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Blue (Balls) Christmas
An Anthro DC Dr. Psycho smut-fic.
Warnings: internalized homophobia, mild mention of youthful sexual awakening, Christmas trauma mentioned, animal dicks, size difference, stomach bulging, mental sexual fantasies, Christmas sweets used very VERY wrong, anal masturbation, anal sex mentioned, oral sex mentioned, pegging mentioned, sexy DC furry versions, nods to friend’s characters and it got more world building, backstory mentions and time put into it for a fucking Christmas furry fuck fic. XD! I loved writing it.
Written exclusively over this joke: https://prnt.sc/lieLRzoFmyp5
and for my DC RP pals and all my pals/fans/friends!
Merry Fucking Christmas, Ya FILTHY Animals!
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The fire crackled in the penthouse hearth, casting flickering shadows across Edgar Cizko’s fluffy features. He slumped in an overstuffed armchair, long, curly, black hair mussed from hours of running fingers through it in frustration. The ridiculous elf costume top—courtesy of Lex’s sadistic holiday "team-building"—hung open, exposing his cream-and-tan fur beneath with oodles of black chest fluff trailing down in dark indifference. His lower half? Just a pair of red satin boxers with "Naughty" stitched across the back, clinging to the curve of his plump ass.
He’d barely made it through the Legion’s gala without brain-wiping as many members as possible. The memory of Bane’s massive paws yanking him backward, the jaguar’s spotted fur brushing against his neck as he was dragged into that absurd ‘Santa’-clad lap—Edgar’s ears flattened against his skull. The bastard had laughed, deep and rumbling, while Edgar’s entire body went rigid. Worse? The thick heat of Bane’s cock pressing against him through those fucking red trousers, unmistakable even through the layers of fabric, made his ears flush dark. The entire room had erupted in lewd comments and laughter, Cheetah’s Mainecoon cackle rising above the rest, while Riddler, his ferret slimness tall, lobbed mistletoe at his head with a corny “You're looking succ-cute-lent in your Christmas elf sweater.”
Edgar swirled his bourbon, watching the amber liquid cling to the glass. His tail twitched beneath his boxers. Lex had insisted on the "full festive experience," which apparently included a jingling bell strapped to the damn thing. He could still hear the tinkle every time he shifted. He’d stomp it to death before he went to bed.
Edgar took a slow sip, savoring the burn. He’d left the party early, claiming a migraine. Not a lie, exactly—just not the ACTUALLY cause being anything medical. The image of Bane’s smirk, the way his claws had dug in just enough to tease lingered in the small dog’s mind... Edgar growled through his teeth. This was not how the world’s most feared psychic terrorist spent Christmas Eve.
He should be attending gala after gala until Christmas’ Day broke. Having sex with mind-washed buxom bunnies and vixens in tight dresses and letting the public see that no matter HOW small Edgar Cizko was, he was all man and women wanted him! He sighed, swiveling his glass, the ice clinked. He should—but he didn’t want to. He wanted a WAY different way to celebrate tonight, but that might just mean his phone and daring the cold.
He took in a deep breath, and looked around his living room. Edgar still 'celebrated' Christmas even if he'd renounced religion as a weakness at fourteen years old. His decor was an aggressive clash of cultures—deep red Russian nesting dolls lined the mantle of his fire place. A life-sized Chihuahua Mary and Joseph stood guard by the balcony, their ceramic faces swapped out for scowling luchador masks, his Tio’s idea as a joke his first Christmas in this penthouse. The tree was a monstrosity: flashing lights tangled around hand-carved Feliz Navidad sign perched atop like a middle finger to subtlety, it dwarfed the small dog, even more than the already ridiculous, over-sized room he sat in. Edgar refused to have things tailored to his size, outside his clothing. That was weakness, and his Siberian husky mother loathed weakness.
Edgar always boasted he was a pure-bred. All chihuahua—just a miniature version of his father. Same dark hair, same facial hair. Same fur pattern. It was almost impossible to imagine that Psycho had ANYTHING big in his breed history—save for the unnatural, polar ice-blue of his eyes. His one trait he’d inherited from his brutal mother.
Edgar's thoughts drifted back to his childhood.
His mother had hated Christmas. Siberian winters were brutal, she’d say, her voice still thick with the old country. But the Bratva expected blat—gifts, bribes, the whole fucking spectacle. So she’d drown the vodka and decorate with whatever didn’t look completely traitorous—red stars on the tree, stolen KGB medals ‘repurposed’ as ornaments. His father? Full-Bred Chihuahua, drug cartel slime. The bastard went full extravagance: gold-wrapped presents, imported Colombian rum, a pinche mariachi band at 3 AM blaring about Amor while Edgar curled under the grand piano, hands pressed over his ears. Too loud; his tail trembled between his legs. It was not just the MUSIC—he could hear everyone’s dirty, criminal, slutty thoughts. Everyone was drunk and horny on Christmas.
Edgar twitched, more memories flooding.
Eleven years old. Moscow. Two years before the bloodshed where he’d slaughtered most of his extended family in Miami. The ursine ‘Santa’ his mother had hired for the party smelled of cheap cologne and cheaper booze—some mob enforcer shoved into a costume. The cheerful "Edgar, come see Ded Moroz!" from his mother, she’d bullied his smaller father, who thought Edgar too old for such things into letting the smaller-than-average pup be a child one more year—so small—as his father scowled. Let him sit in Santa’s lap.
Edgar had known it was childish, stupid – but once he’d seen Santa, he couldn’t wait for when those massive paws lifted him onto the bear’s lap. Young Psycho could smell the Vodka on the bear’s breath, his beard was itchy with cooking crumbs in it. He had arms like a KGB super solider. Young Edgar felt his heart and his GUT flutter for the first time in his life. His father had yanked him off the bear’s lap as soon as he’d seen his son giggling with flushing lil ears. The next day he had to kneel to unwrap his presents, father had lashed him raw with his expensive leather belt, telling his son if he ever sat on a man’s lap like that ever again he’d— Edgar still smiled when he opened his present from Santa. Exactly what he’d wanted: A Ra's al Ghul action figure. It had broad shoulders, facial hair and a sharp, woofy grin.
A sudden crack from the hearth.
Edgar blinked out the memory.
The bourbon glass lay shattered in the fireplace, dripping into the flames with a hiss. He hadn’t realized he’d thrown it.
“...Fuck,” he muttered, flexing his fingers.
His claws scraped against leather as he shifted in his chair. The whiskey had warmed him—too much. His little cock strained against the ridiculous satin, the “Naughty” stitching stretching taut across his fat ass due to the pressure. He could feel the dampness where the tip of his canine cock pressed against the front of his boxers, the humiliating proof of his own betrayal. Edgar exhaled sharply through his nose.
He’d been hard since Bane dragged him into his muscled ‘Santa’ lap. Since the jaguar’s breath hit the back of his neck, hot and heavy with the scent of spiked eggnog. Since the presence of the feline—not just muscle, but power, the kind that didn’t need his psychic tricks to make them pin the smaller dog down and fuck him until he howled.
Edgar’s tail flicked, the bell jingling mockingly.
His phone buzzed on the side table. Lex, no doubt, with some passive-aggressive bullshit about ‘team morale’. Edgar didn’t bother looking. Instead, he reached for the decanter nearby—then froze. The fireplace’s glow caught something in the glass: a very tired, horny lil pup who just wanted to be fucked until he could not think anymore. It DISGUSTED and SHAMED him.
Edgar snarled and tipped the decanter straight to his muzzle. The whiskey burned down his throat, but it didn’t drown the memories of his past and tonight’s gala.
The poor, lil villain moaned in want.
Gotham howled outside, wind rattling the penthouse’s balcony doors. Edgar could practically feel the cold seeping in, the kind that would turn his tiny, desert-bred paws to ice in minutes. The thought of trudging through snowdrifts just to get some faceless cock—ridiculous and deadly.
But then—
A slow smirk curled Edgar’s maw.
He didn’t have to go out.
He had other... options. However, that also meant leaving the warmth of the fire, going all the way upstairs to fetch a toy, lube and that seemed even more unfavorable than daring the weather right now.
Edgar’s gaze slid across the room, lingering on the absurd holiday decor—a half-eaten plate of churros (courtesy of his own weak moment of nostalgia and picked up at the Taco Truck three blocks from his home), and then—ah. There. The gilded monstrosity gift Lex had personally delivered to every Legion member. Edgar’s maw wrinkled as he stalked toward it, the bell on his tail jingling with every step. The wicker-basket was enormous, draped in red ribbon that was too festive for the Legion of Doom’s goals.
He tore into it with his claws, shredding tissue paper printed with the LuthorCorp logo. The contents were a personally-tailored insult: hand-decorated sugar cookies shaped like tiny dogs, a lumpy sweater with "Santa’s Little Helper" stitched in cursive above a cartoon chihuahua in a reindeer costume. Edgar’s jowls curled. Lex’s idea of humor. But beneath the mockery—the real prize. Crisp bills banded with the Legion’s wax sigil, fifty-thousand dollars. A note in Lex’s precise handwriting: "For services rendered—Black Adam never saw us coming. Pity he was so... ‘distracted’." Edgar’s ears burned. He remembered the jackal’s claws digging into his hips, the way he’d snarled in satisfaction when Edgar moaned out “My King. My Goddddd~!”
His breath hitched. He always suspected Lex knew about his secret proclivities. A problem he’d have to solve soon or—then he saw the rest.
Clear plastic gleamed in the firelight—lube. Hospital-grade, industrial-sized. Edgar’s tail stood ridgit. That bald, bird fuck. But worse—worse—was the foot-long peppermint stick, thick as four of his little fingers, striped red and white like a fucking candy cane. He could smell it from here. Sugar and stomach aches.
He took what he wanted and KICKED the rest of the basket over.
The rug—a former Siberian tiger client's pelt, who had pissed him off, cumming in barely a minute and whining Edgar was just too tight—stretched across mahogany floor was warm from the hearth’s heat.
Edgar kicked his boxers off, the damp satin peeling away, precum snapping between his aching dick and the fabric. His cock twitched, pink, small, knotted puppy meat—slick, drooling onto his own plush thighs. He curled onto his side—the STUPID fucking elf top still gaping open exposing that fluff of his manly, black chest fur that tuff’d from the chihuahua’s chest to groin—and snatched the lube with too much force. The cap cracked under his claws, spilling viscous, self-heating fluid across his fingers.
First touch—shock. Edgar’s ears pinned back with a moan. His hole, while not a virgin—was tight from months of no sex—resisted but he pressed on. The stretch burned—good, deep—but never enough. He snarled and pressed harder, scissoring against the resistance. The firelight caught the wet shine of his work; the way his hips jerked forward into nothing. He hated himself right now—but his mind soothed him over as it got to work.
The fantasy surged over him—thick paws gripping his hips, lifting him effortlessly. The heat of Bane’s cock beneath him, the drag of those feline spines as Edgar sank down on that massive cock. The jaguar’s voice—rough, amused—slurring against his neck: “So tight... but witness how he takes me to the hilt. La puta.” Edgar’s hips stuttered at the memory-that-never-was, his own fingers twisting inside him. He wanted—fuck—needed to feel those barbs catch on his rim, the stretch that would leave him raw and whimpering. His cock leaked onto the fur rug, a dribble compared to the flood in his head.
“Papi—just like thaaaaaaat.” Edgar’s voice cracked, pitching the words too high, too breathless. The wet, shallow sounds of his furred fingers wet and sloppy while he finger-fucked himself faster, the lube lewd and noisy while it dripped down his thighs. In his mind, Bane’s claws raked his spine, dragging him back onto that thick feline fucker. His fingers weren’t spined, couldn’t pulse inside him like the fantasy demanded. The peppermint stick gleamed where he’d dropped it.
The plastic wrapper crinkled under his claws. Edgar tore it open with his teeth, spitting shreds of cellophane onto the rug. The candy smelled sickly sweet—diabetic inducing. Still, his tongue darted out anyway, lapping at the red-and-white stripes. The sugar burned, sharp as fear toxin he had swimming in his veins not too long ago, a reminder of a real, terrifying and erotic memory that melted and consumed his next reality that bled into fantasy.
Scarecrow’s eyes, orange and gleaming, locked on his ass as Bane manhandled him. The crow’s feathers had been ruffled, his beak slightly parted, the swell of his cock unmistakable beneath those sloppy stitch-work Christmas’ trousers. Edgar groaned sleazily; he dragged the candy stick across his tongue before shoving it deeper, gagging reflexively as the peppermint scraped his throat.
He could see it—the Legion’s conference table cleared, his tiny body sprawled across the polished wood, pinned under a dozen hungry stares. Two-Faces’s honey badger fist wrapped around his own prick, pre-cum from Dent’s cock dripping onto Edgar’s muzzle. And Crane—fuck—Crane’s fat bird-dick, slick with fear serum, the way it would throb as Edgar swallowed him down. The candy stick hit the back of his throat again, and Edgar whined, gagging around it, spit pooling beneath his chin.
A real memory—Black Adam’s jackal fangs grazing his neck, the snap of his hips as Edgar took it, the stretch bordering on agony. He imagined the serum still coursing through him, heightening every touch until his nerves screamed. His fingers twisted inside himself, mimicking the rhythm of phantom cocks. The candy stick slid in and out of his muzzle, sticky with saliva, the squelch obscene in the silent penthouse.
Edgar’s ears flattened. He was close, trembling with it, his cock dribbling onto the tiger pelt. The firelight flickered, casting lewd shadows across his writhing form. The candy stick plunged deeper, and Edgar’s throat bulged, gagging loud. The oral masturbation was filthy, lewd and sloppy. The small dog choked between moans of how much he wished the candy was some bigger villain’s dick.
It wasn’t enough. He just couldn’t finger himself to completion, he’d always struggled with it. His stubby fingers reached his prostate, but not at a good enough angle. Fuck. He gave up for a moment, panting.
His phone buzzed again. Edgar considered answering it, making who ever the fuck that was come HERE and fuck his brains out. He rolled onto his side with a dissatisfied grunt, the goddamn bell tinkling as he shifted.
A draft slithered through the penthouse. Edgar shivered, his damp fur prickling. He needed—fuck—needed something real. His claws dug into the tiger pelt. The Legion’s building wasn’t THAT far. Bane would still be there, drunk on spiced rum and victory. One call. One thought, and he could—
The peppermint stick glistened where he'd dropped it, spit-slick and tacky with sugar. Edgar snatched it up before he could reconsider. His nose wrinkled at the scent—dirty sweetness undercut by scent of his own maw, smoke, whiskey, the frosting he’d licked off Ivy’s otter hip right before she’s thrown him across the fa-la-la-fucking-hall. The tip was slick with throat-mucus, the kind that only came from gagging deep. He swiped a claw through the mess, shuddering as it dripped.
Lube pooled in his palm, thick and warming fast. Edgar worked it over the candy in rough strokes, the sugar-ridges catching on his claws. It wasn’t enough—not compared to Black Adam’s knotted fuckmeat—but his hole ACHED. The firelight caught the candy’s sticky sheen. Melting slowly from the fire and his own body heat. Want licked up his spine. It would be messy. Wet. The kind of stretch that left him sore for days.
Edgar collapsed onto his stomach, plump ass tilted high. His tail twitched, the bell jingling mockingly. He didn’t need to move—his powers uncoiled in the air, a shimmering telekinetic grip seizing the candy. It hovered at his hole, teasing. Edgar’s breath hitched. The first press burned, sugar-grit dragging against his rim. He shoved back, a whine tearing from his throat as the candy breached him.
The stretch was brutal—, unforgiving but sweet and wet. His claws scrabbled against the rug.
Back to his fantasies.
Hatter: that twitchy bunny’s cock pistoning into him atop a tea-stained table, porcelain cups rattling with every snap of his hips as Jervis rambled off about how FAT the dormouse’s ass has gotten. Edgar’s muzzle split in a grin. “Y-Yes—harderrrrrrrrrrrr,” he slurred, fucking himself back onto the candy, imagining it to be Tetch’s pink and white dick. It was noisy, sloppy and loud. Every thrust of that sweet, make-shift dildo making the small dog’s hole and his maw sing lewdly.
Then—Nightwing. Golden fur slick with sweat, taunt muscles coiled as he lifted Edgar like a toy. The retriever’s tongue laved over his neck, worshipful, even when Psycho threatened him with death. Edgar’s ears flattened with a heavy moan, his lil cock twitching with the fantasy—the younger dog so eager, with such stamina, fucking him until he was useless. The feel of Nightwing’s knot dragging his rim, begging to split him made Psycho whimper. The candy plunged deeper, psychic force ramming it home. Squelch. Plap! Plap! So deep! Edgar choked. There.
“Bat—” His voice cracked. The hound’s scent—Kevlar, brooding, pent-up-NEED and Gotham grime—flooded his muzzle. Crushed against some alley wall, paws dangling.
Bathound’s growl vibrated through his spine: “Stay.” The candy jerked, mimicking those rough thrusts. Edgar whimpered. Those thick, short stack legs dangled, swinging; his own claws scoring brick as Bathound bred him—no finesse, just heat, and justice. WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! Edgar let out at bitch-yelp. Pre drooled from his cock onto the pelt.
The candy twisted. Edgar’s tail thrashed. Not yet. So close.
—And then: fur, white—softer than his mother’s wolf-dog fur. The click-click of heels on marble. A laugh so sweet it hid her bossy little nature. Mary fucking Dahl perched on a bar stool two weeks ago, ankles crossed demurely beneath her petticoat, gloved paws cradling a martini glass. “Oh, Doctor,” she’d purred, pink tongue darting over her fangs. “You look lonely.” Edgar’s hackles had risen—but his cock hadn’t. Not then. Not until she leaned in, breath warm against his ear: “Bet you like getting chased, hm?”
His brain, unscripted, narrated their next meeting: Mary’s kitten fangs sinking into his scruff, that frilly dress hiked up around her waist to reveal the strap—thick, veined, glistening with lube. The hotel sheets bunched in his claws, his fat, chihuahua ass in the air. Mary’s giggle was a tease: “Who’s babydoll nowwwwwww~, doctor?” Each thrust punched the title out of him, the sound of silicone slapping flesh obscenely loud. Edgar’s hole made such slutty noises for her big strap. Edgar’s muzzle dropped open—he could taste the hotel’s cheap champagne from her tongue, the sugar-tart sting of her lipstick—when—
Edgar jolted, his powers dislodge and threw the candy where it hit the wall and broke in half on the floor, lube and secretions smearing on the hard wood.. Reality crashed back: rug fibers under his claws, the hearth’s dying embers, his own spit cooling on his chin.
His cock pulsed, that telltale tightening at the base—his small knot—swelling obscenely fast. Fuck. His breath hitched. Not on the tiger pelt, not again—last time the stench had lingered for weeks, no amount of scrubbing could erase the musk of his own shame. Edgar’s gaze darted wildly. The plate of Lex’s insult-dog cookies gleamed mockingly by the hearth, spilled out from when he’d kicked the basket earlier.
Telekinetic claws snatched the plate, skidding it across hardwood to land before his trembling hips. The cookies—tiny, frosted terriers with LuthorCorp logos piped in edible gold—smirked up at him. Edgar’s lips peeled back in a snarling grin.
Perfect.
His own paw wrapped around his cock and the first stroke tore a whimper from his throat. The cookies were right there, their beady icing eyes staring as Edgar’s hips stuttered. “F-Fucking—hate you—” he gasped, not sure if he meant Lex, the cookies, or himself. His thumb swiped over the leaking tip, smearing pre across the closest cookie’s face. The frosting dissolved under the sticky heat.
Edgar’s moan cracked into a whine. His balls tightened, that delicious-coiling pressure building too fast—he could feel his knot straining against his grip, the fur around it damp with sweat and pre. The second cookie got a messy coating, Psycho’s eyes rolling back. “Nnnnnnnnnnnngh—Santa’s—fucking—little—helperrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!!!” he spat between gritted teeth, hips jerking as he jizzed hard and long. It had been a while.
Edgar’s tail thrashed like a fluffy whip, the bell jingling wildly as his cock continued to twitch, painting the cookies in thick, pearly stripes. Sugar and cum mingled. The gayest snack for the holidays.
He wanted to stuff them down Luthor’s beak, laughing while Lex choked on his stupid joke coated in Psycho’s fucking puppy batter.
Panting, Edgar collapsed onto his side, his spent cock still twitching against the plate’s edge. The cookies were ruined, frosting dissolved into a sticky pool beneath his mess. His muzzle curled in disgust—but his tail gave a weak, traitorous wag, the bell still there, still ringing.
His phone buzzed again. Psycho huffed, then got an idea. He could turn this in his favor. There’s more than one way to deal with a man who thinks he has control because he knows a dirty little secret.
Edgar’s phone hovered into reach with a lazy flick of telekinesis, peppermint-smeared fingers struggling to grasp on the sleek surface. His tongue scraped absently over his knuckles, chasing the sugar sting. Lex’s contact blinked up at him—The Bald EAGLE Fuck saved with an egg emoji. Lex had sent him several humiliating photos of the small dog looking uncomfortable, flushed and tenting in Bane’s wide lap. Even a close up of Psycho’s dick-bulge. Lex also sent the text: You should have stayed, shortstack. You could have been a group present. 🐕🎁🍆🍆🍆💦
—and Edgar’s claws opened his camera app before he could reconsider.
The shutter clicked. The plate—glistening, debauched—looked like some cheap buffet’s dessert section. Edgar angled the next shot lower: his own sticky hole, still gaping, candy-striped lube smeared down his thighs, he made sure to get his curled tail and bell in the shot. His thumb hovered over send, but hesitated. Edgar looked around, spotted the broken candy still covered in lube, spit and lime and grinned again. He levitated the larger piece over.—the last pic he added: a shot of his lil face, beard sticky with fluids, his little tongue darting out to lap a whore’s trail up his Christmas’ dildo, letting everything slime down his chin.
The message drafted itself: "Ohhh, a group present? None of them deserve a treat this gooey. 🦅🍆🍩💦 Hurry, YOUR Christmas present is melting. Better come lick it all up, 👅 Lexy." Edgar hesitated, ears flattening—then tacked on: "Bring the peppermint lube you sick fuck."
Send.
Edgar collapsed against the rug. That was the hardest he'd ever openly fucked himself. He looked up at the clock, thirty minutes past Midnight.
"Merry FUCKING Christmas," Edgar toasted his own depravity, levitating his decanter of whiskey over. Maybe he'd get another round or two of holiday fucking if Lex got his bird-ass over here before he passed out from drunken exhaustion. Mmm. Pretty good Christmas Eve, actually.
And for New Years? Maybe, just maybe... he'd have a coming out party the likes of which Gotham had never seen.
The End.