🎀 Love Is A Gift 🎀 [Sonic Various x Reader | Oneshots and Headcanons]

🎀 Mephiles | Plaything 🎀

Guess who headcanons Mephiles with a weird tentacle dick? Me. That's who. Now enjoy or perish. (jkjk ily)
Uhhh non-con/dub-con warning
Word Count: 1724
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I've already resigned myself to my fate. I'm to be nothing but a slave for the rest of my days. I used to think I'd have my whole life ahead of me, but as I sit on my hands and knees, collared and leashed, I know better. My life is no longer my own.

Black fur, teal-striped quills, and a patch of insanely soft white chest fur; all traits belonging to my master. His reptilian green eyes, soulless and unnerving, gaze down at me, devoid of any and all emotions. He sits upon an obsidian throne, lazily twirling the leash around a gloved finger. The silver rings around his wrists glint in the dim light; the entire castle feels like the darkest part of the night, a thin layer of violet mist swirling close to the floor.

I quietly crawl toward him, already knowing what he wants but fearing having to do it. Internally, I brace myself for the potential lack of air I'll likely experience for the next however long he keeps me. A low chuckle escapes him at the sight of my trained obedience, but I don't respond in any way.

It's not as if I have anything left to say, anyway.

He doesn't move in the slightest as my trembling hands slip between his legs, coaxing what I wish I'd never seen. He lets out a long exhale through his nose, though I almost don't hear it. A long, black tendril slides against my hand, and I fight the urge to flinch away when its slimy surface twitches. His knee lifts, nudging my chin. He still doesn't speak.

I comply, opening my mouth and letting the strange appendage past my lips. It writhes, and I try to ignore the sensation as I begin to slide up and down its length. He sighs, relaxing into his seat as I start working him, hands moving to contend with what my mouth can't — it's a rather scary amount, for that matter. He mutters something I don't hear, eyes fluttering closed.

He never touches me.

I'm used to it, however. It's possible he finds me repulsive, but the idea doesn't bother me. It never has. His opinions of me mean nothing. Why should I be bothered to care about the thoughts of someone I so despise? I don't even address him directly, not by Master like he wants, and certainly not by name. I prefer to liken myself to a mute. He stopped trying to get me to verbalize a long time ago. The best he's gotten out of me are some whimpers, gasps, and moans…and even then, it was so he didn't hurt me.

He has some sort of obsession with forcing things onto, out of, and into me. At this point, I've learned not to fight back. I think on this bitterly, hating how he's conditioned me.

I'm rudely snapped back to reality when I choke, a thick, warm ooze sliding down my throat as he shoves that squirming thing further in. I recoil, instinctively trying to wriggle away. My efforts are in vain as his legs wrap around my head and he tugs on the leash, pulling me in again. I expect it, though. It's not the first time. I gag, coughing around him, and I'm almost certain that if he had a mouth, he'd be smiling like the sick freak he is. I'm proven right as he chuckles lowly.

"Come, now. You know better than that."

I look down, feigning shame the way he likes me to.

"Now you'll have to make up for it, now won't you?" I nod slowly, cleaning him off with my tongue as he hums in approval. When I pull back, I look up at him for my next task. His hand motions "come hither," and I hesitantly crawl onto his lap, dreading what's to come. He usually toys with me a bit more before this. Why the change of pace? He's not a spontaneous person…

Trying to pay it no mind, I settle into place and try not to flinch away from the slippery tendril slithering against me. He's not looking at my face as his nose twitches, and I avert my gaze in real shame. "How cute," he purrs. "Still as responsive as you don't want to be." Making no true haste, his hand trails down my chest and stomach until he reaches his destination. I can feel his claws through the fabric of his glove as he slides his fingers between my unfortunately already wet folds, and while I try to keep from making a sound, a quiet whimper escapes me. He seems to almost simper as he languidly, almost lazily, stretches and prepares me. My face flushes in a mixture of stimulation, embarrassment, and anger. I hate how he almost makes a show of it.