mnt_raph | Warning: The following entry contains Ex-turtle p0rn and many typos. Proceed with caution.

There's a knock.

Don't ask how she knocks on a tent door. She just does.

*In Raph's experience, only people who are up to something knock before coming into a room. Cautiously he gets to his feet, and heads towards the door, ready for anything.....or so he thinks*

She's outside the door, hands shoved in her pockets, looking up at him with an expression that could only be called 'hangdog.' The wind blows her hair in her face, and she reaches up to brush it away, giving him a sad sort of smile.

"Hey."

*Raph relaxes and tenses at the same time. What?! He's a trained professional, he can do that sort of thing. Anyhow, a look of concern is apparent, with a look of rage not too far behind.*

Hey, what's up?

*He moves aside, gesturing for her to come in.*

Death walks in, and turns around, almost lost...

Then she looks at him, and seems to sigh.

She opens her mouth to try to explain it, and stops.

Starts again. "I don't know where to start, Raph." Her hand runs through her hair.

"You know what I am."

*Ut oh. This is one of those quizzes that, no matter how long you've studied for, you're never prepared. Now he's confused, and that in turn is making him worry.*

Yeah, 'course I do.

*he approaches her slowly*

She comes to a decision, and smiles just a little.

It might be a tired smile, but it's a smile nonetheless.

"I nearly beat Ares' brains out on the floor of the bar, Raph."

*It takes a second for Raph to process this.*

You're kiddin'?

"Nope. Dented the floor."

He doesn't know that this is uncharacteristic behavior, does he? No, he doesn't.

*A slow smile creeps across his face*

Ares. God of War Ares.

"That's the one."

There's never been a smile more gently afflicted in the multiverse.

"I was waiting to catch up with him for nearly making me take you."

*Raph looks away in disbelief, and quite nearly burst into peels of laughter*

An' I missed it? Hot damn did I choose the wrong night to...stay in...

*This would be the point where he sees her reaction, his smile disintergrates.*

She steps up to him, and puts a finger over his lips. There's still tiny traces of the god's blood between her fingers.

"Don't talk, darling. Not now."

Slowly, as if asking permission, she takes her finger from his lips.

...indonesia. a boy falls under train tracks. she is there....

She has not one clue what she's doing.

...england. an eighty year old grandmother closes her eyes for the last time. she is there...

But she is also here. It's almost too much to take. She leans up to kiss him, trembling, and so careful. So careful... Because she'll break him, otherwise.

*He doesn't notice the blood. How can he when she's standing so close? As their lips touch, he closes his eyes. One hand cups her face gently. The other arm wraps around her, pulling her so their bodies are flush against one another.*

*He's exactly where he always is, in the moment.*

The warmth. That's always what she wanted. The movement.

She could crawl up into it and stay. And a part of her does. What it must feel like... it's anybody's guess.

But a part of it is crisp Granny Smith apples, and rides in taxis, and the sun over Central Park.

She breaks away, and this part of her is breathing. Heavily.

*As his hand twines in her hair, a small nagging voice cries out from the back. It's not quite comfortable with the current series of events. Something is wrong. It's very sad that he doesn't have a louder voice.

The hand currently on the small of her back works it's way under her shirt, resting on the bare skin.*

There's a strange, fierce hunger in her eyes, barely held at bay. It should make her glassy-eyed, but instead it just sharpens her focus. Like she's running from something inside her.

Her hands slide to his hips, and her lips graze his neck, her mouth warm. Not quite the heat of humanity, but warm. And wet. And it's not a fair thing to do to a mortal creature, to make the nerves sing like that.

She is here. She is here. Wherever else she is, she is here.

*Of all the moments he's lived in, he likes this one the best. And that voice? The little nagging one? It's been duct taped to a wall, way back in the recesses of his mind. They'll let him out at some point.

There is a small, sharp intake of breath as she moves down his neck. He can feels his knees begin to buckle. Trembling, he lifts her up and carries her over to the bed.*

She gives out a little laugh at being picked up. It's funny. The whole thing is funny, really, at a distance.

Close up, it's just warm. And maybe desperate.
She's sliding her hands up the back of his shirt, feeling each scar under the tips of her fingers. It leaves trails of that strange not-numbness up his back, before fading into the trembling sensitivity that comes from being in such close proximity to death. Or is it just Death?

Some where in there, she kicks her shoes off somewhere in there, and grins at him.

"How you doin'?"

*The sharp intake of breath has evolved into gasping for air. Somehow he manages enough control for a smirk. His voice is barely above a growl.*

That's my line.
don't stop...please.

He carefully places her on the bed, and then flops down himself. It's a good thing too, as his legs had nearly collapsed beneath him.*

She claws at his shirt, sliding it over his head, and her lips are at his neck again, as if she were trying to taste his pulse. And now the hollow of his throat. And now the space just below the collar bone...

The way she moves, it's both meticulous and desperate. Like she were trying to sear all of it into her memory.

...brazil. a man looks up at the stars for the last time as posion from a dart runs through his system. she is there...

She pulls away, to catch her breath, to look him in the eye in the midst of all this.

*His eyes are closed when she first looks, but as a the growl turns almost into a purr, they open. He takes advantage of their current position, sliding her shirt up and over her head, then makes his move. He rolls, an action that ends with her pinned underneath him, both wrapped up in a blanket.*

There's another gulp of laughter.

Then she leans up, to kiss his lips roughly, with a clash of teeth before the warmth and the wet, and she slides her hands from the back of his shoulders down to his hips, lingering at the waistband of his pants, her thumbs grazing above his hipbones.

It's not quite like being tickled.

She's smiling into his mouth.

*His kiss matches hers in ferocity. What he lacks in skill, he more than makes up for in enthusiasm. That is until the not quite tickling begins.

Where he was leisurely propped up on his elbows before, he is now braceing himself against an onslaught he can't escape. Twitching only seems to make it worse.

He catches her bottom lip gently between his teeth.*

this...is..sooooo unfair...

She makes a small sound in the back of her throat. It might be laughter. Might.

...south africa. a woman is shot in the street. she is there...

And she arches up against him as he takes her lip in his teeth, and her belly against his-- hers soft and cool, his hard and scarred and hot-- and she can feel his pulse through her skin, and she gasps at it.

One hand moves from just above his hips to tangle in his hair, and she murmurs into his ear before she covers his earlobe with her lips...

"Never... claimed... to be... fair..."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject