Work Text:
Shadow stares at him from over the top of the papers he's been reading for the past five minutes, his snout scrunched up like he's asked Shadow to go base jumping off the cliffs in Rail Canyon together without chutes. Like he's said something ridiculous here. When Shadow finally sets the haphazard script down, Sonic doesn't miss the way Shadow's grimacing. “I'm not saying any of this.”
“What? C'mon!” Sonic spreads his arms with a smile. “It’s for the immersion.”
Shadow leans over and reads one of the lines in an even monotone, “‘You look so good crying on my cock.’”
“So, is that a no, or?”
“It's a critique,” Shadow says flatly, ear flicking.
“Gee. Tough crowd.” Okay! So maybe he'd written, like, half (ninety-nine percent) of it with his dick in one hand and his phone in the other. It'd taken some serious pass-throughs to even make it legible and a lot less embarrassing, that's for sure. Sue him though. And maybe he'd been a little nauseous after he came in his fist and reread what he wrote with a fresh wash of post-nut regret, but it was like rollercoaster upchuck. Thrilling, exciting, terrifying—the feeling going straight down, down, down and buzzing hot.
Plus, he just needs Shadow to do this for him. Like, seriously. So it can fix him all up. Get him back to normal about it. (The Thing. The-don’t-think-about-it-don't-talk-about-it-ever-thing.) Whatever. Emphasis on ever.
“Listen, just adlib the dirty talk, and I'll axe whatever else you're not comfortable doing.”
Shadow steeples his fingers on the papers like he can't be bothered to touch them more than that and slides them towards Sonic pointedly. “You're agreeing to be subjected to everything on this?”
“Yup.” He pops the ‘p’ with a grin. “One hundo percent of the way.” Sonic nudges the script back towards Shadow. “And I even added in some stuff you can throw in whenever ‘n all. You can really go buck wild here, just stick to the gist.”
Shadow frowns, but doesn't deny the idea entirely. “When exactly did you plan on testing this out?”
Well. He didn't show up here to talk shop all night, that's for sure. “Uh, right now.”
Shadow's eyes narrow.
“I'll prep myself jus’ right and everything, don't worry! I've got a thing to relax me a little, konk me out faster, but it should wear off fast.” Sonic reaches down for the bag he brought on his way over and dumps it on the table with a clatter. “Oh, and I brought these.”
Shadow hooks a finger into the plastic bag and drags it closer with a rustling scrape. He plucks it open gingerly, only with the ends of his claws. Like whatever's inside might leap out and bite him if he's not too careful. Shadow looks up at him wordlessly.
It's not a bad sign. Shadow seems mildly annoyed, per usual, but equal parts intrigued. Interested, maybe. He knows Shadow likes doing stuff that's sometimes experimental. A little on the edge of reason. Maybe it's something that runs in the Robotnik family.
“Well?”
Shadow sighs. “Fine.”
Groggy, mildly disoriented, Sonic wakes up already cuffed.
Face down, notably. His wrists tethered by metallic handcuffs and arms spread towards either side of the mattress, chained right to each bed post. He strains against them experimentally. The tinny clatter sticks in his ears as his bare feet pedal uselessly in the sheets. Minutes tick by. An odd quiet only broken up by him yanking at his cuffs, the rattle thud-thud as he pulls at them and nothing gives. The only change comes in the way the sharp rims of them begin to bite into his wrists the more he struggles. He gives one last, long pull, until his hands start to lose sensation, and then sags forward. Face turned against the bed sheets. Breaths harsh.
Unseen fingers whisper over his nape and he goes rigid, kicking out at whoever's behind him on instinct. Sonic twists his snout around to try to get a look at them and the back of his neck stings sharply as the same hand catches him by it and holds fast. Wrenching him back into place.
It means two things.
One, he can't see what's behind him. And two, someone is definitely there that shouldn't be. Right past his peripherals, tucked into them enough he can't coherently make out anything about them. Not like this.
“Cheap move, pal,” Sonic starts with a laugh, his heart hammering. Excitement and dread churning into an indistinguishable mix. The cocky-assured-blown-up part he's meant to play is easy enough to drop into. “Gettin’ a guy while he's asleep, didn't anyone ever teach you some real manners—”
Another hand clasps its way over his snout. Sonic breathes sharply through his nose as the fingers clamped on the back of his neck leave their perch to drag down his spine, his side, splaying over his ribs, his waist, searching, wandering lower and then higher. Taunting. Pushing between his back quills, kneading at him. Softly and then sharply, deep, too deep. He bucks. Spine twisting away from the sensation. Muffling protests into his new, makeshift muzzle. Tugging at his cuffs and kicking harder the further down the hands go once more.
They straddle him properly. Moving over him to drop their bulk onto the backs of his legs and pin him down. Those same harsh, exploratory hands keeping him in check all the while. Like he's something oddly grotesque, that weird spindly insect-thing tacked to a board in Tail's lab. All prepped to be pulled apart for curiosity's sake.
Sonic glares at the headboard, his snout still snagged in the stranger's grip. Their claws periodically pinching into him with a sharp sting any time he tries to wrench out of it. All he can see is a dark furred wrist, something shiny, metallic maybe, the bedroom itself pitch black everywhere else, like someone had gone and blotted out the whole thing. Plunged the world into murk and nothing. The other hand continues its harsh massage, reaching under him, groping at his stomach, toying with the line of coarser fur that trails down to his pelvis. Skitters of heat matching each swipe of fingers through it.
Sonic pants into their palm. Faster, quicker. His eyes dart over everything he can see from this angle. The bed. The headboard. The inconvenient, too new set of handcuffs he's gained as bracelets. Plural. His own ungloved fingers curling in and out of useless fists in them. A scant few parts of the room as well. Nothing of his assailant—attacker, whatever the hell he should call them. He doesn't even know how they got in here in the first place. Why, either. He supposes that shit doesn't really matter right now. Sonic pulls at the cuffs again and listens to the bed posts strain under the stress of it.
A warm muzzle presses up tight to his ear, humid breath trickling hot over the back of it. “Stop squirming.”
Sonic shivers at the voice. (Pretend. Remember. He's playing—) Dark and low, soft in the kind of way a promise can be—but this one's undoubtedly dangerous.
Sonic's ears press back. The hand falls away from his muzzle slowly and he rattles in a full breath once it slips off. “Whaddya want from me?”
Hands smooth up his sides, curling over his ribs and splaying along where his chest rises and falls too fast. Fuck this. He's faced down worse stuff. No doubt. He's stared Perfect Chaos and the Deadly Six and Metal Overlord in the face and he's put down a god or two in his time, too, sure—but that's still nothing like this. Stuck on his front with someone petting over him and nothing he can do about it, their claws sliding under his fur and dragging softly. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what they want from him. Sonic presses the front of his snout into the sheets, teeth gritted.
“Kinda pathetic, havin’ to tie me up like this to get tail. What're you butt ugly or somethin’? I'm sure your whole monosyllabic thing’s a real hit with the ladies.”
Fingers grab at the back of his neck again, moving slightly lower to pull roughly at the small excess of fur and skin gathered there. His shoulders go rigid immediately. His entire back tenses all at once as the grip worsens, and for a moment he thinks something might really snap apart with how tight all of his muscles have gone, locked into place and trembling. An involuntary whine leaves him at being scruffed. An indignant shiver worsening that he can't seem to shrug off. (It's a game, focus, focus, what's next on the—) Sonic tucks his chin low, ears pressed down as far as they can go as flickers of red seep along his peripherals.
He closes his eyes against it. In a moment, the sheets become steel under him, the breath in his ear sour and far more hurried as the hand clamped on his neck twists into an arm barred over the back of it instead—shoving him down, pinning him in place, crushing him.
Two fingers tap twice along the inside of his hand and press in firmly against his palm pad. Sonic sighs, the tension unraveling as he slips back into the now. A respective hand settles near his fingers and he taps it twice with two fingers as well.
Not once. Not only one. (Keep going. Keep going. He can take it, take this.)
The scene resumes.
Hands card through the quills on his back, tugging idly at them as they go. It's a maneuver that could easily be mistaken for grooming if it weren't for the sharp claws scraping all the way down to skin, or if the fingers didn't pull so hard at him the whole way. Before long, Sonic squirms under the mistreatment. His tail curled down tight.
“You're real touchy, aren't ya?” he remarks, shifting under the bulk of whoever's pinning his legs down.
He can feel them, straddled to either side of his thighs, too warm, searing where they've dropped their weight onto him. Fingers smooth down his spine and toy with his tail and he shudders at the sensation. An ache growing ever insistent in his pouch. He turns his face against the sheets again. He tries to get a better look at them and a hand grabs his snout. Yanks his face forward and holds him there. Stuck in place. Tied up. No escape. His thoughts snap between accepting exactly where this is going (it's just a script, dumbass, stick to the damn—) and trying to figure out how to get out of his cuffs as he yanks at them harder, snarling under his breath when nothing budges.
“Look, just lemme up, okay? Just—” He laughs tightly, hips pushing and struggling against the sheets, thighs flexing uselessly where they're pinned. “You don't wanna do this.”
The hot breath from before returns to the back of his ear as a snout slides against it, a rumble deep from someone's chest. “And what if I do?”
Sonic pulls as hard as he possibly can against his restraints, his teeth bared and face gnarled up until it hurts. Something gives with a throaty crack in one of the wooden bedposts. Fingers snap around the front of his throat and squeeze down along the sides of it. Firmly. He bucks up under the person straddling him. Chokes up around the air that gets stuck in his throat and refuses to go anywhere further, his claws scrabbling at nothing but empty air. Heat pools low in his gut. His vision narrows. His head starts to pound, a pressure growing in his ears, his chest tight with a full body throbbing that goes low, lower and—
He's released. His jaw smacks into the bed, teeth clicking shut with a sick sound. He sucks in a breath as he shakes minutely from head to toe. Frantic spit smeared on the side of his snout that he scrubs against the sheets with a growl.
“What is your problem, dude?” Sonic rasps, practically barking it. “You could've killed me!”
A low huff, almost a laugh. Almost. (A little too close, a little too him, him, h—) “I still can. Your cooperation here would be to your benefit.”
He scoffs. “Whatever, man, go fuck yoursel—”
The hand tightens on his throat again, feather light, a warning. He slackens against it, tail pulling down tighter against himself, ears following suit as he breathes hard and stares at the headboard. (He wrote this. He knows where it goes. He's)
A thumb pets over the side of his neck and he can practically feel his pulse hammering against the finger pad settled there as he swallows harshly. Sonic slides his tongue over the thickness on the back of his teeth. He goes to talk. Chatter something out like usual, and the words don't come like they're supposed to. He tries to grab at something witty, something stupid. Cheesy, even. He needs to fill the silence with anything but his own breaths, the stranger's against the back of his ear. Nothing comes out.
A hand slides up his arm, slipping over his fingers and placing the same palm within reach of his own again. Sonic taps it twice. Two fingers. Two echo against his own palm as well.
A muzzle immediately noses into the nape of his neck, teeth grazing him and worrying slightly lower. Opening wider. He shakes, legs twisting under where they’ve been trapped.
“Wait, wait, don't—” The teeth press into the back of his neck and he buries his forehead into the sheets, eyes screwed shut. “Seriously, stop, I—!”
They bite down harder. The sting lances down his spine only once they pry their teeth out of him a moment later, spit and blood sticky-ing his fur and prickling hot with a heady burn. A snout rubs over the wound. A rough tongue follows. And then keeps working at him, lapping up more blood, leaving trails of hot-wet heat behind. A particularly obscene furl of a tongue into one of the shallow wounds sends Sonic’s toes curling. A sharp flush aching in his pelvis. Somehow, the shaking in his fingers worsens regardless.
(—next line. what's his next line?)
“...why are you doing this?” Sonic asks, muffled against the sheets, his eyes locked on the wall he's scrubbed his face towards. When he tries to look out of the corner of them, he still can't make anything out coherently. Grey or black fur. Scatters of red. Mask or no mask. Him or not him. (He can't tell any longer. He's supposed to know. Why doesn't he why can't he why)
He can hear them breathing above him, the heat from them, all over, everywhere, oppressive, heavy. Unavoidable. He knows exactly what they want from him. It's the only thing he's got left. Trapped in here with nothing. Not even his shoes, his gloves. Not even a damn sock. Just a metal box. Whatever can be made into a hole. Sonic pulls at the cuffs, his movements weak and nothing compared to his earlier efforts—and then he goes limp all at once. Flushed cold, bumped up too hot. His hands numb. Feet even number. He breathes slowly, hangs listlessly and listens to the blood rush in his ears. The sound too close and somewhere far, far away.
The bed springs groaning under him register as something happening on a warped delay as the person on top of him shifts, backing off and finally freeing his legs. Half of him thinks about kicking, the other half knows it won't do anything. It's too late to decide on either before they're back on him again. Before knees slot between his own and push them apart anyway.
A body settles along the whole of his, folding his quills flat against his back as their chest pins him. Their snout tucks up beside his neck, chin resting on his shoulder with an amused huff. He stiffens. The unmistakable heated line of a cock sits right along his inner thigh before knees nudge his legs even wider, hands reaching down to maneuver him into place with a tight grip on his hip. A thumb massaging under his tail and testing the give into him with a single-minded intent. Stupid doll. Whore-fucked puppet. Idiot strings cut. Sonic breathes quietly against the bed sheets and waits for his inevitable.
A hand suddenly grasps his own. Squeezes at it gently before shifting about his palm. Two taps strike it. Eyes wide and unblinking, he tries to make sense of it. (What was it again? What was he supposed to…?) Right. Shit, shit, shit. He echoes it quickly.
His jaw clenches at the first press into him. Teeth gritting harder as they slip in further. The pressure aching, the suddenness of it sending the breath out of him with a harsh grunt. Until they're settled flush with a sigh of their own. Sonic breathes hard through his nose, flinching when a snout finds his neck again. Lips. Tongue. Teeth. They rest there, inside of him, incessant, burning, throbbing.
A palm settles up against his fingers once more. It takes him a moment to register it. One or two. Right… His attention slides frantically over the bed, the headboard, the cuffs on his wrists, red light sticking everywhere he looks, the body trapping him too much, the cock bullied inside of him, shoving where it shouldn't. The second he thinks about it, he can't stop. Aches at the stretch, a foreign (familiar) fullness, tail rigid against his spine where it's trapped. He presses two fingers against the offered palm and manages to tap them twice. Unsteadily, but there. Two touch his palm in return, lingering for a moment—hesitating—before the hand falls to the side of his head, bracing.
Hips snap into him and he jerks forward, biting back a startled yelp. He buries his snout against his upper arm, eyes screwed shut, the whole of him hot all over, burning alive. He whines into his own fur at another thrust, feet sliding against the sheets like a reflex to try and run. Cock aching and half-hard between his legs despite it all, the friction worsening it. (Does he hate this? Does he want this?) A hand belts his thigh higher and holds it in place, pressing it flat into the bed until his knee starts to ache as the body on top of his curves forward, jostling him against the sheets with each rock of their hips carved against him.
His heart thuds so loud in his ears he almost can't hear the panting. Almost. The breaths huffed and harsh against the back of his ear. The deceptively soft smack sounds. Fur on fur. The dry rasp of his own quills unsettling on every uncaring press in. (He's there, he's still there and he's and he never left he never he) A soft groan above him makes his ears wince down.
An excited stutter of the pelvis grinding into his ass. The hands groping at him. All of it worms its way under his sternum, pries underneath his skin and flesh, right down to the bone, further even, and his stomach wrenches up his throat, chest tightening until he can't breath. He tries to suck in a breath regardless, shaking down to his fingers, his shoulders shivering, eyes hot. Unblinking, wide, immobile. All he can smell is blood and wet metal and cum and vomit and the worn leather on the fingers shoved in his mouth, down his throat—
A choked sound leaves him. A reflexive retch. A spot of bile dribbling past his teeth with a string of drool.
A hand catches his own. A single digit taps right into the center of his palm once as they pull off of him, out of him, and everything unravels all at once.
The scene folds inwards.
Cut.
Shadow fumbles with the handcuffs, undoing each pair in quick motions and dragging him close once he's finally freed from them. He curls up in Shadow's lap, shivering hard enough his teeth click together. Shadow's hands catch his wrists and massage at the ache and the numbness in them, his face hidden against Shadow's heated fur all the while. A cool cloth swipes over the back of his neck a moment later. Passing over the bite wound in soothing strokes before settling over it with a careful hand. Applying steady pressure to where it's still sluggishly bleeding and stinging.
Before long, the cloth moves to swipe methodically under his tail and along his backside and legs. His fur a mess of lube from where he'd prepped himself more than thoroughly earlier, from where Shadow had made sure to use more during the scene just in case. Thankfully, there's only a slight ache left behind. A mild burn. His legs haven't stopped trembling though. His arms. From where he tensed them hard enough and long enough to hurt. The sudden curl of nausea is new too.
A jelly-like sensation takes over his limbs as the adrenaline drops him on his ass and leaves him shivering pathetically in Shadow's grip. He can only hope he doesn't look as shitty as he feels. Especially after ruining this whole thing they hashed out together. He'd even made Shadow a whole script and everything. Even if Shadow had rolled his eyes at him about it, told him he wasn't going to say any of it—but he tried it. He tried it. Shadow had played the part to a tee and he went and fumbled his side of things. Hard.
Teeth clenched, Sonic huffs harshly into Shadow's chest. Feels the dense fuzz of it scratch against his muzzle in return. "Sorry, dude...”
“Shut up,” Shadow says, smoothing his other hand down his back quills soothingly.
He laughs weakly. “You were doin' a real bang up job ‘n everything!”
"That's why I stopped." Shadow sighs. “I know you're too stubborn to admit when something's gone too far.”
“I know,” he mutters. “Thanks for givin’ it a shot though.”
Shadow pets a thumb over the slope of his ear. “Why didn't you end it earlier?”
Right. That. At Shadow's behest, they'd agreed on two systems. A non-verbal one and a verbal one. Just in case one became easier than the other. He could've broken the headboard too. Snapped the cuffs whenever. But maybe that was never the point. Maybe.
Sonic shrugs. “Well, considerin' I've had, like, way worse, figured this'd be light work."
Plus, there were definitely parts of it that were hot. That got his blood bumping, his dick jumping. (So then why why why why)
Shadow draws away at that, his ears pressed down. “Perhaps it's best if we put this endeavor aside for now."
“Yeah." With how he feels right now, that's a sentiment he can certainly get behind.
Like he's read his mind, Shadow reaches for the condensated glass on the side table and presses it into his paw.
Sonic grabs the drink and downs half of it in one go. It gets the acrid taste out of his mouth, soothes the raw ache in his throat, but it doesn't get rid of the tremor in his fingers. Cup still held to his lips, his eyes drift down to where Shadow's still very visibly worked out of his pouch. Pubic fur clumped up with lube. “Didja still wanna—”
“No.”
"Woof." Sonic winces, ears drooping. “Harsh, man.”
Shadow rolls his eyes. “Don't be dramatic, come here.”
He puts the glass aside and clambers into Shadow's arms again, tail wagging lazily as Shadow guides them both down to the sheets until they're lying on their sides, facing each other. And it's different like this. All sappy. Actually seeing Shadow's eyes, Shadow’s knuckles brushing over his muzzle, an uncharacteristically soft fondness in the way Shadow touches him here that's so different from before. From anywhere else.
A heavy warmth in his chest makes his eyes sting slightly. It's stupid. He can't put a name to any of it either. He burrows his snout into Shadow's neck, bumps his nose up under his chin before Shadow can see his eyes get too stupid and shiny about it. A startled laugh leaves him as Shadow wraps his arms around him in kind and pulls him in tight. Their legs tangling together in a lazy pattern of limbs.
“Was supposed to go a lot better than that, but, y’know.” Sonic mutters once he's gone hazy again. His heart calmed down. A hollow ache pounding between his ears, but not a total headache yet.
“I’m not opposed to the idea.”
A warmth burns low in him at that. “You're not?”
Shadow hums, the sound rumbling under him.
”Cool! I mean—dope.” Sonic laughs, heat curling pleasantly down his spine. “You really wanna pin me down that bad, huh?”
“Either or.”
His mouth goes a little dry at that. His thighs burning. His dick definitely taking note here. Practically perked at the idea. He imagines Shadow squirming under him, tied to the headboard the same way he was, his movements turned frantic and all animal as his feet scrabble uselessly at the sheets. The rush of control. Of knowing he can do whatever he wants and Shadow can't. There's a slight flicker of guilt, the same one he's sure Shadow wrestled with earlier. But it doesn't sour the idea. He just never really thought about himself being the one who'd—
“We can always circle back to it later.” Shadow huffs.
Sonic makes an annoyed sound against Shadow's neck in turn, but smiles anyway. Maybe it's not the quick-fix he thought it'd be, but he also doesn't mind the can of worms they've popped open and plucked at either.
”With proper cuffs,” Shadow adds like an afterthought.
He snorts. “Where's the fun in that?”
”I meant ones that can actually restrain me.”
Geezus. Okay. He's going to jerk off to that for the next week alone and then some.