Shame Manifest
He didn't expect the growling. But it was good.
He didn't expect the way her long tongue rolled through his mouth, plundering it. But it was good.
He didn't expect the heat, the tightness, the feeling of being taken; the rolling rumbling response that erupted from the center of his chest to rip through his gritting teeth. Her shocked look followed immediately by the smirk, eyes gleaming; hungry as she pumped her hips, driving him deeper; his jumping fingers grasping through tendrils of dew-kissed grass, to rove upwards into the silken forest of her fur. White and pristine and so soft; never did he ever imagine the downy feel of her so contrasting with the fire in her eyes, the heat between her legs. His fingers twined and sought their way through her fur. It was good. It was so good.
His torso arched slowly upwards, curving towards her, curling with the tightening tension building at the center of him, until he buried his face into that formless euphoria of comforting texture. Molding his forehead into the crook of her shoulder and neck where it was thicker; breathing her in, listening to her panting, grunting; the guttural groans of her unimaginable pleasure. He didn't expect the spike in lust those sounds would incur in him.
He started to smile but it faltered.
He didn't expect to remember.
That which was buried. Hidden away. Secreted back to the distant reaches of the furthest corner of his mind; stowed away; things carefully, surgically removed; things he didn't need; couldn't use; things that made him weak, not strong. Not bold, but small, frightened and lost. All he'd renounced since leaving adolescence behind: his baby blanket, his first wooden practice sai, splintered at the base of the main prong rendering it brittle, fragile . . . useless, and the first time, and almost all the other times, when he held him, so tight, so comforting, and good. Because it was good. Wasn't it?
Raphael pinched his eyes closed and moaned. He felt the curve of her tail coil around his upper thigh, focused on the sounds she was making with her body grinding into his, the heightened pitch of her cries, but the memory bubbled up like so much rancid waste and he choked on the stench. He wrestled mentally, because it happened so long ago, it shouldn't matter. Not anymore. It stopped. It was ancient history. He won the battle against this malignant memory, but only for a moment, for the tide of what was remembered pulled too strongly against his will to forget.
He was softer than his favorite blanket. Warmer. It was good to nuzzle in closer. The nights were so cold and his brothers were greedy with their own blankets, their own spaces. It was good to feel arms coming around him. Hands petting him. Stroking him. Even there.
His sleep-leaden lids would flicker and with a slight frown puckering his forehead, he would bury deeper into the center of the warmth and softness, but he'd be shifted and turned slightly until with a large yawn, his legs would open, slowly at first and he would be rocked by the motion. The good feelings rippling through his body. It was good.
Until it wasn't.
Until it hurt.
Raphael gripped Alopex tighter and she squirmed in his smothering, crushing embrace. But she didn't stop. It didn't matter. He didn't want her to. He needed to blot this out. To forget again. To never remember. And he was close.
She was soft. He thought she might be, but never imagined it would be like this. She was warm. Her hands were hot whenever she'd touch him when they'd spar, but he would have never guessed how comforting the heat could be. She was growling and clawing at his shell. The sound of nails across the ridges assaulted him.
And he screamed as he came.