Publish date: 2009
Disclaimer: I do not own the cast on SonicTeam's farm.
Warning: The adult content is the beef of this story, so the dark meat might be too heavy on the digestive tract if you prefer lighter things. You may or may not feel galled by such content, but this story navigates in the sadistic exploits and love =/= sex direction. The fool-osophy of love from a female's perspective is the equator of that.
Author's Note: This would be considered my first 'serious' HALF-lemon. I did many for original prose and other series in the past, but...I prefer this one a little. I really need to unleash everything that's in my Microsoft Word's closet right now, because I still consider this half-assed and amateur, but for now...here we are and here we be. Anyway, this is a vague prelude that starts 'at the end' of the story, so there's a reason for this current 'situation,' but bits and pieces are being obscurely explained here.
...I lie here—lifeless, alive, out of body and out of mind as the world goes 'round and 'round in a wheel of colors. I look up, and the Café's fluorescent sign above me looks as if all four of it's blinking red letters have been melted by the waterfalls of rain. The three o'clock city streets are grey and oily; soundless lightning rays through the sky. And—as I smile, I inhale dunks of the acid rain that's spitting all over our bodies. It's watering down my ripped-open shirt, beading into fat blobs around the pores of my breasts, freezing my nipples into hard pebbles, mixing in the spilt coffee and broken cups crushed into my back...there even might've been blood on the table.
"...Touch me," I say...like a Messia grinning up into the eyes of Abaddon with the purest of affection as those same eyes burn their way into my heart.
His fingertips trail up my thigh like a spider's legs. I can hear my breath competing in a race against my heart as I trace the bone of his wrist with a finger of my own. His cunning tips reach higher, riding the shirt up my waist, loving along my skin against the rain. As I lie here - lifeless, alive, out of body and out of mind...I look to find his Abaddon eyes again.
Every touch...meant he missed me—just maybe.
Every kiss...meant he was sorry—most likely.
Every orgasm...meant he loved me—most definitely.
Two years ago, I once thought it meant he was taking advantage of my repression to curve his own; of the feelings I already had, for I'd already wanted his fangs to bruise my mouth when he kissed me. We were drawn to how we felt repressed and 'owned' by life in every dull block of it; we wanted to escape. Him, from his duty—me, from my mundanity. That was his secret while it was my life goal, and whichever way that chemistry went, whichever way we used each other, whichever way I fell in love, he gave me my moments of oblivion. The moments of climax. He made me feel pursued, oblierated, fulfilled, drugged...high. These were my favorite feelings in the world—feelings I chased after when I was twelve.
...He hasn't touched me since those years. Not since the events that'd destroyed the cordial bond between G.U.N. and Sonic Heroes. Not since he disowned me from our alliance and left me in third-world poverty. It wasn't his fault, but I'm allowed to feel like it was. And now, as I lie here—lifeless, alive, out of body, out of mind...he's here.
I pant through my nostrils, trying to ignore the red flush that's going all down my chest as he rubs his thumb over my lips, "...No...touch me, the way you and I both want you to touch me."
His hand crawls up the road to my throat, and I brace myself for the erotica to begin. His thumb hooks in the corner of my mouth as his fingers grab my jaw, jerking my head to the side with a force that might've snapped my neck-all so he can expose my vulnerable throat to his liking. As an example of his bipolarity, he pampers the skin with his knuckles. I buck my lips as his bite sinks into my throat's vein. Any harder, and there'll be blood in his mouth.
Heaven and Hell making love on Earth. Tonight was a public accident that happened when his appetite destroyed my shirt, sliced my bra, ripped out the scrunchy holding my bun, and pinned me to the table with his weight, breaking every salt-shaker and every plate in his wake. This is how it used to be-this level of lust. I used to wonder, "Does he want my innocence this badly?" The last thing I said before he swallowed me with his mouth and caved into my plead to put his hands on me destructively was, "...Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Touch me where...you used to touch m—" I was stopped short by a gasp. My gasp.
His h-hand had slipped between my thighs and kneaded what rested there-warm, damp, and waiting for him. His trove.
—I have never been the victim; having dreamt of milking him dry with my mouth until he succumbed submission to me, I couldn't have been the victim for all this time. Two years ago, I would have never admitted to something that both contradicted my upbringing and sated my adventurous nature at the same time. I like to poke, I like to probe, I like to explore, I like to experiment, I like to play with fire and burn my hands; I like the adernaline, the rush, the feel. Vanilla taught me to view sex under a religious interpretation that nearly choked me with its restrictions, so I dubbed myself as the curious saint with the constrained urges of a Nun trying to hold her skirt down. Unfortunately, I was unwanted—from myself. I didn't want myself. Not after the tragedy that'd happened. I was twenty-five years old, broken down and struggling to re-love myself...and I never learned it.
Every muscle in my body locks up under one single contraction. I can feel my southward lips going raw as his finger sinks its way to the pearl. My insides automatically suck around his finger's tip and the underwear that's penetrating it, and not a second later did the sap begin to pool around that finger on his command. He swirled his digit around my flower's bud; flicking it, pinching it, and twisting i—"AH!"—i-it...
—I didn't want anyone's touch two years ago, I wanted his. Due to this, I was too scared to reveal it. To tell, to do, to confess, because everyone's expectations of me would shatter into bittersweet nothings, but one day changed those nothings. The magnet chips had already been set up on a Space Colony called "Ark," I guess. Months after that day, I would come to him noon after noon, standing in his work space's doorway, fingers clinging to my skirt to hide what was trickling down my thigh—to hide what I fantasized him licking. In contradiction, I would hug my legs together to stop from dripping on his carpet, latter hand too weak to steady the clipboard in my arm. That clipboard reminded me that I was there as Sonic Heroes' representator, the bridge between us and G.U.N., the communicator, the advisor, the leader to bring compromise and peace between the two units, to unite the vision of "happiness for all of the people on this planet," Shadow's significant other. I was determined to fulfill this role ever since Sonic parted from this w-world...
He presses the button that drives my system haywire—the spot that makes me weak in the knees, the spot that makes me want to beg to feel the pressure of his hips breaking my spine's vertebrates one by one. A quiet tear lingers on my chin as my lips purse into a lazy moan.
—But all that...well, all that with him, was just an accident. I didn't mean to fall in love again. He didn't mean to fall in love again. We didn't mean to make love again. I—I never meant for it...any of it. To fall in love because you're both broken? To marry your sorrows? H-How terrible is that...? But tonight, neither of our bodies seem to care. His other hand delves into my quills gently at first, and then fists my scalp at the next. He wraps my long hair around his fist and yanks my head back, far and hard enough to make my neck burn from the strain. I grip the sides of the outdoor cafe table my back is straddled on as my neck is stretched from its ligaments, straining the veins out of my throat, almost straining the blood out of my eyeballs. It's making me succumb to a sobbing whimper, reeling me into seizure and ecstasy, making me...w-wet...
He licks my tears and eyelid to soothe me, but the saliva only blinds me. His jaw locks around my mouth with a frustrated growl to devour me, but he's only confining me. I drool out my breaths and try to catch his lips in mine when I can, curling my tongue under the roof of his mouth. The kisses slurp into long, sloppy tonsil-hockey as I rake my fingers down his back to contain my whimpers. His fangs bite my tongue a savagery that's meant to silence me before he suckles on my chin with an affection that's meant to apologize to me, all the while leaving wads of slobber in his path.
Within that path is blood; those sabers have sliced me, leaving the sores open for the cold air to numb my tingling lips. His canines know no limit as they yank on my skin like a dog on meat. He rolls his slob-gushing tongue all around - from my navel to the tip of my chin, licking me up with cannibalistic intent, burning my belly with kisses that are painful and grueling in their passion. My knees cross and knock and wither to control the orgasm shooting up and down my body like a knife stabbing through my stomach. As he muffles his grunts against my neck, he struggles with the buckle of his belt. I know instantly that he's unleashing all of his angst onto me. It's chaos without control; debauchery seeking revelry. His actions are as dark as his personality, and I—the little spark of light—am being engulfed in it.
...But I'm not alone.
I'm compelled to see the rows and rows of little street-children standing under their junkyard umbrellas. My vision dilutes them into ghosts and demons and skeletons dressed in rags and blood-splotches with their little white faces and black eye sockets and...and toothless smiles as they watch us do what they've seen in the alley. It's like I've overdosed on heroin and LSD hallucinogens, and I say that with a salivating smile on my face, because they can watch as much as they want. Get an eyeful of it. See what love looks like.
Little by little, my debaucher's fingers unclench my hair, letting it dangle over the edge in all its matted length. I feel his tongue again, slavered in rain and hot with breath, tuck down between my breasts where that same breath smothers my cleavage until it's sugared in sweat. As I watch him withdraw his fingers from my underwear, there's suddenly something erotic about seeing the string of sticky white cling to the head of his finger. I flinch and gasp when his hands slam down on the table, both fists sitting beside my head as he looms over me and shelters me with his shadow. His breath flies under my bangs and my eyes glisten with asunder.
Out of joy.
Out of disbelief.
It's all happening. He wants to be in me. He's destroyed his dignity, he's destroyed his reputation, he's destroyed it right here. He wants to be in mefor all he can sacrifice. The rain drips from his brow and pitter-pats on my cheek as I stare into his eyes. He's staring so intensely into mine, so concentrated, so...
...I gaze at him with a warmth that could melt ice cream right off a six year old's cone. I bite my lip to discipline those feelings. My eyes shudder with tears, under the needto say, "...Shadow, I—"
One thrust cuts me off. One growl, one groan. One shift of the table, and my thoughts have rambled everywhere. My eyes begin to roll into the back of my skull as I hear him strain out a throaty, "Shit..." One thrust was all it was, and one thrust was already too much for the both of us. His aching need...was in the way he stood still, the way his legs buckled, the way his eyes slipped closed, the way his face fought to hold down its frown. I nearly let myself go at full-release from the degrees of heat seeping through my underwear.
"H-Hmph..." I lick the saliva off the side of my mouth and suck my lips behind my teeth to keep from crying his name at the feeling of him stationed between me, pressed up against me, stiff and still. I sigh helplessly to keep from screaming all my wedding vows right then and there, even if we're not—and never were—a couple.
With the rain leaking off his eyelashes, his lips and chin graze around my breast as if tracing the plumpness of it. His sighs whisper up my nipples and goose-bump the pink halos around them while I, like the needy whore I should've never been, roll my hips in restlessness to feel my walls suction him all the way to the base. With his midnight fur soaked down like silk from the rain and his red stripes glowing like neon signs in the dark, I'd call him beautiful in this moment. Before I can register telling him that, he clamps down on a mouthful of my breast and sucks deep, tongue drawing nipple and flesh deeper and deeper into that hungry, slobbering mouth, and I suddenly feel like I could have blacked out from the ecstasy. My toes curl in sync with my sound effects, the tension between my thighs and the tightness pinched around my nipples being too much for a body to take.
He lowers the button-torn garment from my trembling shoulders and jerks me into him by bunching the shirt around the small of my back, kissing me harder than I was prepared for. My back hits the table with a squeal before his shadow straddles me again. His lips smack and squelch off my reddening breasts in between lazy murmurs and shuddering pants, a—and I...feverishly rub slip my fingers under my skirt. I didn't expect him to grab my wrist and slowly, yet reprimandingly remove my hand. He counters my hopeless little stroking with the pumping of his hips, and I feel his penetration in one, body-convulsing ache.
Up and down, up and down—my back grates the glass on the table; my toes turn blue. He rocks both me and the table off our heels, his pace soon rocking out of control, our breaths soon losing themselves. His bobbling head changes angle every now and then as I listen to him slurp and suckle each breast.
I've never...wanted to touch myself so badly before. Though dreaming of how he'd touch me here, and...caress me right between there, and...bite me where it hurts, and...love me, on an office desk, in the copy machine room, the balcony, against the wall, anywhere, is an exception.
I—I…squint at the pavement turning black with water as my back grates the glass on the table. Our rippling reflection in the puddle has us looking like the front cover of some corny romance movie, the movies I used to sneer at and mentally preach their absence of morality and taste but found myself reading the backs of in Blockbuster anyway. His moans branch into growls as the pieces of glass on the table rattle and clatter in rhythm with my pants. His hand uncurls from its fist and scrapes its gloved nails down the table as I fling my legs over his shoulders for better leverage. Heat against heat, friction against friction-it really is chaos without control, isn't it?
His knees are shaking; his arms are trembling. The force, the torture, the strain-was blatant and red in his face. My mouth widens into a silent scream as I feel it coming...all of it, white-hot and surging down my spine. My debaucher's fingernails peel the wood into ribbons; it's coming for him too. I wrap my legs around his neck and lock my toes together to intensify the sensations attriting my nerves. The audience of young folk surrounding us starts to grow in size and noise. We hear them whisper and shriek and laugh...pointing fingers and gossiping.
And we don't care. We're lost in our black magic.
He kisses the rib bone protruding through the underside of my breast. The tips of his wet chestfur that are whisking down my skin wrack me alone. I'm convulsing from wanting to lose my hands in his spiky hair and never find them again, or to nuzzle my face into that head of horrible stench the rain's given it and get high off the heady scent.
"I...I wan' you in me..." I slur, rain and sweat bouncing off my breasts, tears niggling in the back of my eyes, hair sticking down my cheeks.
In front of all these children, in front of the whole city...show them you love me, even if you don't.
"...As do I," I hear him husk; the base in his voice emitting a deep power like a song I'll forever replay. I inhale a winch that feels like it could've cut my tongue. Suddenly, his hands fumble under my skirt to hike it up. "...More than you realize," He grumbles his impatience through his teeth, on the verge of exploding before I've even had one inch of him the way I wanted to.
This is inane. I shouldn't be doing this. My disgusting, vile nature is just that—gluttony. Right, Vanilla?
He takes a slow breath through his nose. His eyelids are flickering like he's trying to endure beautiful agony. I lick my mouth's corner and quietly smack my lips in mesmerization as I run my hand over a neglected instrument. I hear him growling at me like a Tasmanian to warn me, but I can't draw my fascination away. He's seething with anger, not arousal. I didn't care; I went on touching him in the wrong places, threatening to send him over the edge.
"...So we're that persistent, are we?" ...Shadow?
I learned my lesson too soon for me to digest it. Punishing me for the mistake I made to disobey him, he enters without warning, filling me all the way to the tiny, tight hilt with his length and the underwear. My eyeballs jut out of my skull before I arch until my back muscles cramp up. My throat hoarsened out a rasping scream of pleasure's greatest excruciation as my pulse dilates. I feel like my heart is...in—in my throat. I clawed at the table to support my body as the chaos wracked all through me, juddering and jittering every nerve fiber in my limbs, and there was no stopping it. I felt it river down my ankles as the tears rushed to meet me.
"It just so happens...that isn't my name," He nibbled and teased my ear as my ankles kicked and squirmed for relief under his body weight. He took it upon himself to roll his hips round and round, swirling around my syruped insides instead of plunging, and d-driving my loins mad.
"H—Huh...p-please..." My hands closed into small fists on his shoulders. "Please..." I splayed my shaking fingers down his back to beg for mercy. "Please...!" —Make my brain's pink clews burst out of my eye-sockets and ears.
"Tell me what it is you want," He buried himself deeper until I felt him in my stomach, until my very legs were straddling the air, until my spine was burning.
"I want deeper," I babbled, my slick walls painfully tight around the fabric encasing his shaft from me, but his hips would not budge.
I watch widely as he leaves me entirely just to bunch my underwear around his fist with a predator's glare darkening his face. I press my cheek into the cold table as the garment slowly shreds in half, stitch by stitch by stitch.
My fist to my mouth, my face damp with fever and my eyes glazed over like a virginal school girl, I hesitantly spread my legs open, whimpering my permission, "Put your hands on me destructively..."
He forces me open even wider by yanking both ankles high in the air, making my legs stiff up to undergo the air rushing in between me.
Somewhere in the rain, a child gasps, and the others watch, not being able to look away from real love.
He lowers his soft pants into my ear to say gently, "...Tell me what it is you truly want..."
My eyes mix with tears, rain and sweat as I gulp on the mascara running into my mouth. I slither my arms around his neck. My face twitches with emotions I want to sob out to him as I honey his ear with, "...You..."
But I can't help but whisper in my head the apology I've whispered fifty-thousand times before, "...And I'm so sorry for falling in love with you. It was...just an accident."
At first, I was going to turn this into an actual story. Now, because of the aggression in this prologue and the aggression that will be throughout the full-blown intimacy, it'll be more of a carnal romance, if even that. So, this'll be an alternative of the ship's [mature] variation. Canonically and even logically, I don't believe in it or how they would be characterized "during the act," but it's always more interesting to write on a "psychological level" when you flanderize some things.