SUMMARY: Every top hero at SDN has a weakness. Yours happens to be a certain reformed villain who won't stop talking during sex. Great.
WARNINGS: SMUT!! slight crackfic bc sonar yaps mid-fuck. reader is a lil mean/egotistical, sonar goes from subby awkward king to cocky king, semi-public sex aka in a closet, blowjob, fingering, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, praise kink, use of 'good girl'
WORD COUNT: 4.3k
AUTHORS NOTE: WHAT'S UP YOU TUBE TUBE TUBE. ive returned with an apology gift
READ ON AO3
The door barely slams shut before you're pulling Sonar in by his tie, lips crashing against his.
By now, his anatomy has become familiar—dangerously so. The way his fangs frame the corners of your mouth, the careful tilt of his head that lets the kiss deepen. Somewhere along the way, the mechanics of kissing a bat-man went from novelty to craving, and that should probably concern you more than it does.
He makes a surprised sound against your mouth, hands hovering uncertainly at your sides before finally settling on your hips. His brows are lifted when the kiss breaks, mouth parted.
"Well," he breathes. "Hellooo, gorgeous. Someone's eager."
"Shut up," you hiss, reaching for his belt, fingers working the leather free.
His breath catches and he glances around the cramped closet—the metal shelving units, the single flickering bulb casting sickly yellow-green shadows. "You really—you want to—here?"
The disbelief in his voice should probably annoy you. Instead it sends a hot spike of satisfaction through your chest. You pop the button on his slacks, watching his face.
"Do you want me to change my mind?" You let your fingers drift lower, just barely grazing him through the fabric. "Because I can walk out right now."
"No!" It comes out too loud, too desperate, and he immediately tries to course-correct, dropping his voice into something smoother. "I mean, no, this is—this is great. I actually—"
You drop to your knees and his entire sentence dissolves into a strangled noise that's deeply gratifying.
"You talk so much," you tell him, hooking your fingers into his waistband. "Has anyone ever told you?"
"Yeah, actually—"
You pause and send him a sharp glare. Sonar's ears twitch as he nods. "Got it. Shutting up now."
You pull down his slacks and briefs in one motion. The trail of darker fur leading down from his navel makes your mouth water—thicker here, gray like the rest of him. You trace it with one finger, following it down to where he's already hard for you, flushed and leaking.
"Oh, Jesus," he breathes when your fingers wrap around him. "Your hands are—fuck, they're cold—keep going, that's actually—"
You spit into your palm and wrap your hand around him again, firmer this time. His hips jerk forward involuntarily and he makes a high-pitched chirp that he immediately plays off with a clearing his throat.
"Meant to do that," he mutters.
You ignore him, focusing instead on the weight of him in your hand, the way his cock twitches when you twist your wrist just so. The sounds he's trying so hard to suppress. You work him with slow strokes, watching his face as the cocky facade starts to crack, before finally taking him in your mouth.
The sound he makes is broken. Desperate. His hand finds your hair, fingers threading through as his head cracks back against the door with a dull thud.
"Oh fuck—" His voice cracks on the word. "Yeah, just like—oh my god, are you—yeah, just like that."
His grip tightens in your hair—tentative at first, then surer, guiding your rhythm. Each rough, desperate sound he makes pools heat between your legs, and you hate it. Hate that he's so good at this without even trying, that every broken gasp goes straight to your cunt.
You should pull back. Remind him who's in control here.
Instead you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, letting him feel the back of your throat.
"God, your mouth—fuck—just a little more—"
When he sounds deliciously wrecked enough, tensing and his breathing going ragged, you pull off.
"What—" He stares down at you, brows furrowed in confusion. "Why—"
You rise to your feet, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and find the zipper at your throat. His eyes track the motion as you drag it down slowly, ears twitching forward. You can feel his focus even without pupils to follow.
You pause with the zipper at your sternum, raising an eyebrow. "What?"
"I—what are you—"
"Why are you just standing there?"
"Oh. Shit, yeah—" He nods frantically, fumbling with his pants. He tries to step forward, doing an awkward-shuffle hop to pull his pants down his thighs and kick them off.
"Smooth," you deadpan.
"I'm—shut up, you make me nervous—" He finally gets his pants down to his ankles, then freezes mid-motion. His ears droop, and you track the sudden, tiny slump in his posture—shoulders curving in.
Your jaw tightens with irritation. "What now?"
"Nothing. I just—" He grimaces, and there's something almost guilty in the way he won't meet your eyes. "I forgot Robbie is literally waiting for me in the Conference Room. Man, he's totally going to kill me—"
Oh, you're going to scream.
"You're kidding me." The words come out flat, dangerous. You take a step back toward the door, already reaching for the handle. "Fine. I'll leave. If you'd rather talk about Robert."
Sonar's hand shoots out faster than you can track, catching your wrist and pulling you back with enough force that you stumble into his chest. His cock presses against your hip through the material of your suit and he shudders at the contact, his other hand coming up to grip your waist.
"No."
And just like that, his voice changes.
Drops into that register you've only heard a handful of times—that shift from dorky to dangerous that always catches you off guard, makes your stomach swoop and your thighs press together. The playful edge is gone, replaced by something darker, hungrier.
Heat flashes through you.
"I don't want to talk about Robert."
You raise an eyebrow, fighting to keep your voice steady even as your pulse kicks up. "No? You don't sound very sure."
"I don't want to talk about Robert," Sonar repeats, voice rougher now, and his thumb strokes over the inside of your wrist where your pulse is racing. "I want to fuck you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." His free hand slides up your arm to your shoulder, and the touch is gentle but the look in his white eyes is anything but. "I really, really want to fuck you."
There's something about the sincerity in his voice—how genuine and wanting it sounds despite the sinful rasp in his tone—that makes you soften for just a second. Makes something flutter annoyingly behind your ribs, birdlike and fragile.
You try to brush it off, regain some control, but there's still a tightness in your chest, a warmth spreading through you as you lean in and murmur, "Good."
He kisses you then—deeper this time, with more confidence—and you can feel him grinning against your mouth. When you pull back, that smug expression is fully formed on his face.
"What?" You narrow your eyes, already irritated by whatever he's about to say.
"So needy today." His thumb strokes along your jaw in a way that makes your skin prickle. "Bad morning?"
"Shut up or I'll leave." You pull away far enough to glare at him properly.
He waits, head tilting in that way that reminds you he's not quite fully-human, watching you with those pale eyes. One corner of his mouth curves up.
"Aw, don't be like that." The words are sing-song, playful, but there's an edge underneath. "We both know you won't."
Your pulse jumps, heat flickering low in your belly. "Excuse me?"
In one smooth motion—and fuck, when did he get coordinated?—he turns you both so your back hits the door. The metal rattles in its frame and his body cages you in, one hand braced beside your head, the other still wrapped around your wrist.
"It's only you and me here, you know." His free hand finds your zipper again, continuing where you left off. The sound of each tooth separating is obscenely loud in the small space. "No need to lie." The zipper slides down. "You need this."
"I don't need anything." Your voice comes out sharper than intended, defensive. "Least of all a barely-reformed villain."
"Oh, I don't know about that." His hand slides beneath the parted material of your suit, palm hot against your skin, and you can't quite suppress your shiver. His cock presses against your thigh. "Let's review the evidence. You—" He kisses your jaw, and the brush of his fangs makes you gasp. "—dragged me—" Your neck, his tongue tracing your pulse. "—into a closet—" Your collarbone, teeth scraping. "—during the middle of a work day."
He pulls back to look at you, and there's something different in the narrow of his white eyes. Hunger.
"A top hero risking an HR violation for me." His hand slides higher beneath your suit. "A 'barely-reformed' villain."
"Do you ever stop talking?"
"No, I kinda like the sound of my voice." His fingers trace lower, and you're suddenly, acutely aware that you skipped the bra this morning. "And you know what? I think you like it too."
You grab his tie—now hanging loose and askew around his bare neck—and yank him back down to your mouth, swallowing whatever smug comment was coming next. He makes a gratifying sound, something between a gasp and a groan, melting into the kiss.
But when you pull back he's smiling again. Smug and knowing and infuriating.
"Knew it."
He tugs your zipper all the way down, and his fingers slip inside, skating over bare skin. He stills, and you feel the moment of realization in the way his whole body goes tense.
"Sonar—"
Your breath catches when his palm slides up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple.
"No bra today?" He peels the material off your shoulders, down your arms, letting your suit hang at your waist. Cool air hits your heated skin and your nipples harden instantly, and the way he's staring makes you feel like you're burning up from the inside. "That is… so fucking hot. Did you wake up with a plan to seduce me? Be honest."
You wrinkle your nose. "Absolutely not."
Sonar's mouth curves, fangs glinting. "Oh, you totally did."
He's right, and it bothers you more than it should. You clench your jaw, taking a steadying breath. "You're annoyingly arrogant for someone I could throw through a wall."
"Tsk." He makes a disapproving sound, but you can see the way his breath quickens at the threat. "So mean to me." His hands cup both breasts now, thumbs circling your nipples. "And here I am, trying to give you what you need."
Then his mouth is on you—hot and wet, tongue circling one nipple before he sucks hard enough to make you gasp. His fangs graze the sensitive skin, a careful reminder of what he is, what you're doing, and the danger of it makes everything feel sharper, more intense.
"Could spend hours right here," he mumbles against you, switching to the other breast. His tongue flicks over your nipple and you can't stop the small sound that escapes.
You pull at his fur, fingers digging in as your legs press together involuntarily. "Sonar—"
"You know what's crazy?" He licks a path up your throat, and you feel the vibration of his words against your skin. "I can hear your heartbeat. It's going like—" He drums his fingers rapidly against your hip, mimicking the frantic rhythm. "—like that. Super fast."
"Whose fault is that?"
"Mine, hopefully." His tongue finds your pulse point, circling it. "Can also hear those pretty legs pressing together. You need something?"
The cocky bastard knows what you need.
"Just fuck me already."
"See, I will, but—" His hands slide down, pushing your suit past your hips. It pools at your ankles and you step out of it impatiently. He takes a step back to look at you—nearly naked save for your underwear—and his whole demeanor shifts again.
The playful edge drops away completely. His ears go back slightly.
"You need to ask nicely," he says, and his voice is different now, more controlled.
You stare at him. "What?"
"Say please."
Here you are—the greatest thing he could possibly have, bare before him like a fucking feast—and he's asking you to say please?
"You're not serious."
"I'm so serious." His head tilts and there's something predatory in it that makes your stomach flip, makes you acutely aware that he's a super-villain and you're trapped in a supply closet with him and no one knows you're here. "Show me some top superhero hospitality, and I'll give you whatever you want."
"Yeah, never happening."
"Come on, baby. Just ask nicely."
The nickname sends fire racing through your veins and you channel it into anger, into maintaining some shred of dignity.
"Fuck you."
"That is the plan." One hand trails down your stomach, fingers dancing along the waistband of your underwear, dipping just beneath but not enough, never enough. "But I can't give positive reinforcement to bad behavior, can I? Robbie says that's not great for growth."
You want to strangle him. "Are you fucking kidding me right now—"
"Leadership skills, babe. Very important." His knuckles brush against your mound, and you have to bite back a whimper. "One little word. I know you want to. I can see it in your eyes. The way you're breathing."
He hooks his fingers under the fabric and pulls it aside, skating through your wetness without pushing inside, just teasing over your entrance and back up to circle your clit. "Holy shit, you're soaked. All this from sucking my dick?"
"No, I'm just really into supply closets—" His fingers find your clit, circling with perfect pressure, and your hips jerk forward involuntarily. "Oh fuck—"
"So responsive." He continues the maddening circles, watching your face like he's memorizing every expression. "Not what I wanted to hear, though."
You shake your head stubbornly, even as your body betrays you, hips rolling into his touch.
He slips two fingers inside and you have to bite your lip to keep from moaning louder. The stretch is perfect, exactly what you needed but still not enough, and he knows it.
"Fuck, you're so hot. That's—" he curls his fingers and you see stars, "—one word. That's all you need."
You shake your head again, eyes fluttering shut, but he's relentless. His thumb finds your clit while his fingers pump steadily, and you can feel yourself getting close, that familiar tension building—
"Oh, also—you never responded to my text about bowling night? I know you said you were busy, but—"
Your eyes fly open. "Are you seriously—" The words come out breathy, broken by a moan when his fingers curl again. "—talking about bowling right now?"
"I'm a multitasker." His grin is absolutely shit-eating. "See? Two things at once."
You should be furious. Should push him away and leave because who the fuck brings up bowling while finger-fucking you in a supply closet—
But then he finds that spot inside you, that perfect angle, and your brain shorts out completely.
He notices your expression—the way your mouth drops open, the way you stop breathing for just a second—and grins wider.
"Asshole," you manage to bite out.
"Sometimes." His fingers curl inside you again, hitting that perfect spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. "But I'm the asshole who knows exactly what you need."
He speeds up and your knees buckle, your hand shooting out to grip his shoulder for support, nails digging in through fur and shirt.
"Atta girl," he purrs, his body close enough to support yours, keeping you upright as you start to shake. "I could make you feel so good—could have you coming in seconds—if you'd just ask nicely."
You're trembling, your other hand braced against the door, nails scratching against the wood. He curls his fingers and hits that spot again, again, again until your breath comes in short gasps.
"So what's it gonna be?" His mouth is at your ear now, and you can hear the smile in his voice. His thumb finds your clit while his fingers continue their rhythm. "You gonna be nice to me? I'm very sensitive guy, you know."
You hate that you want to give in. Want to let him take care of you, want to hear what he sounds like when you surrender.
"Please." It comes out barely a whisper, broken and desperate.
His fingers slow to an agonizing pace. "Sorry, what was that?" Pure silk, pure sin. "Couldn't hear you."
Your cheeks burn. He heard you perfectly—you know he did. There's not much Sonar doesn't hear. But he wants you to say it again, wants you to beg louder.
"You heard me."
"Did I though?" He nuzzles against your jaw, fur soft against your heated skin. "I have really bad hearing, actually. Terrible. Might need to get that checked—"
"Please," you say, louder this time. The word tastes like surrender but also like relief. "Please fuck me."
"See?" He withdraws his fingers and you whimper at the loss, actually whimper, and the smug bastard's grin gets even wider. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
He turns you around, pressing you against the door. Your palms lay flat against the cool wood as his hands— one still coated in your slick—slide up your sides and around to cup your breasts. You arch back against him, his cock pressing hot and insistent against your ass.
"This what you needed?" He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you, not quite entering. "What you were thinking about all morning?"
You can't form words. Can only nod, pushing back against him, trying to take more.
"Nah, I'm gonna need to hear you say it." He pushes in just barely—an inch at most—and your whole body arches toward him, seeking. "Tell me what you want."
"You." It comes out choked, desperate. "I want you. Please."
"There she is." He pushes inside slowly, so fucking slowly, letting you feel every inch as he fills you. One hand braces against the door beside your head while the other grips your hip. "So nice to me now. So good."
The praise shouldn't affect you the way it does—shouldn't make you clench around him, shouldn't make heat flood through your entire body—but it does.
Being a top hero came with certain perks. The adoration, the recognition, the constant affirmation that yes, you're doing good, you're saving people, you're making a difference. You'd grown addicted to it without realizing—that rush when someone told you how incredible you were, how brave, how selfless.
Apparently that transferred to sex too.
Of course Sonar would be the one to discover it.
You feel his grin against your neck. "Oh. You like when I tell you how good you are?" He bottoms out, holding there, and his breathing has gone ragged. "Noted."
"Shut up." There's no heat in it, not when you're rolling your hips back, trying to get him to move. "Just fuck me already."
"Bossy." But he does, pulling out almost completely before snapping his hips forward. The door rattles in its frame. "God, I love this—love you like this. So perfect—"
The fur of his face presses to your shoulder blade, breath hot against your skin. One hand tightens on your breast while the other grips your hip as he starts to move—slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that make you feel every inch of him.
Then he finds his rhythm and it's not slow anymore. It's hard and fast and exactly what you need, what you've been craving since you pulled him into this closet. The door groans with each thrust, wood creaking, and you should be worried about the noise, about getting caught, about what would happen if someone walked by and heard—
But then he shifts the angle slightly and all coherent thought dissolves.
"By the way—" he pants, still fucking into you without missing a beat, "—about bowling. It's this Thursday. I already put you down for a spot—"
"Are you—" The words come out broken, punctuated by gasps. "—kidding me right now?"
"Just saying—" His hips don't slow, don't falter. "We can all—oh fuck—our teams can bond—"
"Sonar—"
He hits that perfect spot inside you and you both moan in unison.
It should ruin everything. Should kill your arousal completely, make you push him away and leave. But your body doesn't care that he's planning social outings while balls-deep inside you. Your body only cares that he knows exactly where to touch, exactly how to move, exactly what you need.
You're going to come while he talks about fucking bowling.
Your legs start to shake, strength leaving you, and Sonar notices immediately. One arm comes around your front, hand splaying across your chest just below your throat, holding you upright against him. You grip his forearm for purchase, nails digging into fur and skin, as he tilts your head to the side.
"I got you." His nose nuzzles against your jaw, mouth finding the corner of yours. "You gotta be quiet though. Unless—" He thrusts harder and you gasp, the sound echoing in the small space. "—you want someone to hear. Do you?"
The thought sends a fresh wave of heat through you. Being caught, everyone knowing—
"Oh, you like that." His voice drops lower, rougher. "You want everyone to know? Want them to hear how good I make you feel?" His rhythm picks up, harder, faster, more desperate. "Want them to know SDN'S perfect hero is fucking a 'barely-reformed villain' in a supply closet?"
Your release builds at the base of your spine, coiling tighter with each thrust.
"So close—" Your voice cracks. "I'm—"
"Yeah?" His hand slides down between your legs, fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. "Come on, baby. Wanna feel you come."
Your orgasm crashes through you in a white-hot wave, pleasure rippling outward from your core. You make a desperate, broken sound and Sonar's hand clamps over your mouth, muffling it as you ride out the waves.
"That's it, fuck—" His hips stutter, rhythm breaking. He pulls out quickly and you feel the hot splash of his release across your lower back, your ass. "Oh god, oh fuck—"
For a long moment there's only breathing—harsh and uneven, lungs working to catch up.
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a handkerchief, wiping you clean with surprising gentleness. The gesture is oddly intimate, more so than anything that came before. Slowly, carefully, he helps you turn around, steadying you when your legs threaten to give out.
"So domestic," you mutter.
"I'm a gentleman." He's grinning now, dopey and satisfied in a way that makes him look so human. "My mama raised me right."
You both dress in relative silence, though Sonar keeps humming something under his breath. The post-orgasm haze is starting to lift, clarity seeping back in, and with it comes the familiar discomfort of what you've just done. How good it felt. How much you want to do it again.
"Why the hell are you humming?"
"Nothing. Just feel great." He looks at you. "Really great, actually. Like, super great. On a scale of one to ten—"
"Well, stop it." You scowl, tugging your suit back into place. "Weirdo."
Your fingers fumble with your zipper—hands still unsteady—and he steps in to help, his hands covering yours to guide it up to your sternum. The gesture is gentle. Sweet, even. You soften.
"So," he says. "Same time next week?"
You smooth down your suit, avoiding his eyes. Your hair probably looks like a disaster but there's nothing to be done about it now. "This was the last time."
He grins—that insufferable, knowing grin that makes you want to kiss him and throttle him in equal measure. "You said that last time."
"I mean it this time."
"Sure you do." He's fixing his tie now, finger-combing his fur back into some semblance of order. "And the time before that. And I believe there was a very emphatic 'never again' after the stairwell incident—"
"Shut up."
But you're fighting a smile as you reach for the door handle, and you know he can hear the change in your heartbeat. Sonar catches your wrist gently, tugs you back for one more kiss—slower this time, sweeter. When he pulls back, he's got that dopey grin again.
"So... you're coming to bowling on Thursday, then?" He sounds genuinely hopeful. "The place also has great cheese fries. They're legitimately incredible. Life-changing, even."
You stare at him. "You just...you just came on my ass, and now you want to talk about bowling?"
"I mean, yeah. The two things aren't mutually exclusive." The tips of his ears droop. "Plus I already told everyone you were coming, so if you bail now I'm gonna look like a liar. Which, fair, but still."
"I'm leaving."
"Wait—so is that a yes or a no on the bowling? Because I need to know for the—"
You slam the door on whatever he's about to say.
Standing in the hallway, you take a deep breath. Smooth your suit one more time, checking for any obvious signs of what just happened. Try to compose yourself into something resembling a professional hero.
Your cheeks are burning. You can't remember the last time someone wanted your presence for something so mundane. So normal. Not because you're a hero, or because they need saving, just...because they want you there.
You head upstairs, already knowing you're going to say yes to Thursday.
AUTHORS NOTE: reader lowkey me bc while i love our bum-fuck bat boy...irl id be fuming if a cocky, loser, cryptobro was my only good fuck. like id kill myself
as always, thank you for reading and please lmk if you enjoyed <3 i operate entirely on positive reinforcement like a dog with treats hehehe
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