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You shouldn't be here. You don't know why you are, but your feet have picked themselves up and carried you here anyway. The uncertainty, the hesitation makes the hallway you're standing in daunting somehow, as simple as it is. Barren, pale walls lined with polished doors; clean tiled floors so pristine that you can practically use them as mirrors; the light fixtures on the ceiling above dot the corridor in a bright glow. It all seems so expensive, decorated with the kind of interior design that's so immaculate and exorbitant that you're concerned that you might leave tracks in your wake, dirt smudges and shoe prints.
You contemplate turning around and leaving, but curiosity keeps you cemented in place. Music thumps past the barrier of the door, seeping through the wood, and you know that it must be absolutely blaring inside the apartment if you can hear from this side of the threshold. It's something upbeat, energetic, good for dancing. There's no way they're going to make it through the entire night without one of the next-door neighbors raising a noise complaint to whatever manager might be in the building.
You could leave. Right now. No one would notice. You hadn't exactly confirmed that you would show up at all. You'd somewhat left it vague, and when she had sent you the text of what you'd assumed to be her address and apartment number this evening, all you had responded with was an unsure, "I'll see if I can make it," and you threw in a heart emoji at the end for good measure. In the hopes that it made the response seem a little less rigid and disinterested, but it mostly just made it awkward. Somehow, you felt as though you've never held a conversation in your entire life.
Despite all of your doubts, you can't deny that you are intrigued. That just maybe you had been a little excited — and extremely bewildered — when Malevola had approached you this Tuesday, making herself known by placing a gentle hand on your shoulder to get your attention. Your teammates had gone quiet around you, the pair falling into a fascinated hush as you turned to acknowledge her with a smile. Though you're sure that the confusion you had felt was still apparent, eyebrows raising when you greeted her.
It's not like you're unfamiliar with the Z-Team. It's impossible to work at the Torrance branch and not be somewhat aware of them. They're notorious. A group of ex-villains becoming employed under the counsel of SDN made for a lot of heavy gossip. Old cons, murderers, petty thieves trying to turn a new leaf. And despite you being a few ranks higher, up in the D-Team, you've managed to have your fair share of run-ins out on the field with a few of its members — especially one member in particular, because you were just oh so lucky in that way.
But you've never spoken with Malevola all that much, apart from extending a brief greeting when you would cross paths down a hallway, or you'd once vented to each other in the breakroom about having to pull double-shifts last month, with every hero at SDN spread thin by a fucking hydra. It had been particularly nasty to deal with, 80 feet tall, armored flesh, fast healing, the ability to spew lava from its multiple heads. Not fire. Lava. In molten, gigantic breaths that traveled up to forty meters.
You don't recall reading about any lava breathing in middle school when you had gone over Greek myths, but it would have been nice to know. It had plowed its way through downtown, tottering, pulverizing asphalt with each step, knocking into skyscrapers and buildings like it was drunk. It had spread , an all-hands-on deck kind of situation. And when one overzealous hero had decapitated one of the heads, he'd only made the situation worse, two more sprouting from the gnarled, raw stump with a terrifying quickness. It had taken over 24 hours to take the monster down.
But that specific instance, a temporary, shared moment in expressing your equal exasperation, had been the only real time you'd ever talked to her. So it left you confused when she had approached you out of the blue, effectively snuffing out the conversation you'd been sharing with a couple of your teammates — though you're actually kind of thankful for it. Mimic and Hazard are great, but sometimes they talk too much, and if you had to listen to them having a debate about Nickelback any longer, you were going to lose it.
"We're having a party this weekend. Nothing big, just a little get together. Some of Z-Team is gonna be there." Malevola had explained, definitely prompted by your visible (but you hoped, not unkind) confusion. "Don't feel obligated to turn up, but I just thought I'd extend an invitation. I'll text you the address, yeah?"
And then just as quickly as she has arrived, she was gone. Walking away from you, tearing open a gap in the air with a rip of shimmering, pink light and was stepping inside before you could question her or properly agree. You didn't have a chance to ask her how she managed to get your phone number, either.
And now you're here. You had contemplated turning up for longer than necessary, and you had almost decided forgoing the whole thing entirely, pacing around you bedroom while you struggled with that to wear. You figured you would just be staying inside at home all night, enjoying the time off before you'd have to wake up early for your shift at work. But the idea of that monotony, of doing the same thing you do every other night, had been bitter in your mouth, a nasty taste that your body rejected like a pill forced onto your tongue. You didn't want that. You didn't want to sit on the couch again or turn in for bed at 10 P.M. like some kind of elderly person twenty years past their prime.
You only showed up because you thought that it was her party. Her apartment. But you had quickly deduced that you were wrong in that assumption. It isn't her place, it's Sonar's. The marble floors in the lobby and the fancy furniture in the adjoining waiting room kind of tipped you off as soon as you stepped foot inside the building, and it was enough that you had almost immediately turned around and called it night. But for whatever reason, you didn't.
The door to his apartment almost seems imposing somehow, even though you've taken down countless villains, defeated monsters and beings beyond your comprehension, and yet what's pretty much a polished piece of wood unsettles you. It has apprehension prickling along the notches of your spine, uncomfortable, the scuttling of an insects legs on the nape of your neck.
You don't give yourself time to hesitate or to change your own mind. You don't bother knocking, either. Judging on the noisy volume of the music booming inside, you doubt that anyone in the apartment would be able to hear it anyway. You try your luck with the knob, twisting the cool, rounded metal, and thankfully, it opens with a muffled click.
The song playing is loud in your ears when you step inside, and you're assaulted with the pungent scent of weed and various flavors of vape, something tropical and mint. The rhythm of the tempo is so pronounced that you can feel it trembling throughout your body, rattling softly across your bones, churning in the center of your gut, and it's an awful combination with the nerves turning your stomach over. A perfunctory sweep of the apartment reveals that there's a lot more people present than just some of the Z-Team, though you do notice a few of its members scattered about the crowd. Prism is on the sofa, holding onto a sweating glass bottle, leaning into the cushioned support of the backrest while she talks with people you don't recognize who are accompanying her. Coupé is in the adjoining kitchen, seated at the small table in the corner, seated opposite to Punch Up, the both of them holding a fanned-out assortment of playing cards within their hands — probably poker or the like.
Flambae's laugh scales high over the music playing, amused but audibly scathing, sarcastic; you still haven't spotted him yet, but he's here somewhere. You continue your survey, scanning the surrounding area, taking a vague count of the people in the room all mushed in like sardines in a tin can, bodies shifting and swaying in vague dances. There's a man reclined on the kitchen island, splayed out, shirt rucked up to his chin, exposing the length of his torso for body shots. A couple makes out furiously in a dim corner. So eager that you wouldn't be surprised if they pulled each other to the floor and started fucking in the middle of the room, hands sweeping and clawing at what they can, like they intend to maul each other, fingers groping, pulling at the other's clothes.
And then your eyes find him, and all of the curiosity and tentative excitement you felt curdles in the pit of your stomach like spoiled milk. You aren't surprised that he's here. You know that he and Malevola are best friends, so yes, you did expect to see him. Where one is, the other is never too far behind. But you were hoping that you'd at least be able to settle in, to maybe get a drink or two in your system before you two managed to cross paths tonight. But nope, here he is, in all of his . . . Glory definitely isn't the word you'd use for him. Audacity, stupidity, bullshit. Those could all work.
You'd butted heads with him from the start, but that was all his fault, really. Okay, maybe, you'll admit, you're the one who made a snap judgment. But when you see a guy walking around the workplace with crypto magazines, and you overhear his conversations where he's unironically talking about being on Reddit, it raises a few red flags. You'd caught him mention something about looksmaxxing one time, and you didn't bother sticking around to hear what his opinion really was, you had immediately turned around as you were crossing into the break room and went out for lunch instead, abandoning the food you brought from home for the Mexican joint down the street. Listening to that for the entire duration of your lunch break was a torture that you wouldn't have been able to withstand.
He was like a caricature of person, like every online personality had been compacted and funneled into a singular body, and the first real interaction you had with him didn't do anything to improve your opinion of him.
To be honest you didn't have to step in, but you'd been passing by, having just finished up your latest mission, and you'd spotted him when you were on your way back to SDN. He had been easy to see from your vantage point, flying high above the city, but it had been the sound of screeching, a thin, earsplitting warble that had really caught your attention.
You knew who it was soon as you'd seen him. A dark mass down below, gigantic, membranous wings expanded, flapping harshly like he was possibly trying to generate lift, but was unable to, talons lashing out at the ground beneath him. Standing tall, morphed into that famed monstrous bat form you'd heard so much about. Shrieking at the top of his lungs, his massive maw snarling, fangs glinting with drool like he was feral, standing in the middle of a public park of all places, right next to the monkey bars. And then you'd noticed them, crazed and scattering across his body like tiny, rabid insects. Children. He was being attacked by children.
You'd shifted your course like a bullet, slowing your body in the air above them just in time so your arrival wouldn't generate a sudden blast. You had them all before you even landed. The field of your powers expanding throughout and past you to lift them all up from his body, carefully plucking the kids up like they were a bunch of wayward cats, leaving them to kick and flail where you had them suspended in the air. A few of them had tried to cling to him, gripping at the thick clutch of his fur with their tiny fists, but they soon gave under the grasp of your pull, kicking at nothing in petty tantrums.
"Hey, you good?" You'd asked once your feet where on the ground, the soles of your boots crunching the wood chips of the play area with their weight. "What the hell is this about?" You'd gestured to the kids, still hanging. Many hadn't ceased their floundering, but a few had given up, gone still within your telepathic grip, loose-limbed and visibly pouting. One of the rowdier ones had actually hissed at you and bit at the air. There was about six of them all together, all equally as wild.
You had a lot of questions. Like why they were apparently rabid, and more pressing, where in the hell their parents were at. Maybe they ate them, that seemed like a sensible conclusion.
Sonar — you'd remembered his name, thankfully, had yet to acknowledge you. He shook his head, body shuddering wildly like a dog that had just finished rolling, trying to shake free any dust that dirtied his coat. You had eyed him a little wearily. You didn't know much about him, if he was really aware of himself when he was a full-blown bat monster, or if maybe, he slipped into something more animalistic, just impulses and drive.
But his gaze had shifted, ears twitching, and you knew that he had heard you. It was a little hard to gauge just where he was looking specifically, with those blank, crimson eyes, twin coals burning in his sockets. But you saw them shift, the lids twitching from the movement, almost as though he was maybe embarrassed by the whole ordeal. And then his head angled in your direction, tilting to properly look at you.
"Drugs, I think? I don't know man, I'm not sure what's wrong with them," he'd replied. His voice had been deeper than the other times you'd heard it, the monotone of it layered with a kind of strange, trilling baritone. "But I had it covered, so you didn't need to swoop in like that to try and save the day."
He sounded exasperated, words dripping with a sardonic petulance that made you huff out a bemused laugh, a little offended. You blinked, your lips pulling into a scorned smile. "I was trying to help you out, alright. A thank you would be nice."
"I had it handled," he insisted, the almost piggish shape of his nose curling it a contemptuous snarl. His behavior was pettish, showcasing every bit of immaturity that you had assumed he possessed, and it a way, it felt vindicating to know that you had been right. He really was just some bitchy, dumb guy who probably spends his free time behind a computer screen bullying twelve-year-olds.
"You know what, you're absolutely right," you relented, already drawing your body up from the ground in preparation to take off. "I'll leave you to it, big guy."
"Wait, wha-" That's all he'd been able to get out before you dropped the kids back on him, all six celebrating with an invigorated cheer as they landed upon him in a pile, latching onto his back and wings and tugging on his ears, resuming their chaos as though they'd never been stopped at all. You'd been gone in a blink, launching away with a mocking laugh that you're sure his sensitive ears had been able to pick up. Good. You hoped it haunted his ass.
Ever since that day, there's been a noticeable tension between you. Always there, bubbling beneath the surface, a kind of static building between you both whenever you have to interact. Annoyance and resentment prickling in an undercurrent, thorns prodding at your skin. It's enough that your team has remarked on it. You think the whole damn building knows honestly. Not the either of you have been exactly subtle with your hatred for each other.
Just last week you two got into an argument over coffee creamer of all things. You felt a little childish doing it, and yet you weren't able to curb back your own voice as you snapped at him, but at least you could blame it a little on your exhaustion. Sleep was still clinging to the corners of your eyes, stinging and terrible, you felt like a zombie when you shuffled into the breakroom. All you wanted was some caffeine, some fuel to help jumpstart your system for the shift ahead.
Sonar had already been there, the wooden stirrer he was circling around his mug softly scraped against the ceramic. You ignored his proximity as you stepped up to the counter, opening the cabinet to grab your own mug so you could work on pouring your own cup of coffee. It was fine. You were able to pretend that he wasn't there while you mentally prepared yourself for the day ahead, and in turn he hadn't made any effort to speak to you. It was all going well. Almost peaceful, if you were being generous. But when you moved to open the fridge, leaning down enough to look inside, a single glance had your simple morning routine snuffed out.
You've long since started buying your own creamers for work. Sure, the breakroom has an entire drawer full of pods, a variety of different flavors, but you know what, you're a little particular with the brands and types that you prefer in your coffee. So you started buying and bringing your own to work a few months after you became an employee, and you've never had a single issue before. You write your name on it with permanent markers and sticky notes, and shove it to the back of the fridge, and it's been that way for the five whole years that you've been employed at SDN. Until now.
It was empty. The entire box, but you knew for certain that you still had a few pods left when you had made your morning cup yesterday. You had enough to tide you over for a least a couple more days before you had to restock. You knew that for certain. You made a mental note of it. But there wasn't any left. What had been in there before was all gone, leaving only an empty, cardboard box in the back of the fridge.
And then you spotted it. Out of the corner of your vision, and your full attention quickly followed, flickering up to the counter where Sonar was pouring a pod of creamer into his coffee, humming gently under his breath. Your creamer. Three other empty containers were scattered out beside his mug like corpses at a crime scene, the plastic covers peeled back, all while he was in the middle of pouring another one into his coffee.
You didn't want to overreact. To be an asshole, and if it was anyone else you might have resisted the urge to lash out, but you had long since lost all patience for Sonar. In the brief interactions you've had with him, he always manages to pull out the worst in you, to prod and insult you until you're on the verge of snapping.
"Is that my creamer?" You'd asked, pointing at the vacant pods strewn out, nothing but empty trash.
"Hmm?" His brow had raised like he was clueless, head angling in your direction as he drained the small container in his hand of all its contents before dropping it onto the counter alongside the others with a hollow clatter. "Oh, yeah. It's pretty good. You should pick up some more." He stopped stirring, taking an assessing sip, making sure to slurp extra loudly just to grate on your nerves more than he already had.
"So you thought it would be cool to steal my shit?"
"The early bird gets the worm, my friend." He said obnoxiously, like some shitty online quote. "This is what happens when you drag your feet."
"No that is not what happens. This is what happens when a selfish dick decides to take someone else's shit without asking," you'd seethed.
"Mmm, I don't know. It seems that way to me."
You hated him. You hated how he smirked at you, fangs glinting, all pleased with himself. You'd entertained the idea then, of swiping your hand, letting your powers curl around the mug held up to his face to douse him with the boiling liquid, but you regrettably didn't. You let him get away unscathed, mostly because you didn't want to get suspended for giving a SDN employee third degree burns, but the memory still eats you alive sometimes.
You'd been good at avoiding him since then. Plus, it helps that you belonged to different teams, so your chances of naturally crossing paths are fairly low (though unfortunately not zero). And now you've managed to plant yourself directly in his path. Months of trying to evade him have gone right out the window, and you don't have anyone to blame except for yourself. You don't even have a proper excuse as to why you agreed to be here. You aren't friends with anyone on the Z-Team. You know them through fleeting interactions and the occasional team up on exceptionally tough missions, but you aren't close by any means.
And now he's right there, maybe 30 feet away from you, leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer in his hand, egging people on as they step up to take body shots off of the same guy as before, still laid out on the island like an offering. You've never seen Sonar like this before. He's always in those suits — overkill, honestly, fighting villains in clothes that probably cost more than his rent, dressing as though he's some corporate CEO and not a subpar hero.
The only change now is that the usual suit jacket he wears is absent. It's subtle, hardly noteworthy, and yet it makes him look completely different. More relaxed. His fur is disheveled, like he's been running his fingers through it, the burgundy tie around his throat loose, the weak knot of it seeming to highlight how the first two buttons of his shirt are undone. He looks . . . unkempt, casual, with his sleeves rolled up above the thick of width of his forearms, shirt untucked from the waistband of his pants. It's the opposite of tidy. So unlike the manicured image he tends to maintain. With him like this, you could almost imagine he isn't a complete bastard.
He's at ease, clearly enjoying himself, and totally unaware that you're here. You should leave before he realizes.
You don't get the opportunity to. Of course you don't.
"You came!" A familiar voice calls, swaddled in that soft Australian lilt. Malevola comes shifting through the crowd. The people around her part like the Red Sea as she steps directly in front of you with a mystery drink in hand, the presumably alcoholic beverage sloshing in a solo cup as she hands it to you. "I'm glad you're here. For a second there I figured you'd ditch us all together."
"I honestly did think about it." You almost cringe. It's sounds more like an insult and less like the joke that you had intended. But you don't even know what kind of joke it was supossed to be in the first place.
"I can't blame you," she reassures, the pleasant smile on her face is unwavering, still gentle despite your blunder. "We're an acquired taste." An expression that's a little sheepish passes over her face then, apologetic, but still friendly. "Also, I'm sorry for lying to you about the turn out, but I figured it would have scared you off completely."
"Yeah, it might have," you answer honestly and lean out of the way when someone shoulders past you to get to the front door. "I'm not very good at this sort of thing. Meeting new people." You almost hesitate to say it, but you're fast to decide that it doesn't really matter. She knows the truth. She's seen firsthand how you and Sonar interact with each other. You aren't salvaging anything by sugarcoating your words.
You nod your chin in the direction of the adjoining kitchen, and she follows the gesture, angling her torso so that she can comfortably look over her shoulder. "Plus, me and him don't exactly mix, so I probably won't stick around for too long. I'm sure he'll get pissed once he realizes I'm here."
She laughs a little at that. A delicate, short sound. It's hard to tell by the singular honeyed shade of her eyes, but you think that she rolls them, a playful exasperation. "You're pretty oblivious, huh."
"What do you mean by that?" you laugh at little too, but it's much thinner. Lacking any true amusement, impeded by your uncertainty. She settles you with a look then, head cocking, brows raising while she appraises you. And then she's leaning in, crowding into your space conspiratorially, closing in her proximity so that she can be heard over the music without having to raise her voice.
"It's probably not my place to say this, but Sonar doesn't hate you, babe." She answers and something mischievous passes through her gaze, and her next words makes the floor feel as though it's dropped out from beneath your feet. "He's literally had a poster of you on his wall for years; the guy's obsessed with you. It's a little pathetic honestly."
"What?" You nearly shout, your voice pitching up so much higher than you had intended, and it if it wasn't for the vocals and electric pop instrumentals projecting across the room, bouncing against the walls that have managed to feel so much closer than before, everyone would have heard you. Your grip seizes around the cup in your hand, the thick plastic popping crisply, a dent crinkling inward from the press of your thumb. You know you're staring, mouth agape, looking dumb as you gawk at her like she's grown another head, but it's a concept that you can't entirely grasp.
Sure, you've heard rumors about Sonar. About him being a bit of pervert, and you've experienced that facet of his personality firsthand. But he's never singled you out specifically, he doesn't flirt with you anymore than he does with his other co-workers. There wasn't anything special about how he would tease you. Or so you thought. You never would have imagined that he'd see you in such a way, and you don't know what to think. It's as though your mind has gone white, drawn a blank, emotions swirl up in the pit of your stomach like a storm. It's overwhelming, and you have no choice but to just sit with it while it all churns and heaves: surprise, irritation, and worse than all, intrigue, and the traces of something else that you don't want to name. It's too sudden, too warm and fluttery to allow yourself to accept.
You take the first sip of your drink, and immediately grimace. You almost choke on it completely. It's like cough syrup if it burned, searing as it goes down your throat, overly sweet from its syrup, the carbonation biting and bubbling harshly, mixing with the sear of alcohol in a way that's horrific. There's a variety of conflicting flavors that attack your tongue, the pervasive punch of the combination washes over your palate. You can't tell what the hell it is. Tequila, maybe and bad soda, but you mouth twists from it.
"Yeah, it's not too great," Malevola says, taking note as you shudder with disgust, forcing yourself to swallow. But as terrible as it is, you appreciate the burn of it right now. It gives you something to focus on, something pungent and poignant enough to guide you back into reality. "We just kinda threw together what we had. But listen . . . you can, uh, pop into his room and see it for yourself if you want. I won't blame you," she shrugs, mouth twisting into something a little sly. "It's down that way," she gestures to her right. "Down the hall, the very last door at the end."
You tell yourself that you won't do it. You're going to finish the rest of the drink — some terrible amalgamation of what you suspect to be lemon soda and God knows what else, and then you're going to get the hell out of here. You'll go home, take a cold shower, go to sleep and pretend that tonight never happened. That you didn't become burdened with knowledge that you shouldn't be privy to. There are certain things that co-workers shouldn't know about each other, and this is one of those things. The awareness of it dredges up too many feelings. So much of your own thoughts come barreling up, fast and powerful. But you block them out, hold them at bay with the promise that you're going to leave and you can continue on with your life, pretending to be ignorant.
You don't go home.
You're standing in the middle of his room after a long internal debate on morality. It's easy to blame it on the alcohol. That it's already made you too dumb, infected you with a dangerous liquid courage. You're definitely crossing a line by being in here without his permission, but then again, wasn't he crossing some kind of line by having a half-naked photograph of you up on his wall? Maybe. Sort of. The reluctance you had felt was easily eclipsed by your curiosity and try as you might to protect you own peace and not feel like a terrible person, after standing in the middle of the hallway for too long, listening to music and laughter and conversation bubble around you, you had stepped inside of his room anyway.
It's spacious for a bedroom in Torrance, where the rent prices are excessive, riding on the novelty of being so close to L.A. .It's got a high ceiling, expensive wood flooring, and a massive sky view that displays the city spanning out below. He has paintings posted around the walls of the room. The sort of art you'd find some wealthy billionaire's home. That old-money aesthetic. Oil paints, smudges made from pastels, and earthy hues stroked over canvases framed in fancy, rich wood.
But the wall directly across the from the bed — an unnecessarily large one at that; a California King with silk sheets, because of course — seems to be dedicated to important milestones in his life. Engraved plaques and photographs taken of him shaking hands with uptight men wearing business suits and oily smiles. And there, in the middle of all that over bloated self inflation and success, is a poster of you.
There in all of its glory, is your 2022 Posing for Pollution Awareness poster, made visible by the glimmers of light projecting through the window, the soft glow of street lamps and neighboring buildings trickling over the glass protecting the picture in a soft glow. You had done it for a fundraiser. Made to bring in donations for an independent organization, all to raise money and bring consciousness to properly clean up the bay of trash. Most of the Torrance branch had agreed to do it, and you (obviously) had been among the numbers who had.
The photoshoot wasn't anything too scandalous. What they had dressed you in wasn't much different than what you would wear at a pool or out on a day at the beach. It was a simple bikini, exposing enough to ensure that the pictures would sell but not enough that you would feel demeaned wearing it. Simple, black, a smooth material that hugged your breasts in flattering way, making them look perky, supported, and you had appreciated how it complimented them.
You were posed out on the beach, stretched out on the sand, skin damp and glittering in the sunlight, dewy drops glowing amber from the warm luminosity. The ties of the bikini's bottoms were cinched high around your hips, pronouncing their shape, the subtle arch in your back only perpetuating the sultry position the photographer had guided you into.
You did admittedly feel a little awkward when he had requested for you to try and give the camera a flirtatious expression, something confident and salacious. But looking back at the end result now, you don't hate it. You look . . . good. Great, if you're being truthful with yourself, and the risk of being completely narcissistic, you can see why Sonar has this particular poster secured at the foot of his bed. He even framed it. Not even in some basic, plastic frame, but in an ornate one that you would see holding a portrait, gold and exuberant. Overkill. It felt more akin to a shrine than just some dirty totem, used for him to gawk at and jerk off to.
Surprisingly, you aren't mad. Or even disgusted like you expected yourself to be. There's no repulsion, not even as a symptom of your shock. You suppose this is the sort of thing you had assumed the posters would be used for. Sure, you had hoped that it purchased mostly as a gag gift, or more importantly, because people wanted to contribute their money to a good cause, but you weren't ignorant. You knew that some pervert out there would end up buying it for less than innocent reasons. You had just never guessed that one of those perverts would be your co-worker.
You hate how you almost feel flattered. Maybe there's just something wrong with you, but you're more amused than anything, satisfied almost. It's funny in a way, to know that the same guy who's been giving you so much trouble, making your life at work hellish with petty little disruptions and immature jokes has been coming home every night to a massive photograph of you on his wall, framed and hung up like it belonged on an altar.
For a brief second, the thought raises, flickering up from the fringes of your mind, passing and thin, that maybe you should finally go home. Maybe snap of picture of the poster he has with your phone for future blackmail and then leave. But that thought passes over and past you, drifting away until it's as though it never existed in the first place. Maybe it's because for the first time in a while, you feel like you're actually in control of this stupid little game that you've both found yourselves in. After months of toying with each other, stealing things, playing childish pranks, all the paint bombs you've planted in the drawers of his cubicle's desk, this is the first instance where you truly felt like you've not just evened the scales, but completely tipped them in your favor.
And you aren't letting an opportunity like this pass you by. You aren't leaving. Not yet anyway.
The sound of approaching laughter snaps you out of your stare, and your head jerks to face the door. You hold your breath as someone nears, their footsteps muffled as they carry themselves down the hall. You see their shadow break through the warm light that trickles in beneath the thin gap underneath the door, bobbing and swaying unsteadily for a moment, hovering there long enough to make your heart stutter, but thankfully whoever it is keeps walking. The noise of them stumbling into the neighboring room is noisy, shoes squeaking on the tiles, and the gentle click of a toilet seat being lifted and the damp retching that follows lets you know that they'll be occupied for a while. It should give you ample time to slip past without them noticing.
You do take a picture of the poster before you leave. Just for insurance.
When you nudge his bedroom door open, you're careful to be quiet, even with the cover of the music raucously thundering throughout the apartment, impossible to not be heard. How they haven't managed to get a noise complaint yet is entirely beyond you. You lean out just enough to glance around the hallway, checking for anyone who might be present, but it's clear, not a soul in sight thankfully.
You're quick to slip out of Sonar's room, carefully closing the door behind you and then you're moving, treading down the hall with casual footsteps, tucking your phone into your back pocket.
You find him effortlessly. He's right where you last saw him, except the guy who was doing body shots is now gone, and the island has been repurposed for beer pong. Sonar is playing with the few people who are scattered around him, intently watching as one of his opponents steps up, drawing his posture up straight and raising an arm to line up the shot with the triangle of cups posted at the opposite end of the island. There's a brief pause, everyone watching seems to hold their breath, concentrating as best as they all can, some only a little buzzed and others completely trashed, watching with the glazed eyes of drunks as they all track the trajectory of the ball when the man tosses it through the air.
It misses completely, striking loudly on the counter, just a few scant inches from the cups, and ricochets off the counter, shooting somewhere into the living room, vanishing into the sea of bodies.
"Ha! Get wrecked loser," Sonar insults maturely. Now he's the one stepping up, clutching onto a hollow ball within his fingers, shouldering past his rival, but not without passing the man another derisive comment. "Now watch and learn."
He doesn't even look when he launches it with the flick of his wrist, keeping his eye contact settled on his opponent with a smug grin, canines sharp. All that the other guy can do is observe, just standing in place and staring as the ball coasts smoothly through the atmosphere in a graceful arch and meets it target. A bullseye, landing neatly in the center cup with an empty, plastic clatter. The sound of defeat.
"And that is how it's done."
Some people cheer, others wince at the other man's loss, who is now mumbling something under his breath as he harshly slaps a few bills into Sonar's outstretched palm. His grumbling is too low against the clamorous volume of the music for you to hear, but you're sure it isn't anything nice. You take the lull in the game as an opportunity, weaving through the fringes of the crowd to sidle up next to Sonar where he's backed up against the kitchen counter. He's oblivious to your proximity, too busy counting the cash that he won from the game, nimble fingers rotating through the singles and the couple of fives he'd been given before folding them and slipping them safely inside of his front pocket.
"Good game," you compliment, settling the base of your spine against the counter, leaning your weight on it to get comfortable, standing close enough to him that you can feel the subtle hints of his body heat caressing over your skin. All balmy and unnecessarily pleasant. You try not to focus on it, instead taking another swig of your drink, even though it still makes you grimace as it goes down, spreading a blaze in your gut.
Sonar practically flinches when he hears you, jerking a little, eyes blinking as he tilts away to properly assess you, gaze darting over you from head to toe as though he can't believe you're real. "What— you're here. What the hell are you doing here?"
"Malevola invited me," you answer, voice pitching up to be properly heard. But it's probably needless with how keen his hearing is.
"Mal invited—" his words clip of abruptly, a heavy pause expanding between you both, terribly silent despite the near deafening chaos and excitement fizzling and sparkling across the space around you. As though a cloud had settled over your bodies, and only you two. You dare to look at him then, watching as his eyes dart around the living room before falling steady, locking onto something with an intensity that almost concerns you. When you allow yourself to track his stare, you find Malevola. They gaze at each other from across the distance, and something wordless and personal passes between them. A discussion unsaid, one that you aren't apart of. You aren't sure if the smile on her face should unsettle you or not.
"Cool, cool. That's . . . cool," he says and it takes you a second to realize that he's speaking to you. "So, you enjoying yourself so far? How's the punch? I made it, it's not too b—"
"It's terrible," you answer without hardly processing it, the alcohol having made you a little loose lipped.
"Terrible," he agrees immediately. "It really is."
"What even is it?"
"It's vodka mostly, but there's some tequila in there too, I think. And to make it go down easier I mixed some old lemon soda and a dash of Coke." His eyes widen a little, maybe worried from how you're squinting and glaring at the inside of the cup, analyzing the opaque brown liquid like it's something toxic.
"The drink!" he hastily adds. "Not . . . the substance."
"I'm glad you clarified," you joke, and it catches you off guard. You can't think of a single time where you've ever been this relaxed around Sonar. Sure, he doesn't frighten you or really make you all that uncomfortable, but he is irritating, that is indisputable. Whenever you two happen to be in the same vicinity, it's pretty much a guarantee that some kind of fight will break out, some type of immature bickering. You've never really sat like this. Never allowed yourselves to exist in the same space without some type of vitriolic exchange. It's startling, really, how nice it is. Something as simple as breathing next to each other. Peaceful in a way that sort of scares you.
It would be easy to pin it on the liquor, and hell, maybe it is. But you really don't think so. It flows too naturally, settling somewhere in your spirit too organically; two rigid, jagged pieces finally fitting together. You've spent a lot of time with him, minutes and hours and weeks, spent taunting and troubling each other with stupid pranks and infantile jokes, and right now it's as though all of that history has taken a back seat.
He's different, almost awkward right now. Like he doesn't know what to do with himself now that you're so close to him. As though your proximity has thrown him off, made him loose around the edges. You can't recall a time where he hasn't spoken to you with some level of annoyance or smug superiority, but now he's almost rigid, shoulders drawn up tight, his left hand white-knuckling his beer as though it's a life line. He's nervous.
"Are you alright? You're being all chill right now, it's odd." You eye him from your peripheral vision skeptically, raising a questioning eyebrow.
"What do you mean, I'm always chill."
"Yeah, with other people. You're always giving me shit. You literally call my team 'Dick Team' and you're constantly stealing from my desk. You took my white-out and like, eight of my pens."
"I don't know," he shrugs, and his nose twitches in a way that's always a little adorable — not that you'd ever admit it aloud. "I guess you're just easy to pick on. Plus, you're not innocent either. Are you conveniently forgetting the time you stole my spare suits from my locker? I had to walk around the office completely in the nude; you're lucky I'm confident with my body."
"You deserved it," you volley back.
His gaze narrows, those milky, flat eyes squinting like he's made a clever discovery, read between the lines and now he's all self-congratulatory. You can practically see his chest puffing out in pride, heaving behind the pale fabric of his shirt, all male bravado. "You just wanted to see my dick, didn't you."
An amused puff of air escapes you, making you pause before you take a sparing sip of your drink. "If I wanted to see your dick, I don't think it would take very much."
His mouth drops open, lips parting in a shock that you know is fake, large ears shifting forward, intentionally overexaggerating it before he sets his expression into what seems like an offended sneer. "Are you slut shaming me right now? What makes you so confident, huh? I may have given a few hand jobs behind The Sardine for some blow, but I am not a whore, alright."
"Sure, sure," you agree noncommittedly. It's all so relaxed, your bodies having shifted closer than you think either of you had realized in the time that you've been talking, as though some kind of gravitational pull had gradually drifted you both into the others orbit. So close that everything else becomes faint, a thousand miles away, as though the party surrounding you is a dream, all hazy and distorted and somehow, he's become reality, a centered point. Clear, and vivid, and familiar. It's almost unsettling in a way. How at peace you are standing next to him, with the fridge humming beside you, the overhead cast from the overhead lights bathing everything in a soothing glow, his warmth gliding over you when his arm brushes against yours. Too close and somehow, despite everything, it feels right. Normal.
So of course, your mouth goes and ruins it.
"The poster in your room, that's what makes me so confident, big guy."
He freezes, you can feel his body go still and you want to kick your ass as soon as you register what you've said. You want to tape your mouth shut, or maybe just crawl into a hole and cover yourself with earth until decades pass and you've been able to properly forget this little interaction. But you can't do any of those things, you can't take back time or retract what you've said and now you're left to deal with the aftermath, stranded directly in the middle of it.
"You, you went in my room?" He asks, and now he actually sounds genuinely appalled. Maybe horrified. Now you want to pour the rest of your drink down your throat in the hope that maybe if you're lucky enough, it'll choke you out and you won't have to face this situation. He doesn't give you the opportunity to defend yourself, to try and make some kind of explanation, even though all of the ones that you've been running through your head don't sound all that convincing. And the truth is just as flimsy. Almost worse than the lies you've been mulling over.
Your best friend told me to go snoop inside of your room and so I did?
That sounds terrible.
And now he's leaning into your space, turning on the heels of his shoes to properly face you, crowding close while his mouth shapes into a smile, one of pure delight, all teeth. There's that perverted glint reflecting in his eyes, one you've seen a thousand times, one that's been directed at you, present with every crass joke he's ever made at your expense. Like when he sees you after a particularly rough shift out on the field, combat suit tattered, revealing strips of skin that are typically hidden, he can't seem to resist passing you a sleazy wink. It's the same stare that he gives you when he sees you at the start of your respective shifts, always greeting you with a monotone "Mornin', sugartits." A salutation that's become an expected part of your routine.
"Oh-ho," he chuckles, excited. "Who's the pervert now, huh? Classic case of the pot calling the kettle black."
"Okay," you roll your eyes. Pretending to be exasperated at this point really. A façade to keep him from seeing the relief that floods through you, as though a new life had been breathed into you. The alleviation that comes with dodging a bullet.
He dips his voice low, dropping it into something obnoxious, saturated with faux modesty, his typical monotone flourishing with a lilt. "I hope you didn't steal any of my panties."
"Ew, don't say panties."
He goes quiet again. Leaving you both in another bout of silence, except this one isn't as comforting as before. It's unsure, brittle, shaken in a way that your dynamic, as strange as it typically is, strained and charged, has never really been before. You feel a little lost, like you've been stepping around blindly and your foot has slipped, leaving you tripping and struggling to reorient yourself in a sightless struggle.
If it weren't for the music, you're sure you'd be able to hear yourself breathing. You've become hyperaware of everything. The fit of the clothes on your body and the brush of each individual thread rubbing across your skin, the press of the floor beneath your shoes, the plastic cup within your hand, having long since turned lukewarm, no longer chilled. It all settles you deep into the moment, planting you directly in the thick of it and forcing you to confront it. You can't hide from any of it, and nothing is helping to distract you. Not the music, not the laughter, not even the guy who's passed out on the middle of the living room floor, a man (his friend, hopefully) giggling to himself as he creatively sketches a penis on the unconscious dude's forehead. None of it works.
"But, uh, so what do you think?"
It takes you off guard. The abruptness of him speaking again, the almost timid nature of his tone, reluctant, soft around the edges. For perhaps the first time since you've met him, he sounds uncertain. Anxious. For a second, your brain falls blank, caught and spun up within his sudden embarrassment. He seems modest, a little delicate, prodding you for your approval, and you hate how much you like humility on him. The tips of his ears have gone a little lax, almost as though he's wilting from his own unease, gradually caving in on himself and once again he's holding onto the sweating beer in his grip like it's a comfort blanket.
Everything feels raw. Sensitive. Like there's a new direction spanning out in front of you, expanding, stretching far beyond your ability to comprehend, but it tugs at you. It reaches for you, grasping with inquisitive, longing fingers, urging you to step forward, to take the plunge. You aren't sure what's happening between you two. What caused the shift. If it's just the alcohol getting to both of your heads, or if it's just that damned poster that's caused the change. Struck something previously unseen between you, now demanding to be acknowledged. But as much as it frightens you, you don't entirely hate it, either. It fits somehow, like slipping into a jacket that had gone ignored in the back of your closet for years, unexpectedly snug, warm and well-fitted.
You decide immediately, standing along the fringes of a wild party that seems to exist and carry on outside of you, that you want to test this — whatever this is. You want to study it, live in it, if only temporarily, and discover where it might take you, and if it blows up in your face, then you'll take it. You'll endure it, let it roll off of your back like oil. You can take whatever disaster may come. Take the cowards way out if you have to and pretend that it was all done under the impressionable influence of liquor — one silly night and one dumb moment of vulnerability. And then you and Sonar can go back to loathing each other, returning to the security of those stupid pranks, because that's what you've always done. But for now, you can let yourself be honest, you can indulge in the odd sincerity that's swaddled you both and take that daunting step forward.
"About the poster?" You question, though you really don't have to. "It's fine. I mean, it's what I expected it to be used for if I'm being honest. Though the frame was a bit unexpected. It's kind of sweet. . . In a really strange, sort of creepy way."
"You think so?" He visibly perks up, ears lifting, as though he's been revitalized, life breathed back into him.
You only shrug, but the smile you offer him is the most genuine and gentle thing you've probably ever directed at him, and it seems to soothe whatever doubts he may have had. His eyes seem to widen by a fraction, pale and glittering in the amber lights. You can hardly recall a single moment where you two have ever been so cordial. Sure, you've had rare exchanges in the breakroom. Brief interactions where you would both mind your own business or maybe, you'd coexist long enough to do something inconsequential like grabbing a plastic utensil from one of the drawers to pass it to the other, but that's about as far as your kindness would extend. You've never seen him like this, almost soft. It's jarring, especially because of how pleasant it is.
"I like . . . looking at you." It's such a reluctant confession. It's genuine, hesitant in its delivery, like he's almost afraid to admit it. And then, inevitably, the dreamy expression on his face shifts a little, becoming familiar in the flirtation that's shown. As though he's reminiscing, thinking back fondly on filthy memories, every bit of the pervert that you're used to. "A lot."
In any other circumstance, you'd give him hell for it, insult him a little bit for turning a good thing crass. But weirdly enough, it hasn't ruined the moment. That authenticity is still there, tender, weaving naturally through the conversation despite his antics.
"I like you like this. Us like this, I mean. Not being complete dicks to each other," you divulge. And you almost have to force the words out. They leave you slowly, like if you utter them carefully enough, you might have time take them all back. "It's nice."
"Yeah, I like you too — this too." He clears his throat, the pink flesh of his snout wiggling, crinkling as though he's internally admonishing himself.
If you were still acting like your old self — the you from literally an hour ago — you'd probably tease him for it. This entire night and interaction have given you the kind of blackmail material that you could hold over his head for years, something to dangle and taunt him with whenever he gets under your skin (which is constantly). And yet, the desire to do so barely crosses your mind. It flickers over you, as quick as a dying ember, losing its heat in its trajectory and smoldering out, dark and smothered. And with its passing, something unexpected and more than a little insane blossoms in its place.
You feel crazy by just thinking it, and you want to pin the blame on the horrendous blend of vodka and tequila coursing through your system. But you know yourself. You know your limit, and yes, you can feel the liquor beginning to settle in your body, fuzzy and balmy, but it's clement. Mild. Little more than a dull thrum gliding along your fingertips and toes. You're just starting to feel a buzz, and it's no where near the point where you can't trust yourself to make proper decisions.
You know that if you say what you really want to then you'll reach a point of no return. There will be no pretending, no way to back track. You're staring down an event horizon. But now that you've had this, seen firsthand how life can be between you two, you really don't want to return to your old ways. You don't want the anger and hatred, the constant baring of teeth and the immature, humiliating comments that you both spit back and forth at each other like venom. This connection, as outlandish and unforeseen as it is, is something you can't help craving now that you've had a taste of it, and it forces you to make a realization that you don't think you would have otherwise. That against all odds and common sense, you might actually like Sonar.
Sure, maybe it's just a spur of the moment type of deal. Maybe tomorrow, you both will wake back up and be at each other's throats again as though tonight never happened; treat it like a fantasy. A hallucination. But if that's the case, there's really no reason in fearing the jump, hesitating to take the plunge. You might as well, consequences be damned.
"Hey, do you maybe wanna go to your room and see how that poster on your wall compares to the real thing?"
It doesn't take him long to process what you've said, and when it clicks, he stands ramrod straight. Spine stretching to its full height, ears directed forward as though they've locked onto a target. You don't think you've ever seen anyone's eyes light up with such delight and disbelief before. Glittering with a wonder that seems innocent despite the perverse ideas and images that are no doubt flooding his brain in a deluge of pornographic excitement.
His attention snaps onto you, gaze narrowing, heavy-lidded with equal parts skepticism and joy. "You mean, like, looking at your boobs and stuff?"
For being so smart he has a tendency to act incredibly dense, and yet you find yourself smiling anyway, laughing softly in weary amusement. "Yes, Sonar, like looking at my boobs and stuff."
He stares at you heavily. Long enough for you to almost second guess the offer. For you to get a little insecure. His nose twitches again, like he's trying to sniff out a lie, breathing in the air for even a sliver of hesitation or the hint of a joke on its current. He leans so close that you can smell the cologne on him, fresh and amber, robust with a subtle spice. The clean notes of it still surprise you even now. Honestly, you expected him to wear something like Axe Body Spray, not whatever this is, notably expensive and mouthwatering in a way that's kind of humiliating.
"Are you fucking with me?" He presses, the bushy shape of his brows drawing close in an doubtful pinch. "You can't dangle the promise of boobs in front of man's face like candy and then not deliver. That would be cruel, even for you."
You long to roll your eyes at him, to jab at him for his doubts, but you don't. For reasons beyond you, you're bold tonight. You feel empowered when you reach out and grab ahold of his tie, looping your fingers around the smooth texture of the fabric, rich and fine in your hand, like water inside of your palm as you glide it up the length of the material, seizing ahold the knot secured at the base of his neck. He bows to the drag of your arm without a sliver of resistance, malleable and compliant, all of his previous bark snuffed out with a singular gesture. He lets you guide him into your space, obeying the weight of your hand as you urge him closer, eyes already glazing over like he's become high on your confidence.
"I'm not fucking with you, Sonar. Yet." You answer, and the dopey way his ears droop, already tangled up inside the implications of your words makes you want to laugh. "But play your cards right and you just might get lucky."
His eyes widen with the realization and then he's rambling, a hasty, stumbling stream of emotions pouring over. "Please, please, please, I'll be so good. I'll play my cards right; whatever you want—"
"Then come on."
You barely tug on his tie at all, and he still falls in after you, allowing you to guide him forward as though he's been lured in. Hypnotized and trapped under a spell. You both barely have the minds to leave your drinks behind, forgotten and abandoned in favor of the anticipation and hunger. You move your way out of the kitchenette, Sonar close on your heels, and through the flurry of enthusiasm and sound, you can hear him muttering to himself, brief utterings like, "Holly shit, I can't believe this is actually happening."
It makes you smile, amusement bubbling in your chest, fluttering and light. But you don't make it out of the party unseen. Celebratory voices rise up, following after you two before you can step down the hallway — the Z-Team. Whooping and hollering from their places scattered around the apartment. Wolf-whistles pitching high, laughter popping in the air like fireworks.
To your utter surprise, Sonar doesn't make a comment, missing the prime opportunity for him to shout something douchy. He's too busy chasing after you, mind narrowed down into tunnel vision, pinned on you, locked tight.
It happens in a blur, the trip down the hallway, with how desperate you both are, the thrill of what's to come alive and sharp, working through your bodies like electrical currents. And then you're back in his room, and he's stumbling in after you, quick-footed and taut from his suspense.
"Go sit on the edge of your bed," you order as soon as the door is shut.
"I always knew you'd be the dominating type," he comments, voice syrupy and thick, all satisfied in his quipping. He obeys your command without resistance, walking across the room quickly to seat himself down on the mattress, creating a divot there with his weight. He settles his hands in the middle of his lap, fingers flexing like he's concentrating to combat his own urges, knuckles turning pale. "Don't worry, I know the rules: I can look, but I can't touch."
You huff in amusement, briefly eyeing your poster as you step away from the door before you shift your attention onto him, moving to stand close, directly in front of him. He seems captivated by your movements, staring as you shift yourself in front of him, standing so close that there's only a few inches between your legs and his knees. Just enough room for you to comfortably move around and toe off your shoes, swiping them out of the way with the kick of your feet.
When you lower your fingers to the metal button of your jeans, thumb circling and pressing it down to guide it through the buttonhole, he narrows in on the movement with a zealousness that delights you. It lights up in your veins like an aphrodisiac, hot and pulsing, made intense, overwhelming by the way he watches, as though he's fascinated by your every micromovement. Captivated by how you softly sway your hips to aid your arms in rucking your pants down from around your waist and past your thighs. They pool down around your ankles in a pile, meeting the wooden floorboards with an almost inaudible thump.
You're taken off guard about how you don't feel and ounce of shame or humiliation. It's almost impossible to with how he's observing you, eyes large with fascination. Awe. You didn't imagine that Sonar would be capable of this type of admiration. Innocent in its intrigue despite what you're doing being anything but innocent. He's just . . . tender. Soft even though his want is palpable. Noticeable with the white-knuckled grip he has around his own hands.
It's all the drive you need to reach from the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head in single movement. You let it fall to the floor as you step out of your jeans. And now you're standing in front of him in nothing more than your undergarments, which are completely unsexy. They don't even match, just a basic, lace bra and a pair of cotton underwear, blank gray and boring.
But Sonar is still staring at you as though you created the entire night sky, strung the stars up and molded the moon with your own bare hands.
"I'm not a striper, Sonar. You can touch me," you say, already reaching behind your back to undo your bra's clasp.
"You serious?" His jaw drops a little, fangs poking out, fully exposed from his disbelief. You wonder what it would feel like if he bit you.
"Very," you reply. And then with a few practiced movements, the fastenings come loose, the straps around your shoulders go slack, already slipping from their perches and you let them shift free. Your bra drops down by your feet with the rest of your clothes, and now you're practically naked. The tepid air gliding over your breasts has your nipples hardening, but the salacious look he gives you, roving over you from head to toe, is white-hot. He hasn't even touched you and you already feel as though you're being eaten alive, consumed piece by tiny piece at a time.
But his hands aren't off of you for long. Suddenly, they're there, taking ahold of you, warm and greedy. They slip around your ribs long enough for him to hold you, moving you in between the spread of his thighs with so much enthusiasm that you nearly trip on your feet, but he manages to keep you steady. And then they brush around the shape of your torso in a pair, leaving fire in their wake as they move to grab onto your breasts in avid handfuls, fingers tensing to squeeze.
"This is so much better than how I've imagined it," he remarks as he kneads the swell of your chest, tracing the shape of it with his thumbs.
"Yeah?" you breathe, arching into the press of his fingers when he plucks at your nipples, circling them in teasing glides, causing a thin gasp to snag in your throat. "Better than the picture you've got right there?" You angle your head, gesturing it towards the wall behind you, trying to focus as he continues to play with your breasts as though they're the most fascinating things on the planet, kneading them in zealous gropes.
"Oh yeah," he answers without a second of delay. "That camera really doesn't do you justice in comparison to this; you have no idea."
But you think you do have a pretty good one with how eagerly he's still grasping at you. There's no opportunity to tease him for his desperation. The words you had ready, forming in the back of your mouth are snuffed out as quickly as they were building, vapor in the hollow of your throat. Because now he's tilting forwards, jaw hinging open to lick a long, steady trail between your breasts with the flat of his tongue. It's wet, leaving saliva glittering on your skin, pleasure darting on your nerves from the slick weight of it.
He fucking purrs. Guttural, contented clicks lifting from somewhere deep behind the pit his ribcage as he tastes you. You feel his fangs graze your flesh alongside the drag of his tongue, lethal pinpricks caressing over you in sharp nicks. When your gaze drops downward, jumping to glance down at him, he's already watching you. Eyelids droopy, the flat white of them turned a little vacant, like he's managed to get drunk off of some simple heavy petting.
"This okay?" he slurs around the width of his tongue, refusing to detach the press of it from your body for so much as a second. As though the separation, no matter how temporary, would be debilitating for him. Soul crushing.
"Definitely," you nod.
He doesn't verbally respond. He only hums, a long, satisfied vibration against your skin; you feel it bone deep, trembling inside of your marrow. He gets adventurous now, hands shifting, moving reluctantly from your chest to explore the rest of you. They're everywhere, seemingly all at once. Your back, your waist and hips, moving low to grope the shape of your ass, massaging the fat with an appreciative rumble. And then he's sealing his mouth around your right breast, maw large enough to encompass the entire thing within the stretch of his jaw if he wanted, lips clasping around the nipple to suck.
Your spine bows, muscles coiling from the suction, damp and molten, the serrated edges of his teeth lightly dragging over it, and the dull pain rips a weak moan from your lungs. He's fast to calm the sting with his tongue, circling the large point of it around your nipple, easing the muted throb.
In a blur he's hauling you up into his lap, arms coiling around you like steel bands to secure you to the length of his torso. It leaves you scrambling, gripping onto his shoulders for support, nails biting into his shirt, and through the abruptness of it all you notice it — Of course, he's already hard. Firm and pressing at you through the fabric of his pants. His hands return to your waist, starved for friction, self-restraint fraying around the edges, and he grinds himself between your thighs, right up against your cunt.
You didn't exactly have a plan for this encounter. It was impulsive, abrupt, and you didn't have anything particular in mind except that maybe you'd let him see you naked, maybe you'd tease him a little, indulge in some harmless fooling around. But those initial intentions were quickly slipping right out the window. Maybe they'd been tossed out of it as soon as he'd gotten his hands on you, or maybe they were just a lie you had been telling yourself the entire time. Stupid and flimsy. Meant to trick your own mind, so you could pretend that you didn't want anything more from him. Giving yourself the curtesy of pretending to be shocked by your own actions when you roll your hips to meet his. But deep down in your bones, in the center of your body where your soul might sit, you know you want this and so much more.
He moans when you swivel your hips down, driving them in a steady roll directly against his, right on his cock. He says something, mumbled and clipped around the edges, too distorted for you to make out, but you catch a few swears and pleads scattered inside of his murmurings. Little glimmers of 'fuck yes' and 'just like that.'
It comes over you like a wave, great and sudden, rising within you in a lashing of instincts that can't be ignored. You take ahold of his face, directing it out from your chest, and his loud complaints go disregarded to your ears in favor of threading your fingers through the silky tufts of his fur and nudging his chin up to press your mouth to his.
"Oh, c'mon, don't take 'em away from me ye—" His voice dies out on your lips. His body goes still under you, muscles tensing as though he doesn't know what to do with himself. But his stupefaction is temporary, and now he's moving, hands roving over you and clasping tightly like he wants to steal you away and hoard you for himself.
Kissing him takes a moment to figure out. The mechanics of it aren't the same as it would be with a regular person. His mouth is larger, a little wider, and the narrow shape of his fangs frame the corners of your lips when you press them against his own, the sharp points of them scraping over the delicate skin. But you do manage to find a rhythm, as unusual as it is, though it's not unpleasant by any means. Only different.
It's sloppy, bordering on harsh, though that's mainly due to his enthusiasm. His tongue lapping inside of your mouth, the serrated edges of his teeth nipping, and spit smears from the messy exchange. You've never been particularly aroused by sloppy make outs. You've endured one too many guys who think its sexy to punch their tongues into your mouth, lacking any kind of technique or tact. Locking their lips with yours like they're trying to eat your face whole, but somehow, despite his fervor, he manages to do it in a way that doesn't make you want to crawl out from your skin.
There is a kind of restraint to it. You can feel it in the way that his muscles coil beneath your palms, taut and flexed, as though he's really repressing the desire to extend his jaw and eat you alive. Maybe that should terrify you. He did used to eat people, those are some of the rumors that circulate SDN, at least. That during his stint as a villain, human flesh was a key part of his diet. But you aren't scared of him. A part of you even likes it — not the death part. Just the teeth, the prospect of him biting, and you can't help but imagine what it would be like if those honed barbs of enamel would sink through your skin.
The thought of it, the brief fantasy has you lose control of yourself for only the flashing of a second. Your powers pour from your body in a flare, an uptick of it surging, and in a blink an invisible push has Sonar shoved back on the bed. The oxygen from his lungs escapes him in a whoosh. He stares up at you, eyes wide from his place on his back, arms splayed out and pinned down to the mattress by the thrumming of your power. You expect him to complain, to bitch a little about being thrown around, but there isn't a shred of offense on his face. Once his initial shock wears off, satisfaction takes its place, smug and delighted, as though there's no other place on the entire planet that he'd rather be right now.
"I love a woman in charge. So, now that you've got me all vulnerable and at your mercy like this, what are you gonna do with me?" His ears lean forward while his mouth pulls into a smile, eager, ready to be used up. He's not fighting against the weight of your power. He's malleable beneath it, fully relaxed.
Honestly, you don't know what you want to do with him. You didn't exactly plan to shove him down like this, but now that you have him here, flat on his back and compliant, it's not an opportunity that you can let slip by. It's too good to pass up.
You let your sight spill over him, taking in every inch and detail that you can from your perch around his hips. The heave of his chest, the smear of spit around his mouth, glittering in the warm spill of light projecting through the window. If it wasn't for his fur blocking the view, you're pretty confident that he's blushing, the skin beneath the thick cover of hair flushed red. He's pretty like this, in a lethal, monstrous kind of way, eyes glimmering and eager.
"You gonna let me do what I want?" you ask, pressing your hips down over his bulge, dragging your pussy right over the length of it. You're already wet. You can feel your arousal soaking your underwear, making the fabric cling to you, and the texture of the fabric presses right over your clit when you circle your waist over him.
"You can do absolutely anything you want to me. My body is yours." Such a cornball. And a slut, not that either of those things surprise you in the least.
You don't bother touching him outright. You let your ability do all of the work, mentally shaping your power to pluck at the buttons of his shirt like fingers, carefully slipping his tie loose from around his neck. You feel him try to press into the weight of your field, and you cut him some slack, easing up the pressure enough to give him room to move, to really feel the hum of the energy pulsing around him. So he can indulge in the brush of it gliding across his chest as you continue to pluck the buttons free.
More and more of him gets revealed to you as you work, and you take in each bit of him that gets exposed in an appreciative stare, tugging the drape of his shirt down and over his shoulders between the squeeze of his body and the mattress. You've wondered an embarrassing number of times how far the fur around his head travels. If it just stops at his neck or keeps going. His hands are human, that much you know. And the bit of his forearms that are visible seem the same, except for the thick smattering of hair that peeks out past the rolled-up cuff of his sleeves above the base of his elbows. But that never gave you too much to draw a proper estimation from, no matter how much you tried to imagine it.
Now you finally have your answer. With the final button undone, you're able to tear the front of his shirt open with a lazy push of your powers, gripping ahold of the cotton material with a tangle of energy, and his compliance allows you to tug the sleeves down from around the length of his arms simultaneously. It leaves his shirt nothing more than a wrinkled-up pile of fabric under his waist, forgotten and useless, and his torso is now deliciously bare. Free for you to ogle him, shameless and starved.
The fur keeps going from around his neck, spanning down his shoulders and upper arms. It's thick around his chest, as full and dark as the rest of it, completely covering his pectorals in a rich coat. His abdomen is bare though. Human, pale soft skin, defined and shaped by light muscles — abs, he has abs? — that you didn't expect; lithe but still visible. And there, from top to bottom is a thick stretch of hair that splits directly down the middle of his torso, expanding out from his chest, starting from his sternum and scattering in a path all the way down until it vanishes under the waistline of his pants. Referring to it as a happy 'trail' wouldn't do it any justice. It's too broad, made from a heavy scattering of coal gray fur, probably almost as wide as the width of your palm.
It's stupid how hot it is.
"Like what you see, huh?" Sonar gloats. "I knew you would."
"Oh, shut up." You scoff, but there's no real bite in your voice. You're too distracted to really chide him.
"Nah," he responds. So much arrogance dripping from one tiny word. He's a little too confident in your opinion, content and relaxed underneath the pulse your energy, white-hot, an electrical field molding around the shape of him, swaddling, stroking against his skin and fur. It's made him relaxed. Happy to lounge and soak up the sensation of it all.
"I could shut you up, you know?" You lean in a little, just enough that you can feel the warmth from his muzzle brushing over your nose. "Pretty easily."
"I'd love to see you try," he goads.
You don't bother with any cheeky one-liners or boastful assurances; you just do it. The field flowing from your skin funnels, molding down into the vague shape of a hand, elongated fingers stretching around the width of his snout to trap it shut, wrapping and overlapping to seal his jaw together. Tight enough to be secure, but not enough to cause any pain. But you want him to feel it. To know that it's there, and you aren't disappointed. You see the realization creep in on his face. First, it's confusion, brows drawing close in a bewildered furrow, and then understanding dawns after, eyes expanding as he stares at you. It's that particular expression that makes you feel truly in control. You've got him at your fingertips, spun up and contained within the threads of your grip like a fly strung within a web. But unlike a fly, he doesn't seem all that concerned with getting free.
All of his initial shock has drained away, fleeting, and now all that remains is pure, unadulterated joy. As though he's thrilled by the prospect of being put in his place, pinned down beneath you. You should have expected this honestly. All of the months he's spent burrowing under your skin, plunging himself there like a thorn, burrowed deep and irritating. It makes sense, and you're pretty disappointed with yourself for not noticing it sooner. All of the verbal sparring in the past, the stupid fights and arguments, they've been foreplay to him.
. . . And for you too, if you're going to be truthful with yourself. He knows how to get you heated, how to piss you off in just the right way, more often than not, about the most inconsequential, pathetic things. It was only four days ago that you two spent, probably about fifteen minutes fighting over the copy machine and who got to use it first.
(You were both so caught up with being petty that two other people had used it while you were arguing.)
You both debated with more passion required for something so trivial, crowding up into each others spaces, so close that you could smell his cologne. It was a simple thing, and if it were anyone else, you would have been more than alright with allowing them to go ahead before you, but it wasn't anyone else, it was Sonar. And because of that, you two remained that way, caught up in the tension building between you, thick and toxic like poisoned fumes, because the hatred gave you an excuse to be close.
But you don't need that excuse anymore — you probably never did. Now you can sit in his presence and not have to pretend to loathe the air he breathes. You can touch him and not make excuses for the soft-edged fuzz that fills the center of your stomach whenever you're around him, wedging behind the pulse of your heart, cradling it in cotton and warmth, soaked in sugar.
It's a little terrifying, how much you like this. Him. But you don't want to run from it either. Not now at least, when you have him splayed out and wanting.
You shift back, moving the press of your body from his hips to slip a little lower, settling down across his thighs instead. Sonar responds as best as he can, a mournful, petulant groan rumbling from his chest in an inarticulate complaint about the absence of your weight on his cock. You know that if he was still able to talk that he'd be giving you a mouthful right now. You can see his desire to grumble and protest reflecting in his eyes, burning and passionate. That bit of indignation is doused out quickly as soon as he notices his slacks being unbuttoned by an invisible force, the polished button slipping free from its notch with a simple tug.
You only pause long enough to give him ample time to reconsider, eyeing him from your place on his thighs with an evaluating stare. You don't let him free completely, easing up the potency of your hold enough for him to give you some kind of indication that he's having second thoughts. You get the total opposite. His head lifts up, now free to do so, craning downward so that he's able to properly look at you, chin brushing against his chest. And then he's nodding, frantic and overzealous; muffled words are trapped behind the ghostly hold around his snout. You can't understand the majority of it, but you are able to make out a smothered "hell yes, please," before the rest becomes completely inaudible.
That's all it takes for you to slip the zipper down its metallic teeth, pulling it with a hand that isn't truly there. You let yourself watch the show, sitting back on the support of his thighs, while your powers do all the work. He just as entranced by the display, staring down while his pants and boxers get rucked down in a steady grip, bunching up in their downward drag. You lift yourself just enough for the rest of his clothes to slip off around his ankles, and you remove his shoes and socks with it all in one firm tug. They fall down somewhere at the edge of the bed, landing with a pronounced thump.
He's fully naked know, exposed to the scope of your attentions, and you are entirely brazen as you take in the sight of him. Visually eating up every sliver of his body like it's a feast for your eyes — to you it is. Because damnit, as much as that tiny part of you that's trying so badly to cling onto your hatred doesn't want to admit it, you have to. He is pretty.
He's there, all of him, spread out for you to admire every detail. The athletic muscles and the subtle divots of his ribcage contacting with his every breath; the way the dim whisps of light catch on the dark smoky hue of his coat, tracing along the pale hue of his skin in fragments of gold, his large eyes shimmering like twin pearls as they watch you.
And then there's his cock, long and rock hard, head flushed a dusty pink. He looks turned on enough for it to seem painful, the veins trailing down the considerable length are throbbing — leave it to Sonar to be practically ready to bust from a little dry humping. He's already leaking, precum trickling from the tip in a decent flow, pouring all the way down the entirety of his cock and dampening the thick bush of fur covering his balls. It's a pretty impressive amount that he's produced considering that all you've done is some making out and a little grinding. You can't imagine what it'll be like once you actually fuck him, how soaked and full he'll get you. It's almost humiliating how much the thought of it affects you, and your blood seems to turn molten at the prospect of filled up to the brim until its leaking out of you, your pussy clenching around nothing.
"Christ, Sonar, is this normal?" You can't keep the awe out of your voice, but you can't be bothered to contemplate how your obvious astonishment is going to have terrible consequences on his already inflated ego.
He's not able to give much of an answer, but the flirtatious way his brows lift up is conformation enough. You can practically hear his voice in your ears despite his silence, a conceited, "Pretty impressive, right? There's a lot more where that came from."
You don't sit in your stupor for long. It's difficult, now that you have him in front of you like this. You don't resist temptation any longer. As much as you want to touch him yourself, to bask in the warmth of his skin against your palms, you also want to be able to absorb every twitch and microexpression unencumbered, and so you let your powers encapsulate him entirely. It's holding his mouth, sweeping over his chest, pinning down his hips, and now, it's coiling around his cock.
He tries to lurch, body involuntarily shaking and jerking against the weight of your influence, restrained and embraced within the expanse of it, but he's helpless. Caught.
You mold the shape of your power around his girth, fitting snuggly over the whole length of him, tight and heated. You get to watch as the glide of that indiscernible grip smears the wet rivulets of his cum over blushed skin, making him soaked and messy. Maybe it's a little mean how you get to toy with him like this. Sitting, (mostly) unaffected, turning him into your own personal entertainment while he's tortured by a pressure that he can't see, only feel. And it's everywhere. You extend it across the planes of his body, encompassing him, stretching hands and solid weight over his chest, threading a stimulating energy through his flesh and sinew, saturating him at a level that'll root down to his atoms.
Phantom fingers rake through his fur; they caress his skin and seep into his limbs like a throbbing warmth. It has to be overwhelming. Agony in the best way possible, and the expression on his face reflects that. It's crumbled, all pinched tight as though he's in pain. His chest heaves, a thin breath hiccupping within the back of his throat, a purr blurring with a pathetic whine.
It's such a good look for him, pathetic and a little fucked out.
"Is this what you do when you're in here?" You lean forward, holding yourself up by settling your hands on the base of his hips, fingers gripping onto the silky coat that envelops his lower waist and upper thighs. "You sit in here at night jerking off to a poster like some kind of perv."
He's nodding again — it's all he can do while you keep him muzzled and work his cock with firm, invisible strokes. Drawing his arousal out of him, making it spill from him in a flow that's thick and constant. He tries to speak regardless. He's rambling, a flood of words gushing from him, welling up inside the hollow of his throat with no where to go. And maybe you're just weak willed. Pathetic in your own way, but you're intrigued — desperate, really — to hear what he has to say.
As soon as you release his mouth, a deluge of comes rushing out of him, utter filth. Voice all slurred and rapid, carried out on a moan that almost sounds pained. " — ou have no idea. So many nights. So many fucking nights, fucking my fist wishing I was pumping into you instead. So fucking — I can smell you right now and it's killing me. I want you to soak me; it's gonna feel so good. I know it will. C'mon, ride me, sit on my face, I don't care. I don't —"
It's a snap kind of decision. Jarring in its arrival. Hurtling down on you with all the mercy of a violent storm. But it's so inspired by the sheer scope of his want, the passion of it, that you're tired of all the fanfare. You two have been at it for long enough, the constant push and pull, the denial of feelings, and the fissures that's been weakening your resolve have finally grown too wide, and it splits your restraint right down the middle. With the loss of your self-discipline, your powers go with it, the gentle weight that you've been suppressing him with vanishes like a light.
"Sonar." You breathe, collecting yourself as best as you can. Gripping tightly onto his thighs to steel yourself against the rampant emotions welling up inside of you. That want, the anticipation; lust and liquid fire blazing in the pit of your stomach. "I want you to fuck me. Think you can do that?"
"Do I think—" His eyes narrow with his offense, growing sharp at the challenge. It's the only warning you get before he's hauling you up, hands as strong as iron when they grab onto you and flip you over on your back. The air in your lungs slips free, rattled from the jarring swap in perspective when you meet the mattress with a cushioned thump. He's over you now, caging you in with his hands on either side of your face, his hips wedged between your thighs, forcing your legs open, keeping you pinned and helpless by his weight.
He's so close that he blots out the poor streaks of light spilling inside of the room, and now it's only him, eaten up by shadows. Consuming your vision, and he almost seems wild. His teeth glimmer, soft and lithe like porcelain. Only inches away from your face, it's perhaps the first time you've actually considered how massive they are. But you're forced to confront it now with how close they're hovering within your proximity, imposing, fatal in their potential to sink into you and tear. By all accounts, it should be a little terrifying, but you aren't scared.
Like a damned degenerate, you're only turned on. Maybe it's the threat of danger, or maybe it's because it's just Sonar. It's hot because he's the one who's draped over you. Trapping you in place, keeping you wedged between the warmth of his body and the smooth press of a comforter that probably costs more than your monthly income. If it were anyone else, you'd have the urge to resist more, but for whatever reason — from pure horniness or something deeper — you trust him.
"You're a real pain in my ass, you know that?" He sneers, lips pulling back to flash those rows of jagged teeth. His eyes flash, red scintillating behind the white, opaque hue of them; a hellish glow. It's the same shade that overtakes his stare whenever he goes full bat, crimson, monstrous. It makes your heart race a little faster. "Always walking around with that holier than thou attitude."
"Because you're such a delight to be around," you quip.
"I mean, I must be, considering that you're the one who dragged me into my bedroom during a party so I could fuck you," he snarks back. And yeah, he makes a good point, but you aren't going to tell him that.
You could insult him back, take the boring, simple route to try and one up him. But in the duration that you've been co-workers, you've learned a thing or two about Sonar, and it's this: Despite being a savvy, tactful business and con man, that intellect and cunning do not follow him throughout all of life's facets. He may be guileful, but when it comes to sex, he's a complete and utter sucker. And you can have him in the palm of your hand if you lean into those vices. It's a little dirty, but, maybe it's his fault for being easy.
You soften your expression, refocusing it from irritated to coy. If he was a little sharper, he'd be able to see right through it, but Sonar is a slave to his desires and it clouds his judgement. You know as soon as he sees the tender, flirty look on your face that you've got him. Hook, line, and sinker. And all it takes is for you to turn a little bashful, playing into the act by arching your back, flaunting your breasts and shoving them directly into the plush fur layered across the contours of his chest.
You reach up with both hands to cradle the sides of his face, combing your fingers through the dark fluff there, curling them to scratch your nails over the soft skin underneath to relax him. He melts like butter, going lax as though his skeleton is made of wax and he's been held over hot coals. Eager and willing. The sharp, pitchy chirps that reverberate from the pocket of his lungs, trilling through the depths of his throat, are telling enough that you've got him right where you want him. But if you had any doubts, that glazed sheen that glosses over his eyes would have been enough to destroy any of that uncertainty.
"Come on Sonar, you've finally got me right where you want me. You said it yourself, remember? All of those nights spent right here, all alone with nothing but your hand, wishing I was here." You draw him closer and he lets you move him. His arms bend and drop down until he's holding himself up with his elbows, leaning in towards you so his nose is brushing on yours. It lets you tilt your chin towards him, angling your head so that you can press a kiss over his mouth, chaste and brief, a brush against the smooth shape of a single fang. "So why don't you just take what you want?"
His body has gone tense. He feels like a live wire being pulled from both sides, taut, muscles quivering and skin searing. You can feel his cock, heavy and throbbing, sitting on your stomach. You can't see it from how close your bodies are, but you know that he's still leaking. Precum is dribbling onto your bare skin, leaving it damp and wet from his arousal.
Usually you would tell a guy to eat you out before hand, or at the very least, stretch you out with their fingers before they even think of putting their dick inside of you. But you really don't think that you have the patience for that tonight. You're pretty sure that if he doesn't get inside of you within the next five minutes that you might actually lose it.
"Sonar, please —"
He severs your voice off before you can finish speaking. "I'm gonna fuckin' ruin you. Don't say you didn't ask for it."
You hardly register the sound of fabric tearing over the throaty snarl of his voice, but you feel your underwear being ruthlessly ripped from around your waist. He shreds them like they're made of paper, flimsy and delicate, but the noise they make is as harsh as the bite of them tugging into your flesh before they give to ferocity of his pulling. He's reduced them to scraps, and you just barely manage to track the scattered bits of their remains fluttering through the air when he tosses them. Or what's left of them.
You aren't super upset about the loss, but you wouldn't have had the chance to be pissed off anyway, because in what seems like a near instant, he's slipping cock down to the entrance of your cunt. Notching the head there, getting it slick and soaked, and then he's pushing himself inside in a single, brutal stroke that steals the oxygen from your lungs like a hit to the chest.
You're wet. You've been wet since the moment you had gotten him pinned down on the bed, but that doesn't make taking him all at once any easier. You vaguely catch yourself shouting his name, you feel your arms fly up to grab at his shoulders for stability, but it all seems so distant. As though you've been separated from your body, already overwhelmed from the girth of him splitting you open, forcing your pussy to adjust and give around the shape of his cock. It fills you with an ache that almost hurts. A sting that throbs and sears through your middle, but it also feels good in the best way possible. A sensation that balances delicately between the blurred line that splits pleasure and pain into their respective halves.
Your hips twist, body involuntarily floundering like it doesn't know if it wants to shift away or move in closer to the weight of him. You aren't sure what you want either, tortured deliciously on the length of him, devastated and hyper-stimulated, and you've only just started.
"Ah, ah, ah." He admonishes, arrogant, catching your waist in the tight clasp of a single hand. Holding you down on the mattress. He's smiling at you but it's all teeth. "You wanted this so badly. So be good and take it."
He draws himself back, retracting his cock until he's sitting inside of you by only the tip, and then with another long push he's fucking himself inside of you in a grueling pace. It's deep, heavy strokes. The kind that hits spots inside of you that you haven't had a guy find a long time. It shows a level skill that you really weren't expecting from Sonar. As much as you wanted to sleep with him, you never truly bought into all of his bravado and flaunting, especially those boasting his supposed sexual prowess. You figured that he was just gassing himself up. That he'd been lied to by one too many women and was actually out of touch enough to believe them.
You've never been happier to be proved wrong.
"Shi — God — fuck, Sonar." You ramble in disbelief, words shoved up out of your throat by the repetitive drag of his cock. Your fingers lock around the width of his shoulders, nails digging into them with enough strength that you know they're splitting flesh under the edges. He doesn't seem to mind the bite of them though.
Air puffs from his lungs, the amused brush of it gliding along your face. You know that your blissed out cries are doing wonders for his ego. He's going to be unbearable after this. If he was hell to endure before this, then every second at work from this day onward are going to be insufferable. But it's worth it. Absolutely worth it.
"Feelin' good, aren't you." It's rhetorical. Even your brain, as stunted and sluggish as your thoughts are becoming, is still able to gather that much. You nod regardless, your head rolling loosely on your neck because you can't be bothered to manage anything else. All you want to do is take it. To let yourself be greedy, delightfully overwhelmed. You hear him chuckle, low and smug in your ears. "I love you like this. It suits you, pretty and fucked out. I should keep you right here, in my bed, all the time. Sounds like a good plan to me, what do you think?"
"Fuck yes," you answer, breathing through a particularly intense thrust that makes your eyes roll.
"Yeah," he rumbles. "I agree."
His hips grind down on you, catching your clit on the rough patch of hair on his pelvis, and the texture shoots sparks over your nerves. You chase after the sensation of it, lifting your legs up to circle around his waist, rolling your pelvis to meet the rhythm he's set. Drawing out the ecstasy that lights up within you, eating its way through your bones and veins, rippling up your spine in a thick spiral.
He groans when you tighten around him, curling in on you to drop his head into the junction of your neck. He swears into your skin, strained and inflected with quiet tremors. The hand he has around your thigh squeezes, and the talons that's grown in place of his usual filed nails catch on your flesh, dragging to leave marks, etching the evidence of his grip onto your body.
"Do that again," he begs, groaning lowly against your throat. "Just one more time. Feels so good —"
His words are clipped off. Dead air when you tighten yourself around him again, gripping him with your cunt, wet and warm. You aren't disappointed in his reaction. He whines a little, pathetic and relieved, as though you've grazed over something buried deep inside of him, vulnerable and gutted. He jerks up, muscles coiled as though it takes a great amount of effort and discipline to do, lifting himself above you so that he's bearing most of his weight on his knees. And then he's raising an arm with the movement, stretching it out over you to cling onto the headboard, holding it so tightly that you know his knuckles are bleached from the strain.
It has your hips tilting, shifting from where your ass is settled on the front of his thighs and it makes the angle he's fucking you in change. He hits so deeper than before, the width of his head grazing right along your g-spot and your jaw drops from the heavy strokes.
"Sonar," you gasp raggedly.
"Victor," he replies. Spits out between the clench of his teeth.
"Huh?" You ask dumbly, brows furrowing while you pant through each pronounced thrust.
"It's Victor. Please say it. I wanna hear you say it. Thought about it so much." He babbles.
Despite the fact that he's in the middle of railing your brains out, you smile. A lovestruck, drunken grin. It's sweet. Nice. Your heart swells a little, because regardless of your old hatred for each other, all the hostility and aggression, he's willing to share something so personal with you. Sacred. You decide then that maybe it's only fair that you return the exchange, even though he didn't ask for you to. It just makes sense. You have to focus to say it, holding in a gulp of air so that you're able to properly vocalize, and once you can, you don't hesitate. You say your name, loud and clear.
His eyes go a little wide at the sound of it, lighting up with recognition, and you could laugh at the adorable expression if you weren't so preoccupied.
"That's my name," you offer.
"I know." He responds, nodding as best as he can. "I . . . shit . . . I hacked into Blazer's computer and read you file a little after I got boarded onto the Phoenix Program." He notices your confusion, sees the shock blatant and bare on your face, and he must feel regretful because his brows furrow, something that seems a lot like a worried frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "That's not a turn off for you, is it?"
You should probably be angry. Or annoyed. It's a clear invasion of privacy and a clear violation of company security and somehow, once the surprise wears off, you don't manage to feel so much as a flicker of rage or irritation. You're indifferent. Uncaring, but maybe that's only because he's balls deep inside of you, and once this is over, that repressed indignation — if there is any — will come swelling up the surface. Now though, you can't be bothered to care.
"No, not really," you shake your head, though it's a little restricted from the pillows crowded around your skull.
"Cool."
The entire interaction is laughable, and it's exactly the sort of thing you had expected from him — Victor. It's a fitting name for him, though you probably wouldn't have guessed it yourself if you had been asked to —
"Victor!" you gasp abruptly, chest heaving at a rough drag. His cock ploughs through you, and it sounds sloppy. Wet, messy noises fill the room, made each time he pulls himself out of you and thrusts back inside.
"Yeah, just like that. Let me hear it," he urges, leaning as close to you as he can while still gripping onto the headboard. The mattress is creaking, or maybe it's the bedframe, rattling and groaning with every grind. Even with the music playing throughout the rest of the apartment, if anyone were to wander down the hall, the noises coming from inside of this room are unmistakable. It's bad enough the Z-Team had practically announced to everyone at the party what you two were doing in here, but that doesn't mean that you want someone to be able to listen in, either.
And the noises he's pulling from you don't help matters, but you can't help it. He's got you stretched open, dousing you with fire and bliss with every rock of his hips, punching moans from you with too much ease.
"Slow down. People are gonna hear."
He seems affronted by the mere idea of it, eyes squinting into a glare as though you've slapped him (but he would probably enjoy if you did that, honestly). "I don't care. Someone could come crashing through the door like the fucking Kool-Aid man, and I still wouldn't stop. Let them hear."
And maybe you are thankful that he doesn't change his pace, because you can feel yourself getting close. The muscles in your abdomen flex with your impending orgasm, drawing tight to hurtle you over the edge. Dragging you closer and closer to the fringes of a rapture that feels molten. Scorching liquid pooling in the base of your gut, searing within the junction of your hips to ravage you from the inside out, smoke searing through your sinew and blood.
It's building within you with a startling ferocity, twisting and frothing under your sweat-slick skin; a torrent of sensation seething at a bone deep level. You grab at whatever you can to settle yourself through the anticipation, nails digging at his shoulders, his chest, reaching around the claw at his spine. If it wasn't for the fur cloaked thick down his back, taking most of the damage, you're pretty sure that you'd be leaving scratches behind, nasty and raw.
He groans, some rumbling noise that comes from a place deep inside of him, right from the depths of his lungs. It urges you to look at him, lashes fluttering as you nudge your chin to stare at him above you. It's impossible not to admire him like this, sweat glittering over the sections of his exposed skin, simmering in faint flecks of gold, made more dramatic by the shadows pouring over his body like spilled ink. Your vision traces over as much of him as you can, struggling to keep your attention focused through the bliss eating away at your soul, but you manage it. Sweeping your vision over the arm gripping onto the headboard, muscles made defined from the tension keeping them stiff. The tendons and veins in his wrist bulging from the exertion, locking his fingers around the the wooden structure in a vice grip.
His focus is drawn elsewhere, head bowed downward to watch the pornographic view of his cock repeatedly plunging in and out of you. Ears tipped forward to listen to the wet smack of him filling you up, stretching you open around his girth. You can't help but to look now, angling your chin to see it for yourself. Taking in the way his abdomen heaves, abs clenching as he drives himself into you, his girth visibly soaked with the combination of your arousal.
You can't help how seize up, pussy clenching around him and he practically whimpers because of it, gasps slipping from his mouth in low, thin puffs of air. "Fuck, you're getting so tight, it's — baby, you're, you gettin' close? You gonna come for me?"
You're barely able to make yourself nod, much less talk, and all you can push from your throat is a sluggish sounding "Mmhmm."
"Yeah, I can tell," he remarks, settling back into an arrogant, but weakly put together façade like he wasn't just whining because of you a few seconds ago. "I wanna feel it. You can let go for me, make a mess. I wan' you to soak me with it. I need to smell you on me for days."
It's disgusting, utter filth, and yet you don't think you've ever been more turned on in your entire life. His mouth latches onto your breast just as his free hand wedges between your bodies, shifting low for his fingers to slip between the slick press of where you both meet, thumb finding your clit with deft precision, careful not to accidentally nick you with his claw. He works tight circles around it, and you jerk from the gush of pleasure it provides, ecstasy hurtling through your blood stream like an electrical pulse. He keeps his pace consistent, steadily working you up, the heat swelling to a new high, suspended by the sweep of his damp thumb around your clit and the wet suction of his tongue. Lapping and tracing your nipple into his mouth, grazing it shallowly with his teeth.
You're right there, just a tiny step away from the precipice, a long drop that'll sweep you under, and you chase after it. Rolling your hips to meet the drive of his own, hurtling you both closer to your respective orgasms. And all it takes is a few more thrusts, the heavy drag of his cock stretching you open, repeatedly nudging into that sensitive spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll, the repetitive coast of his thumb working around your clit, for you to tip into a devastating end.
You try to warn him, a weak moan cresting from your throat, but that's practically all you manage. A pathetic hiccup of his name, broken and lazy on your tongue, but he understands the warble regardless.
"That's right. Give it to me, le' me feel it," he urges, a smoky purr in your ears. When he detaches his mouth from your chest with an audible, sloppy pop, tongue sticking out to lick a path up to your shoulder, you aren't expecting him to sink his fangs into the junction of it. The pain bleeds through you right when you come, either exceptionally well-timed on his part, or executed purely on luck, but the sharp throb of it is the final push you need to give in to the rush. You light up like you've been thrown into a pyre, everything in you drawing up tight like you're bound in tugging strings. Clenching, muscles spasming almost violently to wring out every possible ounce of pleasure.
Your nails dig into the flesh on his back, sinking past the barrier of his fur to scratch. You feel the sound of his moan reverberate along your fingertips, humming across your throat from the clasp of his teeth banded around your neck. You hear the whimper in your ears, a punched out, elongated murmur, broken up only by a string a profanity and pleads, and then you feel him come, only seconds after you. It floods you with warmth, a steady, copious flow that fills you up, full to the brim and drenched from the warmth of it. Your spine arches from the sensation of it gushing inside of you, waist angling up in some primal urge take in every last drop.
He groans deeply, an exhausted, satiated noise before he lets go of the headboard and all but collapses onto of you, cushioning his fall by temporarily taking the brunt of his weight on his elbows. His body crowds over yours, shoulders hunched as he closes over you, satiated with the kind of satisfaction that hums in one's marrow, down in their blood. But he doesn't stop. He's not even pulling out at this point, he's just grinding against you, pressing the subtle swell of his pelvic bone into your clit in sluggish, languid swivels.
You're sensitive from your first orgasm. Everything feels raw from the pleasure still popping and fizzling across your nerves, aftershocks ebbing and flowing through you. It makes the press of his hips grinding against yours almost too much, too good, too harsh. He still hasn't let go of your shoulder, though his teeth have slackened, the bite of the enamel going lax, but not releasing, and the sting makes you twitch and tremble.
It catches you off guard, the blossom of it heating between the messy apex of your thighs, completely unexpected. You come again, much gentler than your pervious. A smaller orgasm riding off of the first, light and fleeting in comparison, but just as good in its own way. Sweeping over you in a dreamy, balmy glide, a summer gale ghosting over your skin, making your thighs twitch, ribcage shuddering from the delicate weight of it.
It's only then that he stops, the overstimulation having become too much for the both of you, and the sluggish grind of his hips slow to a halt. He sags against you completely, relaxing with an appeased sigh, and he finally releases his teeth from around the tender, raw flesh on your shoulder. He lets his head slump on your chest, nuzzling into the shape of your breasts with a pleased huff, and the massive width of his ears unintentionally nudge across your nose with the movement.
You want to laugh, maybe you do, but it's difficult to tell with the flood of endorphins surging through your system, stuffing your brain full of a calm, hazy fog. You're covered in a layer of sweat; his cum is trickling out past the plug of his cock, wet and slick across the inside of your thighs, and he bit you hard enough that you won't be surprised to find out that you're bleeding whenever you manage to drag yourself to the bathroom. The bastard. Most people only have to worry about hickies, but it feels like he damn near took a chunk out of your shoulder.
You wince at the sting, groaning lowly when a dull throb pulses over your nerves, and that seems to attract Sona— Victor's attention. He lifts his head up from your chest just enough to properly look at you, and you notice his eyes shifting through the glow of the city lights, flickering as though he's assessing you. He looks like a mess, but you doubt you're any better. His fur is all disheveled, the long tuft between his ears is mussed, his eyes are hazy, clouded over from sex, and there's a clear smile tugging softly at the corners of his mouth.
"Don't worry, you're not bleeding," he mumbles, still slurring at little around the edges. Well that answers that, at least. His eyes rove over where he sank his teeth into you, no doubt appreciating the impressions that his canines have left on your skin. "I'm sorry for biting you, I kinda have a tendency to get a little caught up in the moment."
You roll your eyes at that, not judgmental, just amused. "No, you're not."
He hums at that, a syrupy, gratified noise. Thick, rich, a purr. "You're right, I'm not."
He yelps when you swat at him, smacking your hand on his back, but it's mostly out of surprise. You're still sluggish. Limbs rubbery and lethargic, and you know that even your best hit right now wouldn't be enough to cause any actual pain.
"Ow," he grouses. "The hell was that for?"
"That was for biting me, you ass."
"I said I was sorry."
"I know," you reply, unimpressed. But he's easy to soothe, the furrow between his brows smoothing out as soon as you press a kiss the tip of his nose. The silence that follows after is tranquil in a way, and you both just allow yourselves to sit in it. Absorbing the silence (well, it's sort of silent, you can still hear the party outside bleeding in past the walls), enjoying the other's body heat and the rise and fall of your chests. He takes the lull as the opportunity to slip out of you, and you both hiss from the sensation of it, too tender for it to be enjoyable. Worse than that though, is the gush of his cum pouring out of you, a profuse amount, way more than a normal man would produce, and now it's soaking down your thighs.
"Shit, that's . . . a lot," you mutter in astonishment, mostly to yourself. You can feel it cooling on your skin already, becoming tacky, sticking your flesh as it trickles down the swell of your ass in a stagnant flow. It's disgusting. So gross, and so soon as you find the will to move, you're immediately taking a shower.
"Yeah," Sonar agrees, but it doesn't share a single shred of your awe or mounting disgust. He's knelt down between your legs now, attention fastened down on your cunt, no doubt watching how his cum is flowing from you in its abnormally heavy pour. His hands settle across your thighs, squeezing them within his palms, massaging the pale ache from them as he gently guides them open, spreading you so that he can get an unimpeded view. "Can we stay like this, for just a minute?" He asks, and the expression that crosses his face lets you know that he's not above begging for it.
"Ugh, you're such a guy, I swear," you grumble, but it lacks venom. You don't resist or make any effort to deny him. You remain reclined, settled back on the rumpled blankets, swaddled in the silk, cool and gossamer on your heated skin, catching your breath.
"I now the timing is a bit weird, considering I'm staring at your pussy right now, but . . . " he trails off, gesturing his snout down towards the middle of your legs, and you don't resist the urge to playfully nudge your knee into his side at the motion of it. He smiles a little at the jab, but it's a dull one. The hesitance in his voice doesn't fade. He remains soft spoken, hushed, as though this moment is fragile and he's afraid it might shatter if he handles it too roughly. "I just want to say that I am sorry. For how I've been acting, how I treated you when we first met. . . I know it's not much of an excuse, but I was embarrassed, I guess. You were this sexy, big shot hero — someone who — " he sighs. "I've followed your career for years, believe it or not. And then I was just fucking up. Right in front of you, and I hated it. And then I made you hate me, so . . ."
"So you've been acting like a dick this entire time because you have a crush on me?" You ask bluntly. It's without hatred, or the means to offend. You don't want to ruin this, to squander it or give him a reason to withdraw inside of himself, to hide behind his usual ego. He's being a genuine, a rare show of the man who lies beneath all of that debonair flirtation, and you're drawn to it, his vulnerability. His trust in you. There's an undeniable sweetness there that you long to explore, to understand on an intimate level, saccharine and serene.
"Well when you put it like that it sounds stupid."
"Because it is."
"Hey, I'm trying to be honest here. So can you not? Way to kick a guy while he's already down." There's no true snark in his tone. Maybe some frustration but that seems to stem from himself, rather than you. It's humiliation, clear as day, etched in the gold and the dark that filters in through the window, winking lights bathing the room and the shape him in their shifting, incandescing hues. Spilling over his embarrassment like a spotlight.
If you're being honest, you have to take some of the blame. You were fairly quick to cast your criticisms on him, to snub him as soon as you met. Labeling him off as a lost cause and you hadn't bothered looking back, did it without a flicker of hesitation. You'd met him when he was in a stressful situation, and even though he absolutely handled it poorly, baring his teeth, lashing out as though you were the problem, you hardly paused to properly consider him. You gave up. Just like he did. You both hold an equal number of wrongs in this, choosing to squabble like a pair of middle schoolers instead of sharing a conversation like actual adults. It's uncomfortable to think about, to confront the reality of it. To admit that you aren't perfectly blameless. It's bitter, a vile pill sitting on the flat of your tongue, but you will yourself to swallow the truth down anyway.
"It's fine. I treated you pretty badly too." You sign deeply, and for a moment you allow your focus to flicker about the room, a temporary distraction from intently he's watching you now. This entire thing should be a whole lot more awkward. You're naked, he's naked, and he's sitting directly between your cum smeared thighs, and somehow, despite all of uncertainties, it's not so bad. It feels natural, in a way. As simple as breathing. "We both made some mistakes. We were stupid. Really stupid. I mean, we could have been doing this the entire time if we'd just pulled our heads out of our asses."
You joke to lighten the mood, and when you return your attention back to him, you're relived to see that it worked. That the smile on face is a little more authentic, the ghost of his usual demeanor slipping back into his body. His posture straightening, filling out with his confidence; expression now relaxed, blithe. "A true shame," Victor agrees.
"I guess we'll just have to make up for lost time then." It travels across the atmosphere like a kind of offering. An extension of an olive branch, a white flag waving up in a hopeful surrender. A vow, a promise, an extended hand waiting to be accepted, taken in by another reaching palm.
His smile is answer enough, appeased, happy. The remnants of the worry that was clinging on to him has finally relented, withdrawing its claws to slink back, forgotten. Like maybe, a part of him had been worried — expectant that you would want to go back to the way things were. To pretend that tonight never happened, a moment of weakness that would get shunned into the shadows. But that's not going to happen. Not in a thousand years. You want this. Whatever it is. And now that you've had him, seen what you can have with him, you're not letting it slip from your grasp so easily.
"Yeah, I guess we will," he agrees.
That feeling passes between you two again. The same one you experienced back in the kitchen. That hopeful, wistful shift. A current gliding between you, sanguine and irresistible. A lure, a shimmering of lights that you both can't help but fall for.
His grin stretches, turning wolfish, sharp but no less ecstatic, canines flashing, pale and lethal. The grip on your thighs strengthens, fixing around you tightly just before they release to settle his palms on the bed. It makes the mattress shift when he moves, his knees whispering over the silken blankets when he bullies his shoulders between your thighs, settling the flat of his stomach down to rest comfortably within the spread of your legs, making a home for himself there. Carving a place as though it's where he belongs.
His breath spills over you, clement, rasping over your sensitive skin. His eyes glimmer in the dark, large white coins, duskily reflecting the lights belonging to the city skyline. He looks starved again, already desperate for more. You know what's to come, you can feel it ripple through the air, still scented with the heady perfume of sex.
"What are you doing?" You really don't have to ask, but you do it anyway. A smile presses at the corners of your mouth while you watch him from the support and comfort of the pillows haloed around your head, holding you up to aid you in getting the perfect view. You watch as he gets comfortable, hands smoothing up, massaging your thighs, fingers tracing over you as though you're something to be cherished, but he looks at you like he's wants to eat you alive. Until nothings left, bones, blood, all licked clean on his tongue. You think you'll let him.
"What's it look like I'm doing?" He angles his head, sweeping his lips along your flesh. "I'm cleaning up my mess."
It's going to be a long, long night, but you've got no complaints.