Title Chicken Necks
Series Adventures of Sonic the Hedgehog
Pairings Scratch/Grounder. Here, let me get you the brain bleach.
Rating M
Warnings Yes, there is robogay.
...Ehwhat? T-that's my new term for it, 'robogay'. It's in second person present tense, where the 'you' is Grounder (so plz don't report me for this coz technically it's not one of those CYOA things kthnxbai). Sexual content, almost explicit but not quite. Big words (I has a fancy for those). Written mostly between the hours of 11pm and 1:30am. Tries to incorporate fictional robofucking into canon – during one night in "The Magnificent Sonic". But sadly, despite the title, this is not vore or any other division of guro. It does, however, mention masochism. Cross-posted from LJ.
Notes We've had enough notes already.
Disclaimer Not mine, not yours, not anyone's. Unless Sega or DiC happen to be reading this, in which case I'm so so sorry and you have a right to hate me.
Summary Some fascinations just cannot be curbed. Especially not in prison with no other way to pass the time.
You've always had a penchant for chicken necks. And feeding times in this jail cell are pretty irregular.
In fact you don't even know when feeding time is. He hasn't kept you in here long enough to find out; the two of you were only locked up this afternoon. Yet somehow it feels like much longer. Having never been properly imprisoned before, the experience is bewildering, almost depressing.
Is this the fate of all robotic henchmen who make one mistake too many? Do they ever escape or find freedom? Will you?
Your master hasn't yet demanded you be set free; you suspect he wouldn't even if that messenger coyote had gotten there yet. It sounds like a pretty long way to run to his fortress, especially from your current location: trapped in a single cell, locked up in the middle of the night, hedgehog and fox presumably napping in the next room over.
Then, wouldn't you rot in jail regardless of the message's arrival time? You might be the favorite of the duo, but neither you nor your bigger brother is the favorite of all his creations; even you, with your stunted IQ, are realistic about this. Still, bail would be hoped for - unlikely considering your track record, but still hoped for.
And at least you have the aforementioned big brother with you in case worse comes to worse.
He cat-naps – well, chicken-naps - on the only 'bed' in the cell; if one could consider a wooden bench with the chains holding it to the wall encrusted with rust and only one slightly moth-eaten pillow for head support a bed. You, of course, are not 'privileged' enough for even this small comfort, having to settle for sitting awkwardly in the middle of the floor, surveying your world.
An amendment. He only claims to be cat-na-- chicken-napping. The fact that his eyes are open, gazing but not focused on the ceiling, tells you he's far from asleep.
Is he thinking of the same things you are? Is he also wondering of bail, of the chance of escape? Or does he have his mind on something else entirely?
Either way, both of you are awake in the night. And hungry.
Another amendment. You don't know about him. But you're hungry, and in two ways too: 1) you haven't been fed since lunchtime so you're hungry for food, and 2) you have a hunger for a certain 'claims-to-be-sleeping' someone next to you.
You hunch up on your treads, sneaking a look-with-better-perspective at the chicken-bot. As usual his physique is the first thing to get your circuit racing – thin, but not really scrawny; tall, but only a little gangly; well-worn, but intact. A mixture of just-rights, middling extremes.
The snug-fit cowboy trousers don't hurt either. You don't know how he manages to make pants that have the color of moss and a similar texture look fashionable in the West, but he pulls it off. (That's not saying much, though, considering your biased 'fashion optics' suggest that Scratch can make anything look fashionable in any corner of Mobius.)
But, strangely, his neck fascinates you the most. You've stared at it for long enough now to have memorized every detail of it, yet you can't help but gaze on its perfection again, just to see if you were right the first time.
This time, as is always the case, you were not. You never are. Thoughts can't compare with the reality in terms of presence or of prettiness.
The thinness at the top, the widening at the bottom. The ridges that allow it to bend, the faint curve indicating where the head-supporting spring is. The scars left behind by various head losses and particularly strong triple spins, contrasting and complementing the metallic pale-blue-hue of the surface they rest on. All of these serve to create that internal tingle, that buzz that manages to bowl you over even after the gazillionth time you've felt it.
It looks particularly gorgeous now that the flickering flame of the office-lamp has gone out, leaving only the multi-colored moonlight to capture the nuances of the neck. The thin seems thinner, the blue bluer, the subtle made more subtle to the point of muteness. It's like viewing a beautiful thing through a broken TV, wherein the sound has been cut off and the contrast needs fixing – distorted, yet still beautiful.
You're only just aware of how creepy it is that you've memorized – and are incredibly attracted by – all this. It doesn't bother you, but you are aware of it. You know the stalkerish nature of it, but you don't find reason to care.
Especially since watching your chicken crush as he 'sleeps' in a jail cell doesn't really count as stalking if both of you usually share a room anyway. Does it? You don't know so much as to know that.
You wonder if he knows if it's stalking or not.
Then you wonder if he knows how creepily obsessed you've become with him.
Then you wonder if he knows of your lust at all.
Then you wonder no more. You only know. You know that you have to give him reason to know of your desires, otherwise you won't know if he knows, you know?
It won't be easy to tell him; you're not as good with words as he. So you decide to show him instead.
See, you've always had a penchant for chicken necks. And feeding times in the jail cell are pretty irregular.
You gently roll over to Scratch before you have the chance to change your mind. Gently, so as not to distract him too much.
It doesn't work. The telltale squeaky-squeaky of your treads makes his eyes turn to you just as you get there. But by this time that's not your concern.
Hand-module at the ready, you trail a finger across that neck. That avian, yet swan-like neck.
His mouth moves. Nay-saying or confusion or protest? You can't hear him. The buzz from the touch blocks all sound, circuits tingling again in your ears, your arms.
That from a look and a touch? Deprivation can really make the good things better.
Buzz giving you confidence, you replace the finger with a mouth, an eager tongue, teeth. Nipping, biting, almost sucking; fine cuisine. Better than your normal meal of oil and diesel.
A movement – he's sitting up, taking your grip with it. Lifted off the ground.
You admit to yourself that you must look silly, dangling from his neck like Robotnik from a cliff edge. The things one does for hunger.
He manages to pry you off his neck, but darn if you're going to let go of the whole chicken. A hug, no, a squeeze, a press, a suffocation of Scratch in body and mind, keeps you attached.
Attached, attracted. Same thing in the end, right?
He talks again, presumably in anger, but again it doesn't register. Yap-yap-yap. Shut up, you think, stupid, shut up.
This thought translates to a neck caress, lick, kiss, kiss on lips. The caress is sufficient to quieten him, but the mouth-to-mouth contact brings about new sensations. Deeper tingles. Even deeper tingles with a deeper kiss.
You feel dizzy, dehydrated. Head pounding, spinning without spinning. Sugar rush.
Finally an emergence for air, clarity at last. Scratch's eyes catch yours, or yours catch his. Anger is again expected, given what you just did.
But no. Instead, slight indifference, smugness, and a strange sense of …
Lust?
"'s about time. I was beginning to think you'd never do that."
What?
The first coherent thing you've heard all night, and you don't understand it.
You're about to ask what he means, when he gives you the answer anyway. Another kiss. His turn. Deeper straight away, tongue lapping at the inner reaches of your mouth, yours dashing to meet it.
All subconsciously on your part. Your mind is stuck on one query.
Did he just say…?
He…does that mean that he-
He lusts you too?
Coz that's what you get from it.
Yes, it's true. He lusts you too. Dizziness returns, giddiness and tingles and joy, sheer joy.
And hunger.
Are you never satisfied?
Touches, feeling the body pressed, pushing against yours – the force of the kiss has pushed you both from bed to floor with a unified clang – your hand running over back, head, wattle, neck, neck, neck. The neck you've yearned to touch, the neck that brought you to this piece of heaven in the first place.
The scars and ridges leave a small impression in your finger and palm. Rough, but smooth.
Rough yet deceptively smooth.
Opening your eyes, taking in your position amidst the kiss, sees you on top of Scratch. Treads surrounding his chest and stomach, hands still exploring a body unexplored.
Drills still exploring. A hand has changed modules, become its default setting. It lingers near the tail-feathers, squashed against them by force of gravity.
Sheepishly you pull apart, roll away from your desire, retracting your drill hand from under Scratch's back to nurse it. Being squashed is undesirably painful.
This doesn't appear to be a problem for the other, though. He makes no effort to get up, instead pulling you back onto him, chests crashing back against each other.
He looks you in the eyes for the second time tonight. The lust remains. But mixed with it, a willingness to submit and endure. Perhaps suffer from pain if necessary. As long as you give him what you both want, need, yearn for.
Even if it hurts him.
Does it sit well with you?
Yes. You want it.
No. You can't hurt him.
Yes. No.
Y… yes.
You've waited too long for this. Days, weeks, fortnights of desire for Scratch, neck or no. Doesn't pay to be picky.
Still, as Scratch obediently sheds his moss cowboy-pants, as you position your drill quietly, as he kisses you again, as you ease your hand-tool slowly in, in, in, afraid to chip the paint…
you focus on one thing: be gentle.
And at first you are.
But desire takes over. Whose desire, you can't say – probably Scratch's. You adjust to make him feel the best of the two of you – the better he feels, the better you feel, first-timer.
He moans softly; you keep it up. He winces; you ease off. He stops reacting; you resume with a vengeance. Action, reaction, pushing and pulling to keep the sex stable.
Either way the two of you are locked together this way. Locked in a perpetual struggle for who feels best, for who can feel and create the most desire and dizziness and tingles.
Who is winning? You? He?
You don't know. By the end you don't know anything. Only the mixing of pleasure and pain and hunger satisfaction, finally finally some satisfaction.
Does he reach that sparking point first? Do you get there before him?
Questions with no answers. Stop asking questions. Just let the ecstasy engulf you and leave the questions to the people with smarts.
Succumb to your sparking.
Then –
Then it's all over.
A removal, readjustment, sigh, a hug, a kiss so deep so sweet, then both of you let sleep take you.
Well, Scratch does anyway. You stay awake for five minutes more. Relaxing. Feeling all right, good with the world.
Tomorrow, you decide, once you get out of here, you'll find a way to dine on him again. You'll make a regular thing of it.
How regular? Will it mean anything? You'll decide on the way.
Perhaps you may even start earlier than that. For breakfast tomorrow: Scratch's sensuous body, lathered with oil and sweat and sparks and lust and maybe even love for dessert.
Scratch will be the main course, though.
See, you've always had a penchant for chicken necks. And although you can now control them to a degree, feeding times in the jail cell are still pretty irregular.