With erotic fan fiction and art
It’s Sonic’s 23rd birthday, and we couldn’t let his big day go by unnoticed. We wanted to celebrate by paying tribute to the legendary hedgehog. A really hot, steamy, sexy, erotic tribute.
In case that last sentence wasn’t indication enough, this post isn’t exactly family friendly. So, not safe for work content to follow. You’ve been warned. Enjoy.
Jordan Devore:
Jonathan Holmes:
Sonic licks the damp couch alone, clenching back the sour tears, desperate for every drop of substance he may lap up from his worn, stained seat. His eyelids tighten as a hint of sweetness, embedded in the last crusty shard of lint he’s licked, collides with his tongue with force. “Is that Ecto Cooler?” he wonders, his mind rocketing away from the desolate failure of the present, back to a time when his life was constant trusted, unconditional promise.
Back to a day when he didn’t think he’d become the next legend. He already was, and all he ever would be was better than whom he had ever been. Sonic was then, by definition, a perpetual motion engine, fueled by ego, oiled by the sweat of a million lonely souls, pistons thwacking and thwacking with ever intensifying sincerity, generating subdividing multitudes of salty self satisfaction in numbers beyond quantification.
There are many ways to become a slave. The exercising of free will is contingent on the belief that there is potential for both success and defeat. Then and only then will your decisions potentially matter. Sonic’s mind does not allow for that potential. His being is always pulled in the same direction — forward (or “to the right,” in the 2D games). The one true yellow brick road, manifesting a destiny that ever elevates, ever brightens and accelerates. Faster and faster. Hotter and hotter. Deeper and deeper, into the nucleolus of all things, the glorious womb of the Universe, Sonic the one true sperm, never wavering in focused on the egg(man) inside, never wavering, blue streak of pure light, always and never, rocketing towards every star simultaneously forever.
Sonic’s recollection of his past glory crescendos into a climax of self appreciation beyond the capacity of his now shriving, shriveled ego to contain. With that, his perception of the present crashes down on him like a full tub filled with icy cold, used laundry water, grey and wretched. Waking to the now, to the mummy wraps on his arms, the pain in his stretched, aching legs, the sharp, piercing pricks of light in his green, bleached eyes. A slow smile stretches across his lips as he recognizes the justice in his plight, the rightness in all that went wrong.
“Better get back to sucking,” he says, resigned to the truth, desperate to embrace whatever existence may have to offer him in the moment, as the days of a better future are long behind him, dreams cast out into the gutter below, all the sweetness gone again, vinegar sour left in its place.
Max Scoville:
Darren Nakamura:
Amy gazed longingly at Sonic,
Hidden in the closet,
Bill Platt’s Daughter:
Brett Makedonski:
“…Happy birthday to you,” Knuckles, Tails, and Amy lustily sang in unison at the chained-up Sonic. The cold, stone wall made his quills stand more erect than usual, the scarf around his neck choking him ever so slightly. Sonic couldn’t mutter a word, the ballgag in his mouth saw to that. His breathing was labored, the excitement and anticipation getting the best of him.
Tails and Amy approached from either side with thick, creamy pieces of cake in their hands. Tenderly, they pushed the cake into his face, taking care to spread it all around and down his chest. As they sensually licked it off, Sonic felt a tingling in his toes. Knuckles stepped forward, and with a palm sticky from cake, slapped Sonic as hard as he could. Sonic’s eyes welled with tears as Knuckles grunted “Happy birthday, big boy.” It was the best birthday Sonic ever had.
Brett Zeidler:
Brittany Vincent:
Life changed for the better ever since you let me into your life, Sanic.
And right now I want you. You’re busy. What little time I can have is always a gift that I cherish, like you’re a figment of my imagination that vanishes until my next block of free time. I don’t want to waste our time together on my back. I’m a little classier than that. A little.
I have some restraint, you know. While you’re thinking about how to foil Eggman for the hundredth time, I’m sipping some iced milk tea, babbling on about something. Anything. I want to make a pun and ask you to “hammer” me, but I won’t. But I just love to hear myself talk, you know, even if you don’t really care about what I’m saying. You’re a little quiet though, because you’re still plotting.
I wait. Even if every time we embrace I find my hands lingering, dipping lower and lower, kneading and squeezing rather than resting demurely at your waist. I can behave. I want to. Because I love you, and I try so hard to be good. And I want to suck that di-ock, just like Paul Rudd said in that cinematic abortion Wanderlust.
“What are you thinking this time, my dirty booty butt boy?” I don’t mean to purr in your ear seductively. Really. That’s just my natural voice. But I do. I know you notice, and it drives me crazy to think I can’t be sly. At the same time, I love it. I can feel the wetness and heat between my legs intensify. My no-no zone tingles.
“Eggman’s gonna get cracked this time, for sure!” You light up, and I bet you’re thinking about rubbing the length of your hedgehog pole up and down Dr. Robotnik’s rude boy ass crevice.
It gets me so hot. I press my lips gingerly against your neck, wrapping my arms around you the best I can while you’re seated. My teeth lightly graze the quills on the side of your face as you go in for the kill and do it for the thrill. I’m hoping you’ll understand and not let go of my hand.
“Bayonetta,” you moan, and reach back to grab a handful of my fur. I’m caught by surprise, and my first instinct is to fight.
“My name is Amy fucking Rose!”
“Get on your knees.” I shake my head. I can never just do what you say. I want to submit. But if I do, you won’t be rough with me. And you just forgot my god damned name. I’m constantly playing with you, trying to elicit a reaction. I want to see how far I can push until you stop worrying about hurting me. I want to see you snap for some reason. You make the mistake of easing your grip as I whine and tell you to stop as I pull away and stand in front of you with my arms crossed.
“Forgetting my name during sucky fucky butt slime time? That’s no good!” You turn in your chair to face me and it’s only then I notice your hand stroking your hedgie poke as you stare at me, noticeably irritated. “Get on your knees,” you repeat, in a much more authoritative tone. I melt instantly. Nothing else matters but making you happy, so I kneel in front of you, my cheeks flushed. I can’t understand why, after all you’ve done to me, I’d feel shy about this, but I do. I lean closer and part my lips. You rub that pee-pee against my lips as I tremble. I want you so badly I can’t even think straight. A moment feels like an eternity as you tease me. Instead of being patient, I get angry and growl, “Stop! That’s annoying, just let me suck it.”
I guess that amuses you, because you do stop, and let go of my fur. Instead, you force my head down onto your waiting hedgie pole, slick with your big boy juice. You slide yourself all the way down my throat, and for a second I panic because I want to breathe through mouth but can’t. I try to move, but you’re stronger than me, holding my head there. I breathe through my nose as I struggle to keep my composure.
I know what you’re going to do and will myself to accept it as you relentlessly fuck my mouth, keeping a firm grip on my head as you use my mouth as if were a Tails blow-up doll. I forget to breathe properly, and find myself choking, my gag reflex triggered all of a sudden. I try to pull away, but it’s no use. You’re set on using me, and judging by how deep down my throat you’re going, you can’t be far from the edge. My arms ache behind my back. I’m wetter by the second. You thrust into my mouth over and over, even as tears roll down my cheeks. I love it. I don’t want you to stop. It feels like an eternity, but you do, and to my surprise you pull out of my mouth.
“I”m gonna do the thing, Amy! I’m gonna do the thing! Oh GOD, AMY, I’M GONNA MAKE A BIG BOY PUDDLE!”
“I’m ready.” I want you to know I’m trying. I want to swallow every single drop from you schlong-a-long-a-ding-dong. If I can’t have it inside me, I want it in my mouth. I love the way you taste. I want you to tell me I’m a good girl so badly. I live for it. I want you to reward me. So when you reach for my tea you have to grin at how horrified I look. A smile crosses your face as you catch how disgusted I must appear. You’re pumping your pee-pee privates and positioning yourself over my drink. It’s still good. I wanted to finish it. I shake my head. You wouldn’t.
“Please don’t…please. I wanted to finish that…” I don’t want this. I don’t want to lower myself to that.
“You can still finish it.”
“Just make a juicy in my mouth. Please! I want it.”
“Beg for it.” I won’t. I will never.
“I don’t want it in there!” I can barely register the sting of the hard slap you deliver to my right cheek. It burns, as you repeat yourself.
“Beg for me to shazam in your leaf water.” You stroke my cheek with your free hand and I blush deeply. In a low voice I do as you ask.
“UNF, UNF, OH GOD, AMY, I’M GONNA DO IT. GOTTA GO FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAST!”
The combination of your reproductive sludge and the tea turns my stomach, and as you press the cup to my mouth and tilt, I whimper. I swallow begrudgingly, as you watch me intently. I act like I hate you outwardly, but I feel as though I could climax at any moment. You take the cup away and lean down to kiss me. You break the kiss and stand, winking at me.
“Sonic sez?”
“Thank you, Sanic.”
“You’re welcome for your drink. Now take these rings and get the fuck out of my apartment.” Willingly, I comply. Because all I know is that I love you and everything about you, so I straighten my clothes and leave, hanging my dignity on the back of the door like a halo hanging from a four-post bed. I know it’s not mine, but I’ll see if I can use it for a weekend or a one-night stand. I couldn’t understand…why I loved you so much. Once again, as predicted, I left my broken heart open and you ripped it out. But it felt so good, I’ll keep coming back. Because I’m Amy Rose, and you’re the fastest thing alive…in my heart.
Anonymous (Oooooh, Mysterious!):
Kyle MacGregor:
Steven Hansen
Naoto Ōshima sat slumped on the bus stop bench. Sleeping. Another sign of the years’ wear. His hair, no longer parted in the middle, but much more respectably to one side, was peppered with streaks of white that could be mistaken for the first snowfall of a Tokyo winter. Though parted and with product, it still was still thick, wiry as the spectacles he resigned to wear when 40 hit a decade ago.
The morning sun heated the bus stop like a greenhouse. It was a comfortable nap until the hissing pressure release of the bus stirred him like a startled cat. He pulled at the inner corners of his eyes, beneath the gold frames, and sighed, The bus driver did not look out the open door at him. Naoto picked up his briefcase and a bundle of flowers wrapped in a yellowing cloth. Incense was protruding from the bouquet like meadow cat’s-tail.
He got on the bus, picking without care between the many empty seats. The door closed and the bus jutted forward, hissing, groaning like an impudent ox in the field. The bus bounced along amid constant stops for traffic, occasionally opening its doors to empty stations like someone opening their fridge knowing it’s empty. “He would’ve hated this,” Naoto thought,a placid smirk expanding over his face.
The bus, too, was warmed by the sun, a travelling greenhouse with a stringy, avocado plant of a man growing in the back and Naoto, succulent thick hair, seated somewhere in the middle. He fell asleep again, waking up when the bus bellowed out all its warmth through opening doors at the cemetery’s stop.
Naoto picked up his bundle of flowers and incense and stepped off the bus. It rumbled away like an overweight dancer. The sun, a little higher in the sky now, wasn’t so much relaxing in its direct contact as it was too warm. Naoto folded his suit jacket expertly into his briefcase and rolled up his sleeves. He followed the cobblestone path, stopping along the way at a water spigot. He unwrapped the yellowing towel from around his bundle and soaked it, brushed his head with it, and soaked it again.
In red ink his own name on the family grave stone beamed, a reminder that he was, in fact, still living and that this annual trip, more pleasantly familiar in its tradition than somber, was about to begin in earnest. He took the soaked cloth and began wiping down the tall, boxy stone. His efforts warmed his forehead; he was right to soak his head earlier.
He wrapped part of the cloth around a finger and finely worked to clean out the carved indentures of his son’s name. For the thirteenth year, there was no red ink soaked into the craggy stone. “He would have been 23,” Naoto thought, impressed by this number as he dragged the cloth down and across the engraving.
Once again he left his own name unwashed, wondering how many years before the red ink ceased to scream at him. Untended to for this long, it was still so, so loud.
He had many of these trips left, he thought, as he pulled the cat’s-tails incense from the flowers and lit them. The smoke whisped up towards his nose with a feline fluidity and then it went further still before reaching an apex of visibility and trailing off into the sky.
He arranged the flowers neatly and then began walking back towards the bus stop. The bus, yawning sleepily through its open doors, seemed to be waiting for him as he approached. The sun had reached its highest point and was on its way down. “Perhaps I will walk,” Naoto said aloud, in the direction of, but not necessarily to the bus driver who sat inattentive, eyes forward.
The doors closed and Naoto began his walk home, slowly.
Patrick Hancock:
Just like our Kirby post, go ahead and share your Sonic art and fanfic with us. This couldn’t end badly, right?
