multifandom blog

There’s little mention of the uncomfortable facts. That you live alone now and it’s shockingly easy to go days without ever speaking to anyone but your reflection in the microwave door while it nukes the scraps from yesterday’s contactless delivery. Only your coworkers provide a reprieve from self-imposed social quarantine—but you can’t really talk to Jared in accounting about the soul crushing loneliness of finding oneself. And a phone call home is a piss poor substitute for a hug, a good one with no space in between and arms that really squeeze like they want you close. Not these no salt added, bland baked pats from a colleague at happy hour. 

You couldn’t recall the last time someone touched you with any real meaning even if held at gunpoint. Probably just accept the end was coming in a goddamn 7-11 because at least it’ll drum up some interest for the local paper. Keep community publications afloat for a while. Least you can do as the neighborhood friendless recluse. 

But then came Victor. 

And Victor loves to touch. 

It’s probably inappropriate, the shit he pulls at work. Or maybe it just seems that way because damn even a subtle brush of shoulders in the elevator seems scandalous when the most human contact you get on a daily basis is arm wrestling Sharon for the last of the breakroom coffee. 

So when he starts to get a little more bold with it—a hand on your lower back as he squeezes by in the hall, tucking in a tag on your shirt, fingers brushing when you borrow a pen off him—you just let it happen. Let the shiver and swoop of warm skin on skin wash over you at an intensity you haven’t felt since fumbling around in school. Everything new all over again, hard factory reset after months of losing any built up tolerance for casual contact. 

Which is maybe why you agree so readily when he asks you on a date. A real date, not a work thing. And he tells you to “dress nice, show off a bit,” in what’s almost certainly a little more sleazy than you’d have put up with before, but it adds to his charm somehow. 

The charisma about him that makes up for all the other oddities is even more intoxicating up close and when he runs a hand up your knee at the bar, plays with your fingers over the table, it’s hard to resist. 

And yeah there’s all that shit about not inviting someone in on the first date, but the skin of your cheek is still tingling from where he’d brushed away an errant eyelash. It doesn’t get cold in Cali, but you’re nearly frostbitten with want for shared body heat. Frozen stiff just under the surface, a type of chill only warm breath at the back of your neck can counter. 

So you lead him up the stairs, through the door and let him kick it shut. Take his hand, pull him with you to the couch where you can get your shoes off and maybe you could’ve gotten through another few layers, but Victor’s warm pressed against you. It’s all you can do to settle for climbing into his lap. 

“Fuck, you’re sensitive, huh?” he mumbles into your neck, nips and licks at the skin, tugs a little at the shell of your ear until you shudder under his touch. “Lucky for you, I’m a provider.” 

You think of biting him, but there’s too much fur in the way. It's easier to grind down on the bulge under you, listen to him whine. 

“Just kiss me,” you whisper, breathing in his air and feeling the warmth of it spreading down your throat to your belly like mulled wine, hot and spiced.

Heat from the inside out. 

Victor meets your lips as you thread a hand through the pillow soft hair at the back of his head. Those ears brush your shoulders when they flick down and it’s not till you register the rapidly intensifying warmth between your legs that you realize you’ve not stopped rocking against him. 

“Oh shit,” he swears, gripping your hips tight and guiding the frantic rolls of your bodies together, friction building easily with layers of fabric in between growing wetter with each second. “I can—mm, feel your fucking heart beat in your pussy.” 

You can too, the pulse of it, the deep involuntary clenching only your best vibe has ever prompted. Every brush of his chest against yours has your nipples sparking pleasure straight down to your clit, the hands on your waist, soothing up your sides feel almost the same. Like any touch at all could tip you over the edge. 

“Are you close?” your voice comes out hoarse and heady, diving back in to taste the whiskey on his tongue. The answer seems obvious, but he sounds just as wrecked as you feel. It’s tantalizing, the effect you have on each other. 

It occurs to you then, distantly, to wonder if anyone really touches Victor. Or is he like you? Does he reach out so often, so blatant and desperate because he really is?  Maybe that’s why you’re both here—birds of feathers, two of kind, cut from the same despondent cloth. 

“Yeah,” Victor grunts into your mouth, swears against your canines. “God, I haven’t cum in my pants since college.”

“So that’s what the guys are doing at Harvard,” you moan into his mouth, feeling the coil in your belly grow tighter, ready to snap. “I always, ahh, wondered…” 

You can sense a comeback bubbling up in his throat but it dies. The words writhe and comes out strangled as he jerks under you, pulling you down hard against his the outline of his dick where it pulses. The fabric over the tip grows dark as it grinds right through your clothed folds. The sweet, wet heat of it gives you a final nudge over the edge right along with him. 

The orgasm itself is not shaking your bones apart, but the way Victor clings to you—wraps those hands around your back and presses you together has your eyes burning. The pleasure washes over you, heightened by the strong hold that never wavers, keeps you there like it’s all he wants. 

A real hug, a good one. No strange hesitation, no space left behind for the holy fucking spirit just arms around you that squeeze tight cause they want to. 

And maybe it’s not been a long time or maybe it’s been a hundred years and you’re halfway turned to stone. 

But you hug Victor back. And you don’t let go for a long while after. 

“Yeah, yeah, gettin’ to it,” you mumble against his knee where it’s thrown up over your shoulder. 

He’s in nothing but a baggy t-shirt all rucked up to his collarbone so you can see him pinching at those sweet pink nips. They’re the same shade as his hole, all furled and cute surrounded by a dusting of grey hairs. You trace a wet finger over the muscle, circling slowly until he opens up just enough for you to slip in to the first knuckle. 

“Fucking finally,” Sonar groans, bears down so you can slide deeper and curl against his walls. 

It’s like searing velvet when you stroke him. Every time it’s got you realizing why he’s so addicted to your insides. Something something, hot and wet and sucking you in.

“You’re really into this, huh?” 

You pump your finger once, twice, before teasing his rim with the tip of a second. He whines so pretty when you pull back.

“Just wanted to try it out. Only idiots aren’t taking advantage of, ah god, all potential pleasure opportunities.” 

There’s a dull thud when his head flops back down onto the pillow, milky eyes fluttering shut and ears flicking as that second finger finally slips in next to the first. You start to scissor them apart, softly testing the stretch. Sonar squirms at the chill when you let a little more lube drip down from the tube directly onto his hole. 

“Right, of course,” you hum, curling both fingers up, rubbing against all that pliant flesh until you feel the firm gland tucked up towards his belly. “That’s why you had this in all day?”

The plug is heavy in your hands when you fish it out from the sheets, each wing of the stupid fucking bat shaped gem at the base brushes your palm. It was pretty hot, you’ll give him that, stripping him down just to find his sweet little hole already stretched out, lube leaking around the edges. Sonar shivers visibly, ears flicking when the cool, slick metal runs over a pebbled nipple. 

“Look, I’m the kinda guy that likes to come prepared—ah!” he makes a noise that nearly shatters the windows when you press up hard against his prostate and rub in unrelenting strokes. 

“Sure you are, babe,” you coo down, slip a third finger in easily and pump them in, out, get a hand on his hip so he rolls down to meet each thrust. “You took my credit card last week and ordered all those toys just so you could try it out.” 

“Fuck you,” he pants and the breathlessness really takes away any of his bite. Sonar looks more fucked out than you’ve ever seen from only three fingers. Fur sticking up in every direction, the pretty peach skin of his chest and stomach are blotchy red. His milk glass eyes are hazy, half lidded in pleasure, tongue lolling out, drool dripping onto the pillows. “You could use ‘em too.” 

He’s so cute like this, fucking himself back on your wrist, sweating and groaning up at you. It’s an intoxicating feeling, holding this thing he wants so bad in your hand. You wonder now if this is why he did all that shit that landed him at SDN. It was hard to understand before, but it’s starting to dawn on you now. 

Intoxicating—that’s what it is. The desire on his face is a rush all on its own. You see now how hard, near impossible, it could be to walk away from that. 

The straps already tight around your thighs and waist, shift as you pull away. The thick length of silicone between your legs bobs as each finger slips free and you sit back on your haunches. 

“Hm, you know, most people have to convince their boyfriends to do this shit,” you muse, running a hand up the fluff on his thighs, teasing a trail up to his balls and cupping them. “And you look like you’re dying to suck me off right now.”

Sonar’s whining at the sudden emptiness cuts off and his ears flick up in interest. His eyes are flitting down to the toy strapped in and back up to you. 

“If I play your fucking game will you finally get on with it?” he asks, trying his best to sound annoyed, but his ears are flopping down, spit drips from the tip of a fang. Poor thing, too many tells for his own good. 

You should take pity on him. 

Maybe. 

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t dare think of imposing on you—”

“God, shut up,” he interrupts, sliding off the bed in one smooth motion and grabbing you by the hips. 

With a single tug your ass hits the edge of the mattress and the shiny new cock between your legs disappears in that pretty pink muzzle. There’s no accompanying sensation of course, but the sight has you aching yourself, wetness soaking through the straps where they cut close to your folds. You can just barely see from this angle how the silicone bulges in his throat. 

“Fuck, look at you.” 

He keens when you get a hand in the fur at the back of his head and pull, ease him back off a bit from where his nose is pressed into the course curls under your navel. With some guidance he gets a nice rhythm going, working himself up even more from the sound of it all-- wet, sloppy sucks and pops when he pulls away to kiss the fat tip. 

The toy drips with saliva even as that long ass tongue dips back out to wrap around the base and lick a stripe up the underside. 

“Think I’m all nice and wet for you now,” your voice is softer now, looking down at him—the hazy look in his eyes is back full force, all glazed over until he tears his gaze away from the toy in front of him. He looks so pretty cock drunk, shame he has to go and ruin it by smirking like that, tugging at the straps to get some friction on your clit. 

“Oh I bet you are,” he grins up at you until you slip that hand on his head a little lower, scruff him by the fur at the back of his neck just to watch him go limp in your hold. 

“Quit being a bitch or you can fuck yourself on this thing without me,” you murmur softly down to him, leaning close enough to one ear that you can lick up the shell of it, nibble a little at the corner the way he likes. “ Now, you wanna ride me, or you want me to give it to you?” 

“Careful, you’re being corrupted by power,” he grunts back. 

You can see the exact second when he caves though, almost feel his poor empty hole clenching on nothing. It’s a familiar sensation, you hope this reminds him to be a little less of a tease next time he’s topping.

“...give it to me.” 

Sonar’s making a valiant attempt at glaring but the way he’s bouncing on his knees with his ears brushing his shoulders really undermines the sentiment. You lean down enough to meet his lips, slipping him some apologetic tongue that he happily accepts, greedy bastard. He sucks down your tongue, lets it trace the curve of an incisor, chases your mouth when you pull back. 

“Good boy,” you whisper against his cheek, pressing another kiss there. 

“Don’t fucking push it,” Sonar grumbles, shoving you back onto the mattress and flopping down himself among the mess of pillows. He gets his knees under him, ass in the air and weight on his elbows, one hand wriggles up to spread his cheeks. The little pink furl of his hole winks open, shiny and leaking with about a good half a bottle of lube. 

“Whoa,” you sigh, scooting up behind him, running your hands along his back, feeling the little swoop in your belly at the sight of him all loose and pushing his hips into you. “Starting to get why you always gush about my pussy when you fuck me now.”

“I don’t do that!” he snaps and any further bitching dies when you grip the silicone shaft and run the tip in a circle over his rim, just barely pushing in. 

“Mm, I seem to remember something about how ‘my pretty pussy wants cock so bad it’s sucking you right in’,” you muse, scratching down from his shoulders and gripping a sturdy hip in one hand, rocking forward just enough so that Sonar’s ass swallows up the tip of the toy with a pop. “Looks like it’s not just me who wants it.” 

“Fuck—ah, shit—you,” he gasps as you feed him another inch, watching his hole stretch wide until your thighs press against his ass. 

“Already said that, I think.” 

He’s not got anymore words though, other than a few muffled swears that get swallowed up by the pillow shoved between his teeth. You drape yourself over his back, and he makes a strangled noise at the press of your breasts against him. The first roll of your hips is a little stunted, muscles unused to the motion trying to kick into gear. After a moment you work up a nice rhythm, thrusting up in time with Sonar rocking back on your cock. 

It must be hitting something good in there because after the first few strokes he’s shaking, poor neglected dick hanging heavy and red and drooling between his legs. 

“Hng, touch me,” he gasps out, the room echoing with the wet slap of his hold sucking down the toy and the increasingly loud moaning that vibrates through you at every point of contact. 

He doesn’t exactly ask nicely, but the desperation is a good look on him so you give in easily. His length is hard and pulsing in your hand the second you wrap a fist around him. There’s so much pre-cum leaking from his dick you groan at the feeling, matching your hand to the rhythm of each thrust. Every time you push in deep and hold him there another gush spills from his tip. 

“Oh baby, you’re so wet,” you mumble in his ear, a little out of your mind with it. Just recycling all the shit he tells you when he’s balls deep. “So tight, barely wanna let me pull out. It feels that good, huh?”

“Yes, fuck, right there—just like that,” he’s panting, belly tensing under your hand like he’s so close it hurts. 

You wanna give it to him. Push him over the edge. Keep him there forever, crying so sweet and split in half. Get him stuffed full and make him stay that way all day. Want him to feel the ache anytime he moves. Thinking about this every fucking second. 

“Gonna cum from me fucking your pretty ass, yeah?” 

There’s nothing in response but a high pitched chirp and the fluttering of his hole. Another rush of pre floods your palm, then there’s nothing but the ripping of fabric and a different, thicker kind of wetness spilling from him all over the sheets. Rope after rope of hot release coats your hand, more than you’ve ever seen. Curiosity wins over as you give him another experimental grind and a second white gush follows the movement. 

“Ah, uh, shit, too much,” Sonar groans, body going limp under you, at some point his elbows must have given out so his back is arched up and his chest is flat to the bed. It’s hard not to snap a picture. 

You relent though, press a line of kisses from his nap to the little dimples at the base of his spine as you slowly ease him off your cock. The straps click as you release them, letting the harness fall on the sheets. He goes easy as you gather him to lay spooned up against you away from the massive wet spot on the mattress. 

His back against your chest heaves with deep, slow breaths. You bury a hand in the fur on his chest just to feel the hammering of his heart. 

“Feel okay?” you mumble, stroking over his belly, wrapping an arm around and tucking him more firmly into the cradle of your thighs. 

Sonar’s got a habit of getting a little weird after, sort of distant and introspective and shit. If you don’t hold him down you’re afraid he might drift away again. It’s a pretty vulnerable thing, you suppose. He’s taking this a bit better though than he does the other way around. Less in his head about it, more basking in the post coital bliss. 

“Mmhm,” he hums and it’s not particularly informative, but it doesn’t sound strained. 

Just tired. Loose and well fucked. 

You sigh, two parts relief, one part fondness. The silence in the room is comfortable for a moment and it almost seems like he might have dozed off until he speaks up again. 

“You ever think about how hot it would be in Flambae’s ass?” 

The question tanks whatever sleepy, pleasant vibe had descended. Your hand on his side stops stroking and you sit propped up to stare down at him. He’s smiling that shitty little asshole grin when you meet his eye. 

Deflecting ass bitch.

“What? No—” 

“I bet it’s like sticking your dick in a toaster.” 

“You’re ruining the moment.” 

On purpose, you think but don’t say aloud. He’s snickering and wriggling in your hold, gets you on your back and presses your bellies together, lets his full weight pin you to the mattress. 

“Yeah, yeah you and your cuddling after,” he mumbled into your tits, nuzzling and licking at the soft swells.