforgivable sin. That, he decided, steeling his nerves, had to be stopped. "Was yer mother right?" he asked bluntly.
"What?" Mercy recoiled, eyes wide and watery.
"I asked if ya think yer mother was right," he answered, releasing her jaw and leaning back to physically give her space. "Are ya some kind'a loose woman? Are ya out screwin' anythin' dat won't complain?"
"How—How dare you?!" Mercy snapped shoving him. "No, I am nothing of the sort! I'm not a loose woman, I've never been a loose woman, and I never will be a loose woman! No amount'a sex would ever make me a loo—" Mid-sentence, she fell silent, stunned. His point was finally sinking in, her fire was fading, and judging by the proud smirk on his face, Raphael knew it.
"Exactly," he teased and reached out to ruffle her hair. "Ya got nothin' to be ashamed of, Merse, 'specially not fer doin' what comes natural. Ya deserve ta feel good—Hell, ya deserve ta have dat body'a yers worshipped," he added under his breath unable to keep his eyes from drifting downward, but quickly lifted them back to her blushing face with a smug grin. "Ya deserve everythin' any other woman deserves, maybe even more than they do; stop thinkin' about what'cher mother said an' start rememberin' she was wrong."
Though the very idea was anatomically impossible, Mercy felt like a two-ton boulder spontaneously appeared in her throat; it would certainly explain why she was choking on thin air. Her massive lover easily recognized this and urged her to crawl into his lap with careful hands and gentle tugs. She buried her tearing eyes and blushing cheeks in his beefy neck, considering his words.
In her heart, she knew he was right—logically, there was nothing wrong with allowing herself to experience all the pleasures open to any other adult. Fears, however, were rarely very logical, and her mother's cruel treatment left deep marks on her. Still…that was a lifetime ago…she was stronger now, she wasn't just some scared, unstable little kid anymore. She had a paying job she earned on her own, she had a family she was helping support, she was working to accomplish goals and helping others accomplish their goals—she was doing so much now that a lifetime ago seemed merely a pipe dream. Despite the injustice of it, she was even conquering the addiction her mother gave into without a fight. Mercy was stronger now and facing her fears would only make her even more so.
Raphael. She retreated from his collar, almost timidly meeting his eyes. If she jumped, he'd catch her…he'd never let her fall. "I…" She faltered, then soldiered on ahead. "I wanna try. Just…take it easy on me, okay?" A low, husky growl rumbled in his chest. One massive hand swept up her back to dive into her perpetually messy hair and eased her into his plastron—close enough, she fancied, to feel his heart thudding against her ribs.
"I wouldn't dream'a anythin' different, Babe," he promised and traced the shell of her ear with his snout. A chill skittered down her spine—a pleasant chill, she admitted as rough fingers tilted her chin and chapped lips brushed hers. "Ya trust me…now trust yaself."
When this night began, Mercy was sure it would go like any other night they shared together. She and Raphael would drive each other crazy until she started getting drowsy, Raph would leave to finish getting ready for bed, then he'd return and take over the bed. When she inevitably woke in the wee hours of the morning, she'd find herself cradled against his side, warm, safe, and secure, and quickly fall asleep again. In the afternoon she'd wake up for work, still cradled against his side, and find a sweating glass of sweet tea on the nightstand waiting for her. She still had no idea how he managed to fetch it without waking her.
Any other night, that routine would have been the case; tonight, however, was a whole new beginning. Tonight she lay sprawled on her back in his nest of lumpy pillows and musty blankets, her nightgown hitched up to her hips, squirming in both anticipation and discomfort. At her side, Raphael watched her silently, his focus entirely on her eyes rather than the unshaven curls under his fingertips. "Relax," he urged leaning in to steal her lips and ground his palm against her again. Something strange, almost like an electric current, sparked along Mercy's skin at every brush of his skin against hers.
"I'm trying," she insisted, unable to meet his eyes. Her body sang with pleasure; her mind, however, trembled in dread. She wasn't ready—she couldn't do this, she needed—
"'ey." The word, quiet and non-threatening, cut off her building panic; she lifted her eyes to his. He wasn't upset—there was no anger or impatience in his eyes—he was worried about her. Though his pupils were dilated with desire, she knew he wouldn't give in to until she was ready. "It's okay, I ain't gonna push ya," he reminded easing his free hand over to her side, fingertips tracing the full curve of her hipbone. "Is dere anythin' I can do to help? Anythin' dat might make ya feel safer?"
There he was, Mercy realized almost bitterly, being driven crazy by her scent, one hand cupping her crotch, and all he wanted was to comfort her. This was ridiculous…yeah, there was something she could use—nay, even needed—but he was doing enough…right? Surely— "'s'okay. Maybe some other time." Wait…he…?
"Y-You don't have to—to stop," she insisted even as he tugged her hem back down. "I-I just—"
"Yer scared out'a yer wits, Blondie," he pointed out matter-of-factly, propping himself up on one bulky arm. "I get it—okay, I really don't get it," he muttered in correction, "but I get dat ya ain't ready an' I ain't gonna push ya." Mercy fell silent, mentally berating herself yet again. She wasn't a scared little kid anymore…right? How could she move past this?
"Maybe…" She hesitated a moment, her eyes dropping to fix on his shoulder. Long elegant fingers, roughened from sparring and work, dove into her hair, yanking at the roots. As always, his meaning was clear to her—actions spoke louder than words, and she heard clearest what was left unsaid. Still…sometimes… "Sometimes…I really do need to hear it," she finished, the words slipping out in a mumble. "Sometimes the words do matter." She steeled her resolve. "Say it, Raphie," she urged, this time speaking intentionally. "Tell me, in words, why I don't have to be afraid—tell me what won't hurt."
He said nothing—he just stared at her, contemplative and sober. For a moment, she worried she upset him; her eyes fell to his plastron, contemplating the difference in color between her fair skin and his leathery green scales. Callused fingertips at her cheek silenced her fears, urging her chin up again. The moment their eyes met, grey-blue and golden hazel, her mind blanked, stunned by the gentle smile he wore. Once, she felt sure such an expression would be completely out of place on his face; now, she knew it was right at home, even though she was sure she was the only one who ever saw it. He took a moment to make sure she wouldn't pull away, then leaned down to claim her lips in a kiss that, though brief, stole the breath right from her lungs
"I don't say it a lot, do I?" he sighed propping his chin on one meaty fist. "Words ain't easy for me—it's easier to show dan to tell." He caught her hand in his; under his guidance, her fingertips splayed across the warm keratin of his plastron. It was faint, but she could still feel a distant vibration through the thick keratin—the throbbing of a heart beating faster by the minute. "I wait for ya because yer worth it…I'm patient with ya because ya deserve it." His scarred lips tilted up a little more on one side, his eyes momentarily dropping to her lips. "I'll keep waitin' an' keep bein' patient as long as I have to, Merse…I love ya...an' love ain't gotta hurt."
Mercy sucked in a steadying breath—her vision wavered, eyes tearing up—she rolled onto her side, tucking herself into his front and hiding her tearing eyes in his neck. That one phrase, so often felt and so seldom heard, was exactly what was needed. "I love ya, Mercy Ross," he swore again in a soft rumble, nuzzling into her hair. For good measure, he repeated the sentiment a few more times, each time softer until it fell to a whisper.
"I—" Warm, deceptively soft lips snatched at her earlobe, cutting her off in a gasp. "I love you, too, Raphael," she breathed when he retreated. "I want…I want to keep trying…" A hum of consideration answered her, then a rumble of interest, then, finally, the lumpy mattress shifted.
Mercy's last life was full of fear, doubt, and pain, and they weren't welcome in this life.
Mercy lay back, eyes clenched shut and lips parted, one arm curled around Raphael's neck. Tucked between her spread legs and propped up on one elbow, he trailed kisses and nips along her shoulders and neck as he ground his palm into her center. The fear from before was gone, her discomfort replaced with desire. In all their time together, this was the most of Mercy's skin Raph ever had the opportunity to see—to feel, taste, and torture. It was well worth the wait.
Mercy once told him she died untouched, unused to any hands but her own, and in this long-awaited moment, he knew it was true. Every time his callused fingertips dipped between her lips, she trembled; every time he ground his palm against her pearl, she keened. Everything was new and intense, so much more intense without the layers of cloth in the way, and she loved it—wanted it, needed it, couldn't get enough of it. With every moment and every movement, the chemical come-ons filling the air grew stronger and his resolve grew even more so.
Raph shuddered, stealing her lips as he dipped between the other set again to tease her entrance. He offered a distraction—a deepened kiss, heavy with nipping teeth—and eased inside. She winced, whimpering into his mouth before he even sank to the first knuckle; he sobered at what that told him and finally relinquished her tongue, trailing nips down to her neck. "Fuck me runnin'—tight,"~ he muttered against her racing pulse—an internal admission he never intended to voice aloud. His Mercy died a virgin, true, but he never expected the body she now wore to have done the same. This…well, it would complicate things, to say the least. It would take a lot of extra care and stretching out before she was anywhere near ready to take him, even his fingers.
Mercy was lost in what she felt—drowning in desire the way she once drowned in her emotions. Her lungs heaving for breath, she couldn't even protest when Raphael broke their lip lock and never registered those lips trailing downward. They followed the sharp slope of her jaw down her neck, paused to paint the tender skin of her clavicle with a deep red love-bite, then traveled onward.
By the time she realized he had ulterior motives the painful stretching sensation was forgotten, replaced by something else entirely new—near-blistering heat clad in skin smoother than his work-roughened fingertips, slowly tracing a path between her lips. She bolted up onto her elbows, sure what she felt couldn't be what she thought it was. It took only a glance—just long enough to register two darkened hazel eyes glinting up at her over her untrimmed mound—to confirm her suspicions. If her senses were to be believed, her cheeks were well on their way to spontaneous combustion.
Raph arched one bare eyebrow at her over her dark blonde curls as though daring her to demand an explanation; the moment her lips parted to do just that, an awkward and intentionally loud slurp blew that idea right out of the water. His lack of reservations melted hers away without protest. Eyes rolling back in her head, she flopped back into the nest with an unrestrained groan. Her hands lashed out, latching onto the skin of his naked scalp and raking her nails across it. This…she could get used to this, she decided and yanked at his skull. There was no pain from the stretching now, only nipping teeth, suckling lips, the clumsy lapping of an inexperienced tongue… A particularly well-placed nibble sent sparks across her vision; yeah, once the ick factor was out-of-sight, out-of-mind, she could totally get used to this!
Raphael was used to being driven out of his mind by the mouthy blonde but this was an entirely new level of insanity. He thought her pheromones were stifling when they woke him earlier; now, this close to the previously unexplored flesh responsible, he knew there just was no comparison. His lungs were swimming with the addictive little things, every breath sucking in more to torture him with. Even as he focused on Mercy—threw everything he had into answering the call of the chemical come-ons—he kept a tight rein on his own urges. Anything more than listlessly rocking against the mattress was stubbornly refused, deemed too risky to consider.
A small, vulnerable sound, halfway between a whine and a sob, drew his eyes upward to check on her. Tears gathered along her eyelashes but the bluer-than-usual eyes they framed were full of wonder, need, and adoration—they held no fear, and definitely no reason to back down. A deep, guttural churr rumbled through his chest, the vibrations triggering a startlingly feminine yelp of his name. He drew back with a breathy chuckle. "Such a girl, Merse," he teased sliding one thick finger between her lips again; this time there wasn't so much resistance though she was still tight—far too tight.
"F—Ah!—Ya—" Mercy finally gave up on getting out a single word in protest and settled for a frustrated whine; Raph, after all, was cutting off every attempt with a nip or a finger-flick, and that wasn't exactly conducive to intelligent thought completion.
"Relax," he reassured against her lips and urged her legs—those damnably long legs—up onto his broad shoulders. A hot, heavy, longing sigh escaped his lungs, punctuated by a gentle nuzzle at her mons. "Ain't nothin' wrong with bein' a girl." He cupped her distracting rump in one massive hand, lifted her lower half right off the mattress, and buried his snout in her heat. No, there was nothing wrong with his Mercy letting her feminine side show…if anything, this side of her could be the most intoxicating one yet. More than ever, he couldn't wait to learn every single inch of her body; more than ever, he knew when that day came, it would be well worth every day of waiting.
It seemed like hours passed but Mercy was sure it was only a matter of moments. Whoever heard of a virgin lasting hours, especially when their partner wasn't that experienced either? She shuddered, aftershocks still rippling through her well-tortured flesh. Even with her vision blurry and her eyelids drooping she clearly recognized the proud—almost arrogant—smirk splitting her lover's scarred lips—lips, she realized with a hot blush, he kept distractedly wetting with slow sweeps of his tongue. A breath shuddered out through her teeth. The things that tongue just did to her…
True to his nature, he hadn't said a word since he drove her to the brink of insanity then shoved her right off the edge. He just knelt between her thighs—watching, waiting, easing her descent from madness with impossibly gentle caresses. Despite his silence, a lifetime of mushy promises and heartfelt sighs shone in his eyes for her to see…and for once, Mercy felt no urge to brush the mush off with smartassery.
She physically shook off the thought and carefully eased herself upright. Even floating five miles above her body and wondering if she was actually stoned out of her mind, she could feel the heavy, insistent weight nudging the bare thigh partially draped over his lap. She flushed, torn between desire and nerves, and swung her left leg over to join the right beside him.
"Yer still…" She faltered, cleared her throat, and tried again. "Um…need a hand?" He sat back on his heels, unsmiling but not upset.
"Dat depends," he replied without emphasis. Mercy shifted awkwardly, eyes darting everywhere except the prominent tenting of his wine-red boxer shorts.
"Depends…on what?" she asked. Instead of answering verbally he brushed a spiky lock of blonde hair behind her ear, trailed his fingers down her shoulder, and took her by the wrist. Without a word he slowly, cautiously guided her hand down to his groin, never taking his eyes off of her. The first brush of her fingertips on his cloth-covered length sent an alarming twitch through the flesh under them; Mercy flinched, eyes wide and borderline panicked. Was it supposed to do that?!
"Depends on dat," Raph rumbled tugging her hand away from his crotch and laying it instead in her lap. "Yer not ready yet, Merse," he reminded without censure, "an' dat's fine…I'm good fer now." She choked—her eyes tore away from his, fixing wetly on the floor beside the bed—even white teeth dug into her kiss-swollen lower lip. Anyone could have seen the unease in her eyes, but that unease was coupled with even more visible frustration. After everything he said, everything he did for her, she still wasn't ready…she still couldn't shake the dread crawling up her spine or the memories of unfounded accusations. She wasn't a tease—she wanted Raph, with every fiber in her body she wanted him!—but she just—she couldn't—
"'ey—Merse, lookit me."~ The demand, while not harsh, was firm; she reluctantly met his eyes, half-expecting to see disappointment. She saw none—if anything, his eyes were tender even with his pupils blown wide from lust. His words and tone said I understand, I'm not upset but his posture and eyes said something entirely different—they told her he wanted nothing more than to strip her bare, spread her across his sheets, and deal with 'that pesky virginity.' If not for the words ringing through her mind—cruel, untrue words that taught her to fear love years before she and Raph ever met—she'd likely agree with that idea wholeheartedly. "It's alright, Babe," he insisted cutting off that line of thought. "I ain't upset an' you don't have ta be either. I can wait 'til yer ready."
"I just…" Mercy sighed, darting a nervous glance back toward his groin; a harsh, irritable breath hissed out through her teeth. She had no qualms about riding him like a workhorse while he was fully clothed but the minute he stripped to his shorts, she felt like his crotch was about bite her. She felt ridiculous. "What if I'm never ready?" she asked weakly. "What if I'm—"
"You'll get dere," Raph cut her off with a gentle, encouraging smile, his voice a low rumble she felt more than heard. "It'll take time but it will happen—when you can touch me wit'out gettin' scared an' you can lemme in wit'out worryin' yer makin' a mistake…dat's when you'll be ready, an' not a day before." She uttered a wordless skeptical sound; he caught her by the jaw, brushing the rough pad of his thumb along her cheekbone. Distantly Mercy wondered if the hand was the same one he tortured her with earlier, but she ultimately decided she didn't want to know. "Yer worth waitin' fer, Sweethaht."
As always, the seldom-used nickname choked her up. When she and Raphael first began this complicated dance of theirs, Mercy expected all sorts of pet-names from him—macho, piggish, rude, generic, she thought of them all and prepared protests for each one. She wasn't surprised when he transitioned some from their friendship to their newfound relationship—Kid, Blondie, Merse, they all still fit even now that they were making out more than hanging out. Babe, too, made sense to her—it was a common choice and not too mushy, and it fit with his ultra-masculine personality. Then Raphael, the turtle as bristly and mush-resistant as she was, blew her mind completely…he called her Sweetheart. The first time he used it on her, the name ripped open the floodgates and drowned her in mush but she found she didn't really mind all that much. He never let it show around anyone else but Raphael really did have a soft side.
"If yer sure," she relented, and pointedly fixed her eyes on his. "…Darlin'." His eyes widened as he processed the new name; his gentle smile spread into a boyish grin, and he ducked his head, practically radiating an air of 'aw, shucks.' Yes, he definitely had a soft and squishy side underneath all the bluster… Mercy patted his thigh and swung her legs over the side of the mattress. "I guess I'll go get a drink or something," she offered as she tested the steadiness of her legs. "You know, give you some time." She glanced down at his lap again in consideration. "Uh…how long will you need?"
"How long?" he retorted with a wolfish grin. "Babe, the longer ya dawdle, the less time I'll need." She seemed to consider the idea a moment, thoughtfully tapping one finger against her pointed chin, then abruptly sauntered to the door with a shrug.
"I'll give ya five," she teased over her shoulder, "an' I'm not sleepin' in the wet spot." With that, she left him to get himself together; he deflated.
"Aw, dat's just cruel," he muttered but made no attempt to call her back. After all, he still had a problem to take care of…and that problem was one Mercy really wasn't ready to help out with despite the temptation in her eyes. Without further delay, he rolled onto his back in the pillow nest, wrenched his waistband down, and got to work on the problem at hand.
Mercy Ross was a league all her own—the smartassery to his blustering and the blonde to his beefcake—and she was steadily driving him right out of his gourd. 'Dat crazy woman's makin' a soft-shell out'a me,' he thought to himself as he focused on the memory of the lustful abandon in her eyes mere moments before. For being a woman so averse to mush, she certainly had a knack for making him feel as mushy as a lump of raw pizza dough…and damned if it didn't feel right.
Thanks for reading - I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Remember, if you want more of Mercy and Raph, you can find their story in "A New Lease on Life," found on FFnet and AO3. Art, music posts, random blurbs, and occasional scene snippets and spoilers can be found on Tumblr @Get-a-new-lease-on-life. If you have a moment, please remember to rate or review - I'd love to hear your feedback!
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The Blonde and the Beefcake