i’m ovulating so bad today and all i can think about is slow, deep, intimate sex in public…
the kind where he’s pressed so close against you, chest to chest, barely moving his hips but sinking so fucking deep with every thrust. it’s torturously good. your pussy is so wet that you can both hear the filthy little squelch every time he rolls his hips, and you have to bite your lip so hard to stay quiet.
both of you breathing shakily against each other’s mouths, trying not to moan, foreheads pressed together while you stare straight into each other’s eyes. that intense, unblinking eye contact that makes everything feel ten times filthier. every slow drag of his cock makes your thighs tremble, but you can’t look away. he won’t let you.
just heavy breathing, wet sounds, and that overwhelming feeling of being completely full and connected while the rest of the world is right there, oblivious.
when he kisses your puffy pussy so sweetly and says a little breathlessly “my poor baby” as if he wasn’t the one absolutely pounding you into the next week
cw: noncon to dubcon, non-consensual filming again, mean gojo
bully!gojo and the way he forces convinces you to fuck
he came to your house again to study, but you made the mistake of allowing him in your room. now, he has you pinned on the bed, one arm keeping your hands away whilst the other trails down your body.
"wait, satoru, we need to study-"
"c'mon, just a quickie? you know you'll loveee it." he teases, hand snaking under your waistband. you try to squirm away but he gives you a firm look, long fingers pulling your panties to the side.
he stares at your face as he slowly pushes a finger in, curling it gently. he whisper in your ear, voice soft and sweet.
"please? i promise i'll let you cheat off me tomorrow."
you can hardly respond before he shoves another finger in you, causing you to gasp and whine. you squirm on his fingers, desperate for more.
"oh, now you wanna fuck?" he chuckles, pulling his fingers out despite your protest. he takes off his tie and wraps it around your wrists, binding them to your bed rail. you tug on them but they're tight and unrelenting.
"haha, no getting away from me now." he laughs, taking off your pants entirely before taking off his belt. he slowly pulls down his pants, revealing his hard cock. his pumps it slowly.
"y'know, i think we're gonna go without the condom."
your eyes widen in panic, and you try to sit up.
"what! no, satoru, absolutely not. i can't, you can't get me pregnant!"
"relax. i'll pay for the abortion if you do. besides, would a kid be so bad?"
you continue to protest, trying to get out of the bindings. he finally rolls his eyes, grabbing his belt and holding it in front of you.
"you say another word and i spank you, alright? now, be a good girl and let me have your pussy."
you swallow nervously as he spreads your thighs, lining up his cock to your entrance. he runs it through your folds, watching your face while he teases you. he chuckles softly before finally pushing in. his eyes shut and his head rolls back, letting out a deep groan.
"fuck, this is so much better. real pussy."
he sighs as he pushes further in. you whine softly and squirm away a little, to which he pulls your hips back firmly.
"i thought i told you to be good? maybe you just want a baby."
you open your mouth again but quickly shut it, knowing gojo will take anything as a reason to punish you. he pushes in further, slowly fucking your hole, his eyes watching how it clamps around him.
"okay, we're gonna try something."
"w-w, what?" you whine, cunt tightening a little in fear.
"i, am gonna make this moment last forever."
your jaw drops as he takes out his phone and points it your connection, recording.
"no! no, satoru please, i don't want to-"
he quickly shoves your panties in your mouth before grabbing your throat, voice mean in your ear.
"shut up brat. i will film whatever i wanna film, okay? and you're gonna let me. besides, who the fuck would wanna see your body anyway."
he growls, pulling back as he begins to fuck you properly. you try to ignore his words but they cut deep, and slowly tears begin to fill your eyes. gojo's thrusts are hard and fast, hitting deep into you. without the condom, you can feel every ridge of him, every vein, every substance.
he laughs when he sees your tears, bringing the camera to your face.
"awww, look at her! can't handle a few harsh words, can ya princess?" he teases. he turns the camera to his face, smiling brightly. "i think we can fix that, can't we?"
he leans over to position the camera on your desk, getting a full view. he comes back to you, repositioning your legs around him, cock hitting at an even deeper angle. he rests his arms on either side of your face, before leaning in to kiss you.
he whispers in your ear, voice soft again.
"don't worry baby, i'll make it all better. you know i didn't mean it."
he grabs your hips and starts to fuck you again, pounding in and out of you. loud plaps fill the room as well as his grunts and your muffled whines. your cunt flutters around his cock whilst you pull on your restrains, needing more.
gojo groans as he feels you around him, balls twitching.
"we, are never using condoms again. i don't care how many kids we have."
you whimper as you feel yourself growing close. gojo looks deep into your eyes, knowing your body, knowing your soul.
"you wanna cum honey? you wanna cum around my cock?" he says, voice genuine. you nod, tears now from pleasure rather than embarrassment. he smiles down at you, kissing your cheek.
"cum baby, milk my cock."
he fucks you until your orgasm overwhelms you, body trembling and shaking as your pussy clamps down on him. he curses before he cums in you too, reaching deep into you. he holds himself there before finally pulling out, spreading your folds to admire the way he drips out of you.
he grabs the camera and zooms in on the sight, eyes big and hypnotised. he finally puts his phone away, unties your wrists and takes the panties out of your mouth. he moves your hair out of your face, pressing his forehead to yours.
Not a pregnancy ask, but by default kinda related cus omg ovulation brain has me in a choke hold. I need these fucks to smell the hormones and assume humans have a heat cycle and just offer to help. Especially Skywarp. I feel like he's not going to hold back like a lot of other characters would/might.
Save me G1 Skywarp, you're my only hope!
I need you to know I fucking LOVE Skywarp. Ohhh I hope I can do him justice. Also im an omegaverse whore, heats and pheromones are my shit.
Reader is gn!afab. No sex but a lot of dirty talk.
Mdni you will be blocked! Adults only!
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Skywarp doesn’t care, unlike his fellow cons or even seekers, all he needed was one wiff of your heightened arousal and he was all over you. His wings high up occasionally fluttering as his engine revs loudly, the devious grin on his face plate is one of promise. Even as you squeak at his sudden appearance before you, even as you jump back from his servo, he thinks it’s all just a game for you, it gets him going!
“C’mon sweetspark, I don’t bite that hard.” His voice purrs, but the longer he’s around you the harder it is to stay in control.
His engine roars at the mere smell of your arousal thickening, even now you’re looking at him in need yet you keep denying yourself the pleasure? By the stars you want to, you want to throw yourself at the large con and let him use you for hours, but you also know how your body works knowing it’s just a part of your cycle and will be over with shortly, but fuck is it hard.
“I can treat your pretty valve soo well, keep you nice and full of my spike fill you with my transfluid. Won’t you let me spoil you, little light? I’d love for you to make a mess on my spike.”
Your face feels like it’s burning, but your pussy is throbbing your panties are no doubt soaked by this point and he’s not helping! But that’s what Skywarp wants, even if that means he’s drooling right in front of you he doesn’t care, all shame went out the window the second he smelt your needy human valve.
His optics widen a fraction as you step forward legs near shaking as you do.
“Want my help, sweeetness?”
“Please, it aches so much.”
You squeal as Skywarp quickly grabs you, holding you safely in his servos before warping with you, taking you right to his habsuite and away from any prying optics, he wants the cute little human for his optics only. He’ll have you so full of his transfluid, overloading all over him until you pass out, he promise he won’t disappoint you, sweetspark.
Foursome, Female!Reader, (Jealousy and a little fighting). Blowjob, penetration, cunnilingus.
English isn't my native language. 18+ (There's a little lot of text here too)
The doors slid open with a clatter, you and Skywarp turned your gaze towards Thundercracker as he entered. Starscream, dozing behind you, stirred. Your hands reached out instinctively towards the blue mech, and he shifted, leaning towards you as you stood on their shared bed, and, smiling gently, touched the tip of his nose to yours.
"You’re not in such a hurry to greet us," a voice from behind made you jump. Turning round, you met Starscream’s still sleepy but clearly displeased gaze. Always so jealous…
“Don’t make things up. It’s just that I don’t see TC very often, that’s all. I love you both equally.”
“Them both equally?” Skywarp sounded offended now. Oh, God...
Thundercracker couldn’t help but chuckle to himself at the amused look on your face. His right servo supports weight as he leans over you. Mech's lips are close to yours, as if soaking up the warmth before tasting it; the distance between you closes smoothly, and cold palms suddenly grab you under the armpits, pulling you away from the blue Decepticon. You don’t have time to catch Skywarp’s gaze as he interrupts your intimate moment, covering you himself and snatching a kiss. His sharp fingers dig into your cheeks and waist, leaving marks.
The two brothers’ eyes are locked on each other; TC’s claws have dug into the metal, causing Warp to smirk smugly and slide the tip of his glossa into your soft little mouth. Starscream felt the wires around his neck bend slightly as he swallowed; his drowsiness gave way to a heat, stronger than any fever.
Ceasing the sweet assault on lips, the con pulled away, leaving a thin thread of saliva between your tongues. Your gaze finally met Thundercracker’s red optics, which had grown brighter—no, hotter, he drew close to you again, abruptly, as if you were about to be taken away once more – for a second, Skywarp’s claws actually tightened their grip, as if unwilling to share – and almost struck you with a kiss. The metal presses against you with such force that it threatens to leave bruises on your lips, and you moan in protest.
Skywarp’s fingers move to your breasts; he presses his faceplate against the top of your head, warming it with hot air whilst simultaneously squeezing your nipples.
"So defenceless in front of the three of us, aren’t you?" Starscream’s hot breath tickles one ear as he moves closer. He’s almost purring, feeling the heat from just the sight of the Seekers caressing and kissing your yielding body. He remembers your last evening together as a foursome, remembers the mingled scents, the wet surfaces, your sweet moans and that enveloping, tingling softness…
Another tip of the tongue joined in, sliding over your ear, down to neck, and to your shoulder to push aside the fabric of clothes and bite.
TC and Skywarp swap places, as if competing to see who can cover more of your mouth with their glossas, and hands, hands, hands. They’re everywhere. They squeeze, they slide, they slip under your clothes, tearing away the tiresome fabric, knowing they’ll buy you plenty more of these rags. Thundercracker steps back, watching with pleasure as you breathe heavily, your bitten skin now bare. The texture of your flesh arouses something akin to hunger in him; every inch of silky skin begs to be marked, bitten, scratched…
Warp's palms turn you over, pressing your face against the bed, the metal’s cold sears the skin and legs twitch involuntarily as his claw slides playfully over the last piece of fabric on your body. Con hooks the edges of the lingerie, taking his time, scratching your skin, revelling in the scent of your arousal. He is interrupted when your calf is grabbed and pulled away from Skywarp, who cries out ‘Hey!’
Your goose-pimpled back catches the heat of his groin plates when Starscream sits you down on his lap. Without hesitation, he pulls your underwear off, gathering the moisture of arousal on his fingers before sliding them over your clitoris, making your thighs trembling and press together. Thunder has already opened his plates and clamped down hard on the base of his dripping spike. His optics, slightly dimmed, are fixed on your thighs and glistening labia.
"Why is it you? You were first last time!" Skywarp, however, refuses to take Starscream’s actions for granted and tries to pull you back towards him, but the hands of Trine's leader hold you fast.
“I was first last time, and I’ll be first this time too!” His fingers continue to caress your clitoris in circular motions, eliciting quiet moans from you, drowned out by the two of them arguing. Starscream suddenly cried out, pulling his hand away from you. “What the frag, TC, you bit me!?”
He’s doesn’t reply; long fingers slide beneath you, lifting your hips, and mouth practically sucks onto you, making you arch back with a moan and search for something to hold onto with fingers. His tongue glides over your clitoris, thumbs massage lower abdomen, lips descend to the tiny entrance of your pussy to lap up the moisture of arousal and rise again to clitoris.
You come shamelessly quickly; neither of the other two seekers had time to intervene or even utter a word before you, still in the same position, curling your toes and exhaled with pleasure. Thundercracker pulls away from you with satisfaction. He looks at his brothers in turn with smugness, before making a couple of final strokes with his fist along the length of his spike and ejaculating onto the metal in several spurts.
Skywarp was the first to come to his senses; he shoved Starscream in the shoulder, causing him to tumble off the bed with a yelp and a crash. He pulled your limp little body back toward him, opening his groin panel, and, positioning himself behind you, smoothly sank into your tight pussy a quarter, halfway, all the way in. Oh, how sweetly you moan at the thickness of his spike…
He immediately starts thrusting his hips, paying no attention to anyone in the room except your back. His engines roar, the room fills with your moans and the quick, lewd slaps. Your palms clench and unclench, nipples rub against the metal beneath you, and you unconsciously try to crawl away from the slaps of thighs, which will leave bruises, but he wraps arms around your waist and pulls you back into place. The stretching is unlike anything else; every nerve is touched as he slides back and forth, the recent orgasm releasing you, giving way to a new one.
“Fuck, please…” your voice is hoarse; you don’t know exactly what you’re begging for.
Starscream watches with a smirk as Skywarp fucks you in that doggy style position, while TC cums again, pleasuring himself at the sight. “How would you feel if I snatched her away from you right before you reboot?”
“Don't. You. Dare” Con thrusts grew more frantic; he covered you with his frame in a protective manner and Starscream just snorted. He sees you open your mouth in a moan, a string of saliva stretching from the roof of your mouth to your pink tongue. Primus…
The Trine leader climbed over Thundercracker, who was resting contentedly with his optics closed, to sit across from you with his typical sly grin. “Hey, princess,” Starscream lifted your chin, ignoring Warp’s warning growl. “Come on, look at me. Open your little mouth.”
The tip of his graceful spike slid across your lips, muffling moan of another orgasm, and the claws clamped down on your hair as he longed to plunge into that mouth, all the way down your throat, you continue to moan, and red optics of the seeker flicker from the vibration. He's thrusts, again and again, giving you a little time, and after a while you join in yourself, sucking on his metal like a candy, swallowing the spike and pressing tip of your nose against the metallic pubis.
“G-good... girl.” The mech strokes your head with trembling fingers. They could never fuck anyone but you and get this much pleasure. Not even the most gifted priestesses of love from ancient Cybertron could surpass the hospitality of your soft throat and the tightness of your smooth, silky pussy.
Starscream and Skywarp reload simultaneously; their transfluid fills you from both sides, warming your lower abdomen and saturating your taste buds with the unique flavor of the viscous liquid. They release, causing you to cough and fall forward, your body sweaty and trembling.
Streams of transfluid flow down the inside of your thighs, pooling into a small puddle at your knees.
“TC… take her on,” Starscream leans back against the wall, spreading his legs and breathing heavily, not letting you catch your breath either. “I want her to take my size without any trouble when I’ll be ready.”
You don’t have the strength to answer as, yet again, hands wrap around you and lift you up like a toy. And you wouldn’t want it any other way.
If you liked it, please give it a like or leave a comment – I’d be delighted!!
I need Megatron to have a wet dream at his big ahh age
♰⋆｡ tfp megatron x human fem reader | 18+ ficlet
-> warnings/tags: minors dni. somnophilia, semi-ish public sex, degradation. no plot, just porn. 1k words
tehehe i looooove pussywhipped megatron. no fumbletron around here 🙂↔️
“Master!” You scream, spreading your legs a little wider. His sharp claws grasp your hips fiercely, almost as if he’s afraid you might evaporate into thin air otherwise. Your knees slide against the metal exterior of the Nemesis, which is currently stagnant as the sun slowly disappears beyond the horizon. Orange, pink and yellow spills over the sky’s canvas, which proves to be a beautiful backdrop for your current activity.
This is one of his favourite pastimes, getting his spike wet by indulging himself in your organic pussy. This is what dreams are made of. You’re dripping, already causing a small puddle on the starboard of his ship. Your excitement is splattered down your thighs, too. He could never fathom the concept of giving this up, not for a single moment. He’d ravage every Autobot left standing if any of them thought it wise to rescue you from him.
His metal kneepads grate against the ship as he hammers his spike inside, refusing to let up for even a second. You’re singing such beautiful sounds for him, and he intends to fuck them all out of you until your voice is tired and hoarse.
“This valve is mine,” he rumbles, “Mine. All mine. You’re my spikesleeve, my sex toy. You’re mine to use, do you hear me?”
“Yes, Lord Megatron,” you moan back.
“Say it!”
“I’m yours! I live to serve your needs and pleasures, I’m yours, whenever you want me!”
His vents whir rapidly at your plush walls hug his spike in a needy embrace, clinging to him with each pull of his hips. Your pussy is nothing short of sensational, and it’s the only thing actively preventing him from turning your world to ash.
The silver mech slides one servo from your hip to cup your abdomen. He’s so deep that he can feel the protrusion of the head of his spike. It turns him on unbelievably so when he feels this, it serves to remind him that his mark is left on you entirely. He carves his shape into your walls, like an artist chiselling the finest marble.
No war, no battle, no victory has ever gratified him as much as you do. You are his muse and respite, and if he were the sentimental kind, he’d believe that the two of you were made for each other. His frame slots against yours so perfectly, after all, and you have no trouble taking the weapon that hangs between his legs. Your sounds are perfectly pitched for his audials, and the energon that flows through him dances in perfect harmony with your heart’s rhythm.
“You’re squeezing me so tight,” Megatron burrs, letting his audials fill with the sounds of your noises as well as the metal slapping against skin. He should’ve taken you somewhere so open sooner. Maybe he’ll fuck you in an energon cave next, or maybe on a beach? The world is his oyster. It’s his playground, and you are his favourite toy.
Your slick trails down you pubic mound, leaving a faucet of slowly dripping cum near your abdomen. You’re incredibly wet, so despite the tightness, there’s not an awful lot of resistance. You fit him like a glove.
“God— fuck, Megatron,” you cry as your hands ball into fists.
“Tell me what you want, Sweetling,” he demands, his voice low and husky.
“Transfluid, I want your transfluid,” you request, the words stretching in your throat as you feel another inevitable orgasm stir in your lower half. How many will that be? Four? Five? You’ve lost count.
“Do you think you deserve it?” He taunts with a sly grin.
“Please, Lord Megatron,” you whimper, “You’ve been fucking me for so long. Please, please!”
“Is that a complaint I hear?” He retorts playfully.
“No, no!” You blurt, trying to grind your hips back against him. “I love when you fuck me, I never want it to end, but please! I want your transfluid inside of me! I’ve been so good for you!”
“You always know exactly what to say, don’t you, pet?”
“Yes, Master! Please, oh my God, please. I’m desperate for it. Please, I love y—“
Snap.
A powerful surge thrums through his frame, startling him as his optics snap back online. Instead of seeing that wonderful sky and hearing your beautiful moans, he’s greeted with his blank habsuite ceiling.
It was just a dream.
A wonderful, sexy, teasing dream.
Though as his optics peer down, one thing that most certainly is not a dream is the real you with your transfluid soaked hand wrapped around his throbbing spike, which glistens with a mix of his release and your spit. You look up at him like a deer in the headlights as more transfluid drips off your puffy lips.
You are certainly a sight to behold. Megatron couldn’t be more infatuated with a native of this planet even if he tried.
“Y—You were humping against me in your recharge,” you stutter, trying to explain yourself. You almost feel like you’ve been caught in the midst of crime scene, all while holding the knife. “And you were moaning… So I thought I’d help you out.”
“You don’t need to explain yourself,” he smirks, flashing his sharp dentae at you. “I’m quite enjoying the sight right now. Coming online to you sucking me? You’re such a good pet.”
You smile sultrily, ducking down to lick a long stripe up his length to clean up his transfluid. His optics flash with something undefined, something that seems akin to a ravenous hunger.
“Now come up here and bounce your pretty valve on my spike.”
He’ll have to give the fact that he dreamt about you almost telling him that you loved him more thought later. Right now, there’s more pressing matters at hand.
This is entirely based on @rabotimagines heat fic but with decepticons, this can be read alone but highly recommend you read his stuff! I'd also like to thank my best friend @savvymantis for beta reading for me! and one last tag as requested @therobotsarestuckinmyhead :3
warnings : heat, dubcon, stomach bulge, several partners, foursome, double penetration one hole, squirting, biting, overstimulation, Cybertronian reader, reader is an elite.
MDNI
Characters : Megatron, Skywarp, Starscream, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Blitzwing, and the constructicons.
word count : 8,714!
18+ only!
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How pitiful, such a big, strong decepticon elite like yourself taken out by your outdated heat protocols being activated, such obsolete coding making you nothing but spike hungry shareware, and in the heat of battle no less! That poor autobot leader was trying so hard to tend to you, to protect you from your own when all you wanted so badly was to be fragged, you were even whimpering for him!
That’s why you’re under the table now to ‘make up for it’, as Megatron said. A meeting, it was needed to discuss future plans of attack and what to do about you. But how can anyone focus on what their leader is saying when all they can hear is you choking yourself on Megatron’s spike? Every word their leader says is nearly drowned out entirely by your need. Never had they heard you sound so downright sinful, muffled whines and messy slurping sounds all anyone in the room can focus on.
“Further more it seems our plan backfired in more ways than one.” Megatron drones on, seemingly not at all affected by your greedy sucking, “Who knew such obsolete code existed within our ranks?” He laughs, placing a servo to the back of your helm and not even needing to shove you further down his spike; you do it all yourself, moaning so sweetly around him as you take it to the base.
Your optics flutter, threatening to close as your frame trembles. Your leader loves how sensitive you are, how your lust filled processor melts just tasting his pre-fluid, from being used so openly.
“How pitiful you are, and making such a mess too.” The silver mech sighs, feigning annoyance as the puddle of transfluid grows under your squirming hips.
Your leader places a pede to your spike, gritting his denta to stop himself from moaning out as you cry out around him. Your hips lurch forward, humping his pede like a needy cyberhound. Optics squeezing shut, you’re overwhelmed, but it’s not enough! Your spike throbs, your charge crackling within your frame, spraying your transfluid across your stomach and leaking onto the floor. Megatron is quite pleased with your whorish expression, to see your dermas stretch around his thick spike, pretty optics shining so bright and glossy. He didn’t even need to guide you to taking him deep. His bright optics tear away from you, back to his worthless crew to continue speaking.
Yet none of them listening, dozens of optics keep dropping as if they could see under the table. All only able to hear the wet sloppy sounds of you sucking Megatron off like you needed it to live. The mechs unable to move knowing they’d earn their leader’s ire, but the more they hear the more they shake, wanting a piece of you, just a taste is all they ask.
The decepitcon leader knows this all too well.
His grin dangerous, his spike throbbing before he shoves your helm down keeping you there to swallow his transfluid. Your optics cross as your own overload strikes your frame yet again, making a bigger mess below you and across your stomach mesh. So sensitive and responsive thanks to your outdated coding, but oh how Megatron loves it.
Megatron smirks at your cumdrunk form, only to hiss through clenched denta as you keep sucking, wanting more, needing more.
“Such shareware you are.” Despite his words the servo on your helm pets you gently, making you pull off his depressurizing spike to nuzzle into his palm, “Seems this meeting will go nowhere, not with you being such a distraction.” Oh, but how could he be mad at you when you look up at him like that? Perfect spike warmer you are.
Megatron moves his seat back, grabbing you by the underarms and lightly tossing you on top of the table, giving every filthy mech there the long awaited sight of you. Your stomach is covered in your own transfluid, your face plate flushed a deep blue, with your optics bright and dazed.
Yet Megatron walks away with a scoff, “And someone clean the mess they left under the table, I have work to continue.” Leaving you to the wolves.
You whimper, laying back flat against the cold table searching for any form of relief but it came faster than you thought. The room is in chaos with mechs stumbling over themselves and each other, metal being thrown around as everyone lunges for you, only to be beaten by Skywarp using his outlier to reach you first. He takes you to the door the same way, with Thundercracker and Starscream right behind him guarding as the three rush you to the nearest room to shove you in.
The door locks and your world spins. Your back strut hits a desk, helm over the side, but all your muddled processor can focus on is someone spreading your pedes wide open, putting your dripping spike and leaking valve on display.
“Move aside!”
“Don’t be so rough with them-“
“Shut up and move!”
Three voices chime, all you’re able to hear is metal clashing as the trio shove their way into the places they want. Blue becomes clear to your optics, staring at an almost worried Thundercracker, but not worried enough to keep his modesty panel closed. The spike in front of your face was decently thick, a little on the short side, but so pretty-
Your intake drops with a short squeal when someone drops their hot and wet valve on your own needy spike. Before you can even process the snug clench, your valve is stretched open on another spike, curved and hitting your ceiling nodes with ease. Cruel laughter echoes, but you can barely hear it over the engeron rushing through your audials.
"Haha, look at them, such a pretty thing ready to ruin!" Skywarp cackles, wasting no time to dropping himself onto your spike, rolling his hips to grind his node in your pelvis before picking himself up and letting gravity do most of the work.
Your servos flail, desperate for something or someone to grab, something to ground your fading mind with. Your back strut arches with your loud cry, your hips furiously trying to fuck yourself against Skywarp and Starscream. Your overload gushes both within the purple seeker and over the pelvis of your dear sky commander in your transfluid.
Skywarp trembles feeling your cum pour into his valve, "Overloading already? The party just gettin' started!"
"Perhaps these outdated codes are a blessing; look at how ready they are." Starscream sighs, to keep his servos on your knees keeping them from closing. Though it's not lost on him that you're trying to wrap your legs around his waist to have him close.
"Valve so needy, perfect shareware for us." The sky commander purrs.
Warm and welcoming, perfect to use and fill. All of Starscream’s mounting frustrations with you are taken out of your greedy cunt. His hips snap to yours swiftly, harshly smacking against your aft. Every thrust sends your hips upward, unintentionally aiding Skywarp to his own release. The force makes your hips meet his every time he drops down on your spike, pushing the tip of your cock to his sensitive ceiling nodes. The sloppy wet sounds echo in the relatively small room, yet none of that matters, not when you’re making such slutty sounds.
"Don't you think you two are being a bit harsh on 'em? I mean, they are already mindless." Thundercracker tries to defend you, no matter how hot you look sticking your glossa out, trying to beckon him closer. Oh who is the blue seeker fooling; you have him wrapped around your digit. All those fleeting touches and brushes of your EM field had him a mess for you. Even now the blue seeker strokes the base of his spike in front of you, practically taunting you as he stays just out of reach, and only allows you to see the transfluid bubbling from his bulbous tip. The heady scent flooding your nasal passage, as if you weren’t drooling enough, he’s so mean when you need his spike most!
"Puh…please..!" You try to speak, watery optics blearily look to Thundercracker, yearning, needing him to fill your intake. It’s so empty, too empty, you need him, need his cum. Your processor gives out half way through trying to plead.
“Shuddup would ya?” The purple seeker grabs your cheeks squishing them between his digits, “Just frag ‘em already! Look, they are practically begging to get fragged and stuffed.” Skywarp used his outlier to ensure they had first dibs on you, he is not going to waste it arguing when no doubt the others would find them soon.
“Or don’t, let the fools beyond these walls hear how much they like being used.” Starscream purrs, lifting your pede over his shoulder. He kisses your calf so lovingly, just to sink his denta into the exposed mesh. His engine rumbles as a choked moan tears from his dermas feeling you clamp down around him.
“Mark me, mark me claim me- please please, need it—!!” Your back strut arches as a broken squeal tumbles from your drool covered dermas.
Skywarp’s valve flutters around your throbbing length as the con places his servos on your chassis, allowing him lean forward and fuck himself faster on your cock, using you like you were a dildo for him to use and get his pleasure from. Drool lands on your chassis as the mech above you bites his bottom derma, silencing the filthy sounds that wish to be freed in favor of hearing you.
The last of them finally can’t take it; Thundercracker moves in closely, attempting to take it easy unlike the other two who frag your frame like it’s their only chance they’ll do so. Taking a deep in-vent, he places his servos on the table under you, but you didn’t give him a chance as your own servos shoot forward. Your digits grip tightly to his thighs digging into his transformation seams to yank him forward. An embarrassing yelp of static falls from Thundercracker’s voice box as the wet heat of your mouth wrap around his spike with ease. Stretching you attempt to take him to the base in an attempt to choke yourself on him for a taste of his transfluid.
“Slaaag!” The blue seeker cries, voice crackling with static. His hips move as if they have a mind of their own, fucking your throat with reckless abandon. He’s horrible! He was trying to be better than the mechs to come, show you he can actually take care of you, maybe even prove to you his worth. But he can’t, you feel too good! Primus, you’re trying to suck him dry!
Thundercracker leans his helm down, red optics bright watching your throat bulge with every thrust of his hips. The sight leaves him whining, squeezing his optics shut tightly. He knows if he keeps watching he will overload too soon.
He’s sorry, sorry, so sorry, he can’t stop! If only you could hear what he wants to say, instead of hollowing your cheeks out to messily suck on his spike. Your optics roll back, muffled mewls barely able to vibrate in your pipe as you are held down and fragged like shareware. Never once are you left empty, filled or warmed by one of them and their vicious fucking. Your helm feels so heavy yet your frame crackles, EM field jumping everywhere in a wild need to feel someone, anyone.
Starscream slams his cock deep within you, his thrusts turning into quick, sloppy bucks of his hips. He barely pulling out of you, like he couldn’t stand to part with you. He finally gets to have you, finally gets to put your cocky self in your place, so why does he feel like it’s him that’s falling? Growling, the seeker sinks his sharp digits into your metal, threatening to puncture your armor. And yet you shriek around Thundercracker, your frame attempting to thrash as the pain and pleasure mix into an intoxicating brew within your fuel lines.
You aren’t sure if you can keep up! It’s so hot, too hot, your frame feels like it’s overheating! A warning flashes behind your optics. You can’t ex-vent out the hot air from your system, Thundercracker’s hips are moving too fast, slapping and blocking your vents from properly working.
Your helm feels like lead, the lack of cool air making your processor muddled. The three don’t stop, not until they have had their fill. With Starscream overloading first, his hips snapping against yours once, twice, before lingering, to make sure your valve takes his spent. He will taint you for anyone else, or so he hopes. The rush of hot translfuid in your empty cunt triggers your own release, your frame shaking, cumming inside Skywarp and around Starscream.
“Slag yes! Just like that-! Frag, ya know how to fill a mech up good.” Skywarp purrs, his own overload coating your torso in a pretty pink stain as well as your spike. He could get use to this, keep you locked away for their use only. Keep you as their pretty little mate those heat protocols tell you to be.
Thundercracker is the last to overload, pushing his hips one last time so the tip of his spike hits the back of your throat, coating your pipe in his cum, making sure you take every last drop. Swallowing around his cock, you whine, taking all he has. Pulling back, the blue seeker lifts your helm to see you better, hoping you were okay after such treatment. He swear under his breath as you open your intake wide and stick your glossa out, showing him you swallowed all he had given you like a good mech.
You really are trying to send him into the well early, aren’t you?
Yet can they really be done just yet, they still have so much cum to fuck into your needy holes. Surely you won’t mind if they unloaded it all into you; they are so backed up after all, and you’re just too good for them to pass up. The three don’t even glance at one another for they already know they are all thinking the same thing: to make you theirs, keep you for themselves to frag and love.
However the choice is made for them and against their will, when the door to the communications room is thrown wide open. A chair flying through the air, clocking Skywarp across the helm and flinging him off you. Thundercracker jumps back from you whilst Starscream sneers at the blasted triple changer barreling into the room and towering over him.
“Finally found you slaggin’ glitches!” The larger mech wastes no time speeding right to you, ready to put the egotistical flier in his place just so he could get a taste of you! Astrotrain hadn’t expected you to whine so loudly as he grabbed Starscream by the neck and pulled him away from you. Oh, how you are just so cute. Here you lay, an elite, his superior, and you look so fragged out mind, thighs twitching trying to close so you could move, seeking a spike to fill you again and again. Tossing the rather annoying seeker to the wall the triple changer grabs you instead, lifting you up and off the table and into his awaiting arms. Astrotrain moves swiftly, not at all risking losing you to anyone else, especially not those dense afts!
You just melt into him, nuzzling your helm into his neck cables your glossa licking across the thick cables, trying to find the perfect spot for your claiming bite. The cum stuffed inside you begins to leak down your inner thighs, reminding you of how achingly empty you are. Your hips buck forward trying to hump against the large triple changer. Even now you have no shame, just craving to be fragged and filled. Astrotrain grunts, feeling your denta sink into his neck. His Modesty panel retracts letting his all too big spike slip between your soaked thighs.
“Primus, look at you, all this over my spike? Ya really are something else.” Finding a suitable place can wait, right here in the hallway is fine; he can hardly wait any longer.
Your back strut meets the cold wall, burning hot frame trembling at the temperature difference, yet your optics stay right on the spike of the mech before you. Just looking at it makes you drool, the heat of it against your valve could make you overload. The triple changer laughs at your need. One servo grips under your aft, holding you up, using his large frame to keep you pinned between him and the wall. It allows his free servo to grip your face making you look at him.
“Astro…” You trail off with a whimper. Shaking your hips, you try to entice him, to make him mold your valve to the shape of him. Wet slit dragging across the length of his shaft, you try desperately to fuck yourself on him, to overload again and again until you black out.
“Frag, you’re so pathetic like this…” The large mech purrs, his wings fluttering behind him as he drools at the sight of you, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to plow you into the dirt, and I finally have you under me, beggin’ for me.” Astrotrain’s vent come out in sharp quick puffs, steam trailing above him as his frame tries to expel the heat to prevent his systems from overheating.
After all this time, he finally gets to make that valve his.
“Hm, I wonder how many marks I can leave across this slutty frame of yours.” The triple changer chuckles when you moan out at just the thought, “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? To be marked,” the triple changer only pauses in his words to lick the drool sliding down your chin, “as all mine.” You squeeze you optics shut, frame trembling as you begin to squirm. “For the world to know just who makes you weak.
”All for him, only for him, yeah? Screw everyone else he finally has you!
“You can’t even wait, look at those hips.” Astrotrain laughs at your neediness. The servo under your aft moves. Your pedes hitting the ground with a heavy thud, almost limp. You toss your helm back with a loud cry, hips thrusting forward as the triple changer shoves two digits into your sloppy valve. The wet squelch echoes in the hallway, ringing in your audials.
“So loud and I ain’t hardly done a thing. Those seekers can’t treat you like I can; this valve needs a real mech, yeah?” Digits assault your ceiling nodes with every pump of his wrist, the palm of his servo slapping your anterior node, grinding against the bright bud whilst he finger fucks the transfluid out of you to make room for his.
You can’t vent. Your frame warns of an possible shut down from being wound up so tightly. You’re unable to believe this is actually happening to you, you are finally getting a fat spike to scratch the itch of your heat protocol! Finally, something to fill you beyond measure. Your spike twitches against Astrotrain’s stomach mesh and your valve clenches on his digits, excited by the mere thought of having him empty his cum inside you!
“Please, please, pleaaase it’s - not enough—!!” Your words are rushed out as you try to beg, “Frag me- need you fragging me- mm! gah..! M’yours yours yours please-!” Begging with a roll of your hips, you need his spike now! Your digits sink into his shoulders, scratching at his paint, trying to quell the instinctive urge to lay a claim on him.
Primus save him, you just know how to push his buttons! His systems are overheating but he can’t find it in him to care. Slamming his dermas to yours in a harsh clink of your denta, his glossa pushes into your awaiting intake with no resistance. Sharp fangs dig into your bottom lip, nipping the soft metal, letting energon pool to the surface. Gasping at the sensation, you are given a brief second of cold air before your intake is stuffed with the triple changer’s glossa. Your optics roll back before closing shut, mewling into the impassioned kiss.
Strong digits squeeze the cables along your neck, keeping you upright lifting you up, just enough for the Triple changer to place himself between your pedes. Pressing closer to your heated frame. Coolant sticking to your frame, your audials ring with the deep grunts and groans that make your wires sing! Every squirm and wriggle of your hips makes it hard to keep a grip on you, despite your heat, your strength as an elite is barely diminished. If he wants you under him, he’s going to have to break you in before you get any ideas.
A whimper falls from your kissed bruised dermas. A thin strand of spit connects your glossas together, breaking when he moves too far away. You truly are a sight to behold: optics down-turned and pleading, frame shining with coolant, and the pre-fluid from your spike soaking not only his stomach mesh but yourself. Dazed, you try to drag him back, wanting more of his tongue down your throat.
The triple changer pulls his dripping digits from your sopping wet heat. Mockingly, he coos at the pitiful whine you let out.
“Wait…no, no don’t stop—!!” The words die on your glossa as pain shoots through your wires. You shriek with a wet smack accompanying your cry. Your valve is empty but your node pulsing from the swift smack Astrotrain gives your pussy.
Your back strut arches as you cling to the large mech, completely blind to your pre-fluid splattering across his lap. Astrotrain chuckles, taking your tender node in between his digits and pinching the sensitive bud, cooing as you squeal. Your hips jerking as the overload fries your processors. However, your squeal is cut short by digits covered in transfluid covered shoving into your open intake.
“Shut up and lick ‘em clean.” As hot as your filthy sounds were, he doesn’t need you attracting nobody else.
With glazed over, glossy optics, you do as told. Dermas wrapping around his drenched digits, you suck on them like it’s the spike now pressing to your valve mesh. Glossa dragging between his digits to get a taste of yourself and the transfluid Starscream left in you. Your frame trembles, hips twitching almost like you could overload from that alone. Grabbing one of your pedes just behind your knee, Astrotrain lifts your leg up and kicking your other to spread wider, in an attempt to fit between your pedes.
With your greedy hole on display for him, Astrotrain wastes no time pushing the bulbous head of his spike into it, biting down on his bottom lip at how you clench down on him already! You just have to make things difficult.
“D-Don’t clench like that… frag!” The triple changer breathes out, voice shaking at just how tight you are around him. He’s not even sure he can make it if you don’t relax! Astrotrain bucks up, pushing more and more of his spike into your tight wet heat. Even after being fucked you still have such a grip on him.
You bite down on the digits inside your intake, optics fluttering back as you struggle to not cry out. Slag, he’s so thick, and he isn’t even all the way inside you yet! Glossy optics bore into those deep vermilion ones, silently pleading with him to just fuck you already, and by Primus he is trying!
Squeezing your leg to get a better grip, Astrotrain pulls his hips back and swings them froward, impaling you further down his cock. Your back strut arches, quaking under his vicious push and pull. Astrotrain shoves more and more into you like he’s nothing more than a rut stricken beast mounting you.
Scrambling, you try to mumble something. It’s too hot, you’re losing your processor to his spike! A shock is sent down your spinal strut, hips shaking with vigor. Astrotrain swears under his breath, pulling his digits from your intake to place it on your other pede. He lifts you up off the ground and presses himself to the base, fucking himself in your creaming hole.
“S’in my tank!!” You wail, the tip of his spike kissing your forge tank with every thrust. Your helm spin, “S…sooo deep..!” Oral lubricant flows from your agape intake, your words slurred from the intensity every overload brings you.
The triple changer shoves his helm into your neck, glossa dragging across your cables as he frags you through your climax. You are nothing more than a weeping mess in his hold, drunken smile on your dermas as you finally get what you’ve wanted.
“Greedy glitch!” Astrotrain growls, as you keep fogging his processor. His pedes feel like they are going to give out. You feel so good around him, trying to drain him of his transfluid, but he wants to last here, damn it! His denta sink into your neck cables in an attempt to muffle his own sounds. You’re ruining him and you don’t even know it.
His spike curves, dragging across your ceiling nodes every time he pulls back. He’s so close to you that your own spike rubs against his stomach. It’s too much, too hot, too overwhelming as the pain bites at your wires, only to bleed into a burning high, pleasure unlike anything you’ve ever felt! Astrotrain really should keep you quiet, but you just sound so damn good, all loud and crying just for him.
His own greed is his downfall. You two didn’t even hear the pedesteps until they were so close they made Astrotrain stop. He buries himself deep within you to cover you, cling to you to glaring over his shoulder at whoever it was, but his thrusts slowed to a stop to glare at that smug grin of the other triple changer.
Before Blitzwing can even get a word out, you’re whining loudly, trying to wiggle your hips to get more of Astrotrain.
“Noo, don’t stop…need it…*frag.* Was so close! Please…” You plead, vents glowing orange from the heat building withing your systems.
You make it so hard to handle business. Astrotrain growls, trying to ignore your pretty begging and how you wrap your pedes around him trying to get him closer.
“You sack of scrap, ya can’t just take ‘em and run off without me!” Blitzwing shoves his way forward, trying to snatch you from his fellow triple changer, but Astrotrain isn’t having it as he curls around you as much as he physically can.
“You can head right on to the scrap heap! I ain’t gotta do a damn thing, now buzz off!” The mech over you snarls, dual engine rumbling with rage. Here is he trying to have a good time with his superior, and now this dense aft wants to ruin all the hard work that went into getting you under him!
Blitzwing’s smug grin twists into a scowl, getting more fed up by the second that his old pal doesn’t want to share you when clearly there is enough of you to go around. Especially with those sweet sounds you’re making, he knows you’d gladly take everyone on the Nemesis and still have so much more to give. If only Astrotrain would just accept that. As much as Blitzwing wants you for himself as well, he can’t ignore the fact that Megatron would have a first claim over you, and only give the others a taste of you after he’s had his fill.
Blitzwing grabs Astrotrain’s shoulder, tugging him back in an attempt to pry him off you. But the shuttle mech struggles to not budge; he can’t allow even a breath of cold air between you two for he knows the tank jet behind him will use that to steal you from him. You can’t take it, all you can feel is Astrotrain’s hot and heavy spike resting within you, barely moving just enough to tease you when you had been so close!
“Shut up, shut up, shut. Up!” You shout, pedes flailing and clocking Blitzwing in the chassis with your surprisingly quick movements, knocking his systems off for a brief second. “Frag me and don’t slagging stop until someone offlines!” You pant. It doesn’t matter what anyone has to say, if they aren’t breaking your valve into the sparkdamned well you don’t care.
Astrotrain groans, scoffing under his breath. If the large mech had the time to sulk he could, not that Blitzwing would allow him to have time, giving the fellow triple changer and rough pat on the back strut.
“You heard ‘em! We can’t deny such a request now, can we?” He laughs, swiftly moving beside you, slipping an arm behind your back strut. Astrotrain finally moves you away from the wall giving Blitzwing the space to slip in behind you, your spinal strut pressed against his chassis.
Astrotrain gives Blitzwing hold over your pedes, letting the other mech keep your legs wide open whilst he grabs ahold of your hips to angle you back. In your haze, you didn’t realize they wouldn’t be using your intake. The realization hits you as you hear Blitzwing’s modesty panel retract, allowing his lengthy and heavy spike to rub against your aft and leaving a hot smear of pre-fluid across your metal.
“Move their hips back, I can’t frag ‘em if ya keep hogging them for yourself.”
Oh lord, they are just going to keep arguing.
With an annoyed huff, Astrotrain moves your hips back, pulling himself back a little to try and give your second lover some space to actually move. Blitzwing moves his spike forward, finding your weeping slit, though an annoyed Astrotrain won't move from his spot. He presses up but slips, your valve not giving. He tries again with a muttered swear, until his voice box crackles as soon as his tip catches in your hole.
“Fraaag! Such a perfect valve. So tiiight-!” Blitzwing puffs out air through his vents, his warm breath fanning across your neck, “Relax, boss.”
"I am!" Your grip on Astrotrain’s shoulders tightens as you try to keep yourself grounded in anyway you can, despite it being far too late.
Your pulsing valve gives you away.
Your optics roll back, feeling the tip of Blitzwing's spike catching your fuck hole. Tears well up in your optics once more as you try to take both mechs; you don’t think your valve can handle it. You feel like you’re being split in half, but it feels so good! You cry out as the brute behind you bullies his spike into your already stuffed hole.
Your metal distending, denting outward from how full they made you. The spread and stretch of your valve is tight, the feeling them both spear you open like this, as wide as you could possibly go. Astrotrain, despite how desperate you two are, tries to remain steady, wanting to prove himself better than the bastard behind you. He knows they are pushing you to your limit, and it’s a thought that makes his engines rev.
Blitzwing can’t hold back; why should he when your frame is begging for him? He’s the first one to move to, swiftly pulling his hips back and ramming forward, he frags his spike right against the entrance of your forge, threatening to breach it.
“You slaggin’ cheat!” Astrotrain huffs, quick to not fall behind and let that sack of scrap frag you better than he can! His thicker spike slams against your ceilings nodes, he’s already drooling at just how fragged dumb you are already, as if he’s not close behind you.
By Primus, you are wet. Blitzwing finds himself biting his dermas so hard it’s bleeding. Each thrust feels like a swift punch, but it also feels like forever. By the time he bottoms out, he's panting, and trying not to sob into your neck.
"You're so tight! Frag..." Blitzwing swears, his groan bleeding into a whine.
"A perfect valve to be ruined and claimed." Astrotrain manages, as the fluttering of your valve leaves his helm spinning.
Both pull out till they were barely in, then slams back in with one rough thrust. You cry out at the sudden wave of pleasure as the head of their spikes slam into your forge tank.
"S'big! Haaa-!" You slur, throwing your helm back as they repeated the rough action, "Faster! Please!"
The two out right moan, but follow your request. It’s difficult not to lose themselves right away, though both of the triple changers could feel their resolve slipping. You feel so good!
For Blitzwing, felt everything become a blur. The only thing he cares about is the pleasure, and your cute, lewd sounds.
"Gonna fill you up... Make you mine... Wanted this for so long!" Blitzwing chants as he fucks his spike into you. This was like a dream come true! Oh how he loves you, wanted you and now getting to frag you... It was all he had ever wants.
You’re never left empty, one mech would slam in just as the other was pulls out.
You can barely process their words, your mind only thinking about how good they feel inside you.
Your optics roll back and intake falls open, your drool sliding down your chin as they use you like a fleshlight.
The pair pound their spikes into you. Your squeals echo throughout the hallway, all your sobs and cries for the entire Nemesis to hear. Blitzwing’s glossa rolls out of his mouth, a valve drunk grin stretched on his face.
You feel so good! And all your clenching is making him want to overload!
You shriek, your nails digging into Astrotrain’s shoulders, scratching him while you squeal, "T-there! Please! Fill me, need it- need your- ah!"
Their holds on you dent your metal, putting more of marks on you. Your helm tilts back against Blitzwing’s shoulder, too heavy to hold up anymore. Their spikes are constantly slamming into your sweet spot, leaving you in tears.
"Gonna overload! Oooh frag! Frag!" You cry, your valve clenching as your transfluid gushes on their spikes, making a mess on their mesh and creating a small puddle on the floor below. Your spike sprays transfluid onto Astrotrain’s stomach mesh and chassis, coating him in your filthy scent, bringing you to new heights. The only sounds that you make are fragged out of you in a punishing rhythm, your sweet cries of 'Ah! Ah! Ah!' echoing though the hallway.
"C'mon! Take it! Take all of it! G-gonna cum, mark you as mine! Aah!" Astrotrain struggles to moan out, voice cracking into a pathetic whine as his charge surgesthrough him.
“No, mine!” Blitzwing argues, sinking his denta into your neck cables, and denting them to leave an imprint of his bite along your frame.
You arch your spinal strut, body twitching as another high pitch wail tears from your sore throat. You feel another overload charge through your systems from the bite alone. The two growl and swear under their breath, spikes twitching before they overload inside you. They pound your forge tank and push all their transfluid inside, with slow, heavy thrusts to frag their fluid deeper into you. Load after load just continues being pumped into your filled valve.
Both mechs slow to a stop, venting harshly as they rest within you, making you warm their spikes. Your frame twitches sporadically, with broken weak whimpers coming from your well used voice box. Not a thought through your helm aside from more, more, more! Your hips attempt to move to grind down on them, but Astrotrain’s servos keep their hold on you.
The triple changers hiss through gritted denta as your valve clenches down on them trying to get them to frag you again.
“You just can’t stop…” Blitzwing sighs, struggling to decide if he can handle it or not, maybe one or two more couldn’t hurt, wait for Astrotrain to get too tired and he can have you to himself, mount you like the glitch in heat you are.
“How much can your valve even take, doll?” Astrotrain tries not to sound so shocked, after all this you still want more? Just what are those outdated codes doing to you?
Astrotrain barely pulls his spike out and grinds himself back into you valve, testing his own sensitivity. With a hushed moan, the triple changer decides for you, he could go again, maybe even shove Blitzwing out of the way and have a moment alone with you like he originally planned.
“You blasted barbarians are going to overload their capacitors! It'll take forever to fix them!" a new voice shouts, the sounds of the mech’s pedes getting closer has the triple changers looking down the hall on one livid Hook.
The constructicon wastes no time smacking Astrotrain upside the head, making Blitzwing cackle, until he’s smacked too with a loud ’thunk!' The two groan from the pain.
“Look at ‘em! You got their helm all fragged up. Do you know what issues overheatin’ can cause, it ain’t pretty!” The green mech shouts, waving a wrench around to threaten the triple changers like they were just a pack of dumb dogs. “Hand ‘em over before you two send ‘em into the well.”
“What!? You think we’re dumb enough to just hand them off to you? What for, so you can hog them for yourself? Fat chan-” Astrotrain is cut off by Hook chucking a wretch at him as hard as he possibly could, making the larger mech stumble back with a new dent to his forehead before toppling over.
Blitzwing watches the construct mech pull another tool from his subspace, ready to go pede to pede with the last standing triple changer. Thinking on it, Blitzwing is sure he could kill Hook, put him in his place and humiliate the mech by fragging you some more over him. His thoughts disappear when you try to move, but are unable to, almost like your frame was made of lead. The air pushes from your vent, only glowing brighter with each passing moment.
Ah frag it, don’t say he didn’t do anything nice for you.
Hook is surprised when Blitzwing pulls out of you, letting his transfluid leak from you before he's handing you off to the medic.
“About damn time you had some sense.” Hook takes you, gentle in how he holds your barely conscious frame to his own
“Don’t push your luck, runt.”
Just for that, the triple changer might go snitch. After all, those cone-heads are probably searching for you too, or those combaticons. What is he saying? The entire ship is hunting for you.
Hook dips while he can, muttering some choice words as he takes in the state you are in. The twitches, the glazed look in your optics, the fact you haven’t moved since being placed in his arms; it makes a pang of worry pulse through his spark. First, he is getting you cleaned up. That’s what you needed most, and some energon too, and then a long stasis. What could even be used as nesting material? Bah, he’ll figure it out when you’re asleep.
Right into the wash room he goes. He needs to make this quick before anyone else tries to take you away. Turning the faucet on, he lets the oil get warm first, and then moves you into it’s range, sitting on the floor with you tucked sweetly into his lap. His spark is melting at how you lean into his chassis, helm sluggishly nuzzling into his neck cables. Now he sees why everyone has been having a hard time keeping their servos off you. You’re so precious when you’re all fragged out like this, he can’t really blame anyone… except he will anyway.
“Sorry, boss, but we gotta get you at least half decent.” Hook speaks softly, as at least here behind a closed door he can be gentle with you without anyone seeing.
You almost win when you whimper, being moved so your back meets his chassis, your tender array exposed once more to the gentle warmth of the oil. You don’t put up a fight, allowing the mech to do whatever he wants with you. You're barely aware of him placing a cloth to your chassis, rubbing and lathering you up, cleaning your transfluid off yourself in slow motions. Hook coos as your engine begins to rumble quietly in a gentle purr, content and happy to be touched so lovingly after all the tossing around you’ve been put through.
“Look at you, all sweet f’me, yeah?” He chuckles, nuzzling his helm against yours, having read up on heat protocols just to help you better.
You don’t speak, only answering him with a lazy turn of your helm to lightly bonk against his. Soon Hook’s servo sinks lower. He shushes you when he brushes across the dents in your armor that Blitzwing’s grip left on you. The lower he goes the more you begin to stir, no longer just resting against him but actively trying to move; whether away from his touch or into it he can’t say for sure, but he wraps his free servo around your waist to make sure you can’t move too far from him.
“Easy there, boss, I got ya. Just a little more, alright?” Hook reassures you, his sweet handsome mech, all pretty on his lap.
“Mm.” You can barely hum, but your processor begins to wake up a little more.
Your frame jerks forward, a sharp inhale through your vents as Hook rubs your spike. A pitiful mewl falls from your dermas, hips shaking on his lap.
“Shh, I just gotta clean you up before we get you to your habsuite.” Or his, probably his, it’s safer.
“Hook…” You whine his name with a tremble to your voice. His touch is so light, it’s like he’s teasing you, driving you crazy!
Once your spike was clean, or as clean as he was going to get it as he watches it throb and leak more pre-fluid, he moves to your more than well loved valve. Primus, your anterior node feels so hot, pulsing even under the most delicate touches.
“Brutes just don’t know how to treat you right, such a shame.” Hook coos, but he can’t lie, seeing you so stuffed and so mindless is getting his charge going. He wishes he got to you first, and he would have, had it not been for that stupid purple seeker and his outlier.
Digits carefully glide around your valve mesh, wiping away the combined fluids sticking to it. He tries to coax as much out as he can before needing to insert his digits. His engine nearly stalls when you buck your hips sloppily into his palm, trying to get his digits in deeper, to make them curl and hit your ceiling nodes. But Hook remains strong, as much as he doesn’t want to.
“Easy, doll, don’t move, just let me do all the work.” You make it difficult to remain so calm, when you’re moving like this and making sounds like that.
Any more noise and-
The door to the washrooms bursts open and Hook can only close his optics with a deep sigh, already knowing the dumbafts who have shoved their way inside.
“You glitch, how could ya run off and leave us fightin’ everyone else?” Bonecrusher shouts, moving past Scrapper and making a beeline right to you and Hook.
“Shhh!! If you’re any louder the others will find us!” Hook scolds, but it falls on deaf audials.
“You think you can just take them for yourself and not share with us?” Mixmaster joins along side Bonecrusher.
Despite Hook’s best attempts he is shoved to the side as the others surround you, lifting you up off the ground and placing you on one of the benches just outside the shower. The six coo at your sad whimper being moved away from the warm oil.
“Don’t you worry boss, we will warm you up real good.” Scrapper pats your thigh, chuckling at how you just fall limp, spreading yourself open to welcome their touch.
“Slag am I, scrap metal!?” Hook tries to argue whilst being shoved away to the side. Since he wanted to take you for himself he will have to deal with merely taking your one of your servo’s leaving the rest of your delectable frame to the others.
Scavenger and Long Haul wasting no time diving down to either side of your hips, sucking your spike each taking a side and sucking along your thick length, spoiling you with their desperate need to taste your transfluid. Mixmaster is crouched just below, nearly out of view, blocked by the two on your lap. Green servos curl around the apex of your inner thighs, thumbs spreading those fat valve lips open to let Mixmaster see that pulsing node and dripping hole. He’s already drooling just looking at it. The heavy, heady scent of your valve almost puts him in a trance.
You can’t see past Scavenger and Long Haul, but you can feel it, though your processor runs slow from the feverish touches of your other lovers. Long Haul licks up, glossa dragging across your weeping tip lapping at the copious transfluid before wrapping his dermas around it sucking it while Scavenger kisses the base of your spike sucking each ridge on his way up, placing a servo where he once was to try and milk your cock.
Mixmaster wastes no time getting a taste of your freshly cleaned valve, already shoving his face between your legs. All you can feel is his glossa teasing your slick hole, licking and collection all your weeping fluid up, slowly, up to your sweet node making a circle with his covered glossa, dragging it back to your clenching hole, just to take what he’s collected to spit it all on your too sensitive bud before wrapping his dermas around it, sucking on it just to get you giving him more of your intoxicating slick. Laughing against your mesh as you shake.
Bonecrusher chuckles, holding the sides of your helm in his servos making you tilt your head back to look at him, more so at his spike, fat and long. Your optics widen for a brief moment yet your intake already drops open, drooling and ready to be filled. Slowly, the heavy mech guides his spike down your throat, pipe bulging with each rut of his hips shoving cock down your intake. The towering mech groans loudly, drool sliding down his chin feeling you swallow around his spike, your throat tightening around his length trying to milk him. Frag, you’re just too much!
Your optics begin to cross, tears welling in them. It’s too much, you can’t take much more of this! Primus, they are trying to off line you. Yet your frame begs to differ. Scavenger and Long Haul needing to hold your hips down to keep you from throwing them off. Your pedes squirm, heels digging into Mix Master’s back strut as he sucks on your pretty node. Whimpers and moans muffled on the fat spike choking you, unable to handle such lavish attention.
“That’s it, sweetness, let us handle ya.” Bonecrusher sighs out, his vocal components shorting for a brief moment as he overloads, his transfluid coating your intake, giving you too much with it starting to overflow from around him. Bonecrusher pulls out, letting some of his cum spurt across your face and chassis. while Hook and Scrapper are feeling up your frame, groping your mesh and teasing as your transformation seams as they fuck their spikes into your fists.
“Aw poor boss, yer lookin’ a bit flustered there.” Bonecrusher can’t help but tease, knowing you can’t answer him let alone even hear him.
You do nothing but moan, swallowing all of his cum that you can and opening your intake once more showing you’ve swallowed all he had to give, yet trying to tempt him to keep going, making Bonecrusher swear loudly.
The surprise suction to your anterior node makes your optics widen and back strut arch. It’s too good! Too much! Your frame still so used and sensitive from how many mechs have fucked you, but your heat clouds it all, the mixture of pain and pleasure becoming so intoxicating! Your hips bucking torn between more and escaping the hold you’re in. Long Haul chokes not expecting to take much more so suddenly, though his optics roll back with your transfluid gushing down his throat and trying to greedily drink it all.
Just to be shoved away by Scavenger, who swiftly slams your spike all the way down his throat, sucking and messily slurping down the remaining transfluid you have.
“You afthole, it was my turn on their spike!” Though the snarl falls on deaf audials.
Mixmaster, however, is left unchallenged, his own hips bucking into the air with his dermas off your node and right to your creaming hole. He can’t stop moaning against the pretty valve in his face. When your frame goes limp then the three pull off your array, leaving you venting harshly. Your optics are glazed over, audials feeling like they are stuffed with mesh, barely registering the group are all smirking and chuckling, already planning how to pick you apart now that they have you alone in the washroom with them.
“Slag, just look at you! Ain’t you a filthy sight?” Hook coos at you, moving his hips in your almost limp fist. Primus, he shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he is, he’s suppose to be taking care of you, washing you up for a long stasis, but he really isn’t any better than the other cons, is he?
“Could keep ya all to ourselves like this.” Scrapper sighs out, his engine rumbling in a low purr taking in the sight of you, all fragged out and dripping with transfluid, watching your all too sensitive hips twitch up on their own accord, spurting more of your own transfluid like you overloaded just from their words.
You whimper, optics slowly blinking as you try to gather yourself, but all you can focus on is Bonecrusher’s still throbbing spike against your face. The mech before you huffs, his frame gently shaking as you run your glossa along what you can reach, giving it a wet kiss as a silent ‘thank you’. You really are after his spark, ain’t ya?
Scavenger leans back, silently shoving Mix’s helm out of the way, much to the other’s annoyance. But Mix focuses his energy onto your gaping holes, showing his love by pushing his glossa in and licking your fluids right from the source. Scavenger wets his digits with his own spit before reaching down and pinching your pulsing node between his digits.
Your optics widen, pedes snapping shut around Mixmaster’s helm with a violent tremble, your intake dropping open with a loud squeal that makes your voice crack and pitch into static. Your hips lurch forward, grinding across Mix’s face, using him for your pleasure. Mixmaster’s optics roll back, his hips jerking, humping the air in desperation, spraying his transfluid everywhere expect where he wants it the most.
A series of swears echo around, jaws dropping at the sight of those pretty optics rolling back with tears stinging them. Your overload gushing from your valve, coating Mix and Scavenger in your spraying transfluid.
“Keep goin’!”
“Primus, look at them! Get a picture, look at that slaggin’ face!”
“That’s it, Boss, lookin’ so good for us! Keep screamin’, c’mon, let’s hear that pretty voice.”
Scrapper’s helm perks up, looking away from you at an all too familiar sound.
“Scrap, we have company.”
Hook groans, still fucking his transfluid into your fist, “See this is exactly why I told you bag of bolts to keep it down!”
Just how many more are going to have your body for themselves?
Will the majesty themselves make The Scavengers smut.. 👀🥹
༄.° scavengers x human fem reader 18+
-> warnings/tags: minors dni. orgy, free use human, debauchery to the deepest pits of hell. no plot, just porn. 1.9k words
hello hello!! pls take this as my offering to you both 🤲 i tried to change the orgy content a lil from what i usually write hehe
Grunting, you try to push yourself free from the door you're stuck in. You're directly halfway through, harnessed at the waist. The tips of your shoes are just about brushing the floor, but despite all your efforts, you're completely stuck.
"Guys!" You cry out, hoping someone will hear you. No matter how much you wriggle, you're firmly lodged. You can see the phase shifter device that the Scavengers got from Swindle about 7 feet in front of you, sadly, too far out of reach. Trust you to drop it and get stuck like this. How embarrassing.
"Now what do we have here?" You hear the smooth voice of Misfire on the other side of the door.
"Thank fuck," you say, hoping he can hear you through the door. "I dropped the phase shifter, can you help?"
"Hmm," he hums contemplatively, oogling how perfectly your ass is framed. He smooths one servo over it, making you jolt and yelp on the other side.
"Misfire!" You cry, "Can you think of anything else but your spike for one moment?!"
"You complaining?" He tests, squeezing your ass.
You scoff, rolling your eyes. He grabs the hem of your skirt, flipping it over your ass to reveal your underwear.
"Don't mind if I do," he says, hooking three digits under the seat of your underwear, brushing against your cunt. You sigh, knowing that this is a tantalising situation to be in. Misfire would never be able to help himself.
Tugging your underwear off, he starts to stroke two digits against your slit, rubbing your growing slick over yourself. You shudder a moan, wriggling your hips a little to seek out more of his touch.
He pushes two digits straight into your cunt, making you moan out. You brace against the wall again, happy to take whatever prep he wants to dish out.
He feels around, getting you ready for his spike. He almost licks his derma as he watches your pussy glisten. You are a sight for sore eyes, and he's madly in love with it.
"So tight," he chirps, "Just you wait for what I have in store for you."
"You're such a tease," you whine.
"I know," he says with mock sympathy, "Poor little thing."
His digits feel so good, but you know something that feels better. He pumps his digits just how you like it, making you roll your hips. If you weren't stuck in this position, you'd push back against him to demand more.
Pulling his digits out, he sucks off your juices whilst admiring your pretty core. He does believe you are now sufficiently prepared, and Primus knows this is gonna be a long night for you.
He licks a stripe between his two digits, using his other hand to pump his spike. He lines himself up with you, pulling his servo out of his mouth before settling it on the small of your back.
"I'm gonna enjoy this," he says, pushing inside. You sigh a moan, deflating your lungs from all the tension.
"Misfire, you're such a pervert," you whine as he bounces his hips off your ass. He chuckles, and damn, you truly can't resist him. He always knows how to get you going, and he's hardly ever able to keep himself out of your underwear.
"Just lemme finish first, then I'll call in the others," he says with a smug tone.
"You asshole! That wasn't an invitation!" You call back.
"You feel so fucking good like this, y'know?" He utters, watching his spike slide in and out of your hole. You moan, dropping your head in defeat. To say you aren't enjoying yourself would be a blatant lie.
He grabs your ass, squeezing both cheeks before spreading them to give him a better view. His optics glance over your other hole, thinking for a moment that it's been a while since he's had you there.
Never mind that, your pussy currently has his full attention. There's something so tempting about fucking you when you're in this predicament, and Misfire has always been one to cave to his temptations.
"Your ass looks so good right now," he says, watching the flesh jiggle from his thrusts.
"What's going on?" You hear Spinister's deep voice from the same side of the wall that Misfire is on. Without stopping the pumping of his hips, Misfire responds.
"Fucking the human," his tone is carefree, and you can imagine the insufferable grin on his face right now. "Gimme a few more minutes, then you can have a turn."
A few more minutes is all it takes for Misfire to overload, just as promised. Paired with trembling servos that grip your hips hard enough to bruise. He grunts, pulling his slick spike out of you and stepping to the side.
Spinister closes in on you almost immediately, thick spike already bobbing and eager for attention.
"Spin," you whimper as he stretches you. He's the biggest of the group, much to Misfire's dismay.
Too excited for his own good, he immediately starts to swing his hips at a dizzying pace. You gasp, a ball of air lodging itself in your throat.
"Easy, Spin," Misfire chides, "You're gonna ruin them for the rest of us."
The larger mech isn't listening. All he's focused on is you and your wet pussy gripping him tight. You moan, dragging your nails up the door as he ravages you, taking you in a way that he won't be able to sustain. He's big and impressive, but rarely does he last long. It's the equivalent of eating your meal too quickly, not taking the time to savour it.
He's always so enthusiastic when he fucks you. There's nothing else in his mind except his and your overloads. He moans, planting his forehead against the door and offlining his optics.
The rotors on his back start to whir, flapping back and forth as if he's about to take flight. Misfire smirks, entertained by Spinister losing all composure because of your pussy.
"My God, Spin! Fuck, fuckfuckfuck," you curse through moans and whimpers. He's fucking you so good, it's bending the seams of your mind. He drags every precious inch in and out of you.
Your pussy squelches with a suctioning noise as he strikes against you, filling you in a way that never leaves you begging for more.
Even though he's entirely engrossed in the feel of you, your pleasure still strikes through the centre of his processor. He snakes one servo down, finding your clit. You throw your head back with a startled moan as soon as he starts drawing tight circles over it.
"Ew, guys, what the fuck—" Fulcrum spits, covering his optics to shield himself from the debauchery right in front of him. He goes to turn on his heels, wanting to run far away from this.
"Not so fast," Misfire says, grabbing Fulcrum's shoulder before dragging him back. "You're the only one of us who hasn't fucked them yet, so let us show you what you're missing out on."
"But they're an organic!" Fulcrum whines, pulling a semi-distraught face at Spinister making a complete mess of you.
"Means they feel even better than Cybertronians," Misfire whispers in his crewmate's audial. "Not that you'd know about that anyway, right? Your seal is still intact."
"Hey!" Fulcrum pouts, perturbed at being so blatantly exposed. Even if it was common knowledge amongst the crew.
"You like it," the older mech taunts. "Just look at your panels, already leaking."
Unable to bear any more, you stutter a sharp moan as you unravel, a forceful spray of cum squirting from your pussy to decorate the floor between Spinister's legs.
"Oh Primus," Fulcrum shudders, his optical ridges in a frown. Your legs quiver, but Spinister doesn't cease. He'll keep going until he's had his fill. It's brutal and sinful all at the same time, and Fulcrum doesn't realise he's released his spike from his array until he feels Misfire's servo around it.
Spinister moans loudly, overloading whilst continuing to thrust. It makes a mess of fluid being spurted inside and dragged out of you at the same time, splattering against the back of your thighs and ass.
Krok, who managed to come in relatively unnoticed, goes next, slipping easily into your cunt. You recognise the shape of him immediately, making your eyes flutter with euphoria.
"Mm, fuck!" You moan, curling your toes. Instead of grabbing onto you, he places his servos against the door. He pistons his hips, cursing lowly at how wet you are.
Misfire continues to jerk Fulcrum's leaking spike, earning pitchy whines from the cowardly mech.
"Can't believe you're too scared to fuck them," Misfire taunts with a shit-eating grin, squeezing Fulcrum's spike a little.
"M-Maybe next time," Fulcrum replies, getting off on the sight before him more than he'd care to admit. Organics are so… Squishy. And gross. Not at all what Fulcrum looks for in a partner. But watching his closest friends ruin you, turn you into a leaking hole made to be used, it's a sight he won't soon forget.
"But you're enjoying it, aren't you?" Misfire says to him, trying to teeter him on the edge. "You're imagining yourself in Krok's place right now, am I right?"
The timid mech whines, a little pathetic noise that betrays him. It tells Misfire everything he needs to know.
Crankcase whistles as he stumbles upon the scene. Misfire is jacking off Fulcrum, Spinister is working his own spike, and Krok is taking you for a ride you won't soon forget.
"My invite got lost in the mail I'm guessing?" He asks.
"Don't worry, Crankcase, you're up next," Misfire says. "They're gagging for some spike today."
Krok can hear the deviousness unfolding behind him, and a part of him thinks maybe the responsibility for it all falls on his shoulders. It's a moral question he'll have to ask himself another time. A time when he isn't balls deep in your hot cunt.
"Hmphh—" Krok grunts, thrusting a couple more times before overloading in you, filling you impossibly more.
By the time Crankcase gets his turn with you, you're bordering on exhausted. He slides into your wet, sopping pussy. He pushes some of his crewmates' transfluid out of you, the pink fluid trailing down to your clit before dripping onto the floor. Your shaky hands brace against the wall as your hoarse voice continues to moan.
Beads of sweat line your forehead, and you're panting desperately. Your pussy feels so used, and the back of your thighs are starting to sting.
Fulcrum can't take it anymore, moaning in a high pitch as he spills his load. Misfire chuckles, watching the powerful stream jet and paint the floor below. His servo gets sticky with Fulcrum's release, but rather than cleaning it, he walks over to you whilst Crankcase is enjoying your cunt to smear the transfluid over your back.
You live with a bunch of depraved, horny freaks. You're pretty sure they used to use each other to expel these urges, but now they all seem far more interested in using you.
i’m not rly into any of the scavengers except spinster so sorry if this is a bit lacklustre </3
def would be obsessed w a part 2 of the sonar fic :33
Bat-Brained Decisions
Prompt: You thought you were just helping your best friend through a rough month. He thought he could handle it. Now he’s under you, overstimulated, fanged, and begging.
Pairing(s): Victor (Sonar) x vampire!reader
Warnings: NSFW, Dirty smut, oral sex (f receiving), face sitting, overstimulation, biting, vaginal sex, creampies, multiple, breeding, knotting, bat boy go stupid, he go crazy
A/N: might make besties sonar x vampy reader a series type shit, like a daily look into their lives when they fuck JAJAJAJA also IM AWARE THIS TOOK A LONG TIME TO PUT OUT…….i got to busy doing other shit
Masterlist
You prance around the office, taking a small shortcut to the break room. It’s been a couple of months since the whole incident with Sonar went down.
Literally.
He went down on you.
On the floor of your apartment, back against your couch, face buried between your thighs until you could barely remember your own name. He’d made a complete mess of himself and you, and then both of you just… ordered food and watched something stupid like nothing life-altering had happened.
And honestly? It hadn't.
You can’t say much has changed since then. You both went right back to your usual shenanigans like it hadn’t happened at all. The two of you still bicker, still talk shit, still flirt just to piss off everyone around you. Best friends first, menaces always.
If anything, the only real “win” from that night was that you finally broke up with your boyfriend.
Yeah, there was no way you were going to keep pretending he was enough, not after Sonar made true on his promise to eat you out better than your boyfriend ever had. Once you’ve been ruined properly, it’s hard to go back to “adequate.”
You push the break room door open and beeline straight toward the fridge, rummaging around to see if you have any blood packs left tucked behind someone’s sad salad.
You’re elbow-deep in the break room fridge when the door clicks open behind you. You don’t have to look to know it’s someone with enough presence to trigger your fight-or-bite reflex.
Still, you glance back.
“Oi,” Malevola greets, strolling in like she owns the entire building. Tail sways behind her, lazy and predatory.
“Hey Mal,” you greet casually, triumphant when you finally locate a blood pack shoved behind something that used to be yogurt. You pop a straw in the pouch like it’s a Capri Sun.
Mal watches you sip for exactly two seconds before snorting.
“That for breakfast, or is this just… Tuesday for you?”
“Don’t judge me,” you warn. “I’m at ‘bite someone’ levels of hungry.”
She waves a hand. “Sweetheart, if you bite an intern I’ll give you twenty bucks and a standing ovation. Half of ‘em annoy me anyway.”
You bark a laugh, nearly choking on your blood.
Mal leans back against the counter like she’s settling in for a good show. Her eyes rake over you in that mildly threatening way she has—like she’s assessing your aura, your sins, and your credit score all at once.
“You look lively today,” she notes. “Almost radiant. I’d ask if you found religion, but… well.”
She gestures to herself. “I am the competition.”
You snort. “Please. The day I worship you is the day Robert learns to relax.”
“Hot,” she replies dryly. “But no, really— what’s put you in a good mood?”
You shrug your shoulders, totally unbothered. “Maybe it’s just a good day today?” you offer, like that isn’t the most suspicious statement you’ve made all week.
Truth is, you’re not even sure yourself why you’re in such a stupidly good mood.
You haven’t gotten laid in a while.
Your blood intake is back to pathetic little “sippy cup” portions.
And life is… life.
You pause, then snort into your straw. “Actually? It’s probably because I don’t have a fuck-ass boyfriend to take care of anymore.”
Mal grins like she’s heard the funniest confession of her immortal life.
“Oh sweetheart, hallelujah. Consider me your lord and savior for guiding you out of that nonsense.”
You snort into your straw. “You didn’t guide shit.”
“Incorrect,” she corrects smugly. “I judged it. And my judgment is law.”
You roll your eyes, but your smile doesn’t fade. She watches you a moment longer, tail curling idly behind her, eyes sharp and pleased.
“Honestly,” she adds, tapping a claw thoughtfully against her chin, “you’ve looked freer ever since you cut that man loose. Must be nice not having some insecure mortal breathing down your neck every time Sonar so much as exists.”
You pause mid-sip, eyebrow creeping up.
Mal raises one right back.
For a full two seconds the two of you stare at each other like feral raccoons in a standoff—and then you both snicker.
Of course she knows.
Everyone knows.
Every poor soul in this building has survived at least one of your rants about your ex losing his entire mind anytime Sonar breathed in your direction.
“Well, what can I say,” you drawl, lifting your blood pack like you’re toasting to your own freedom. “Good riddance.”
“Good riddance indeed,” she cackles, sounding like she’s about to consecrate the break room floor in your honor.
“…Speaking of which,” you murmur, brows knitting a little. “Have you seen Sonar lately?”
Mal flicks her gaze toward you thoughtfully, “No actually. Not since… what, last Friday? Think he’s okay? Or maybe sprawled out somewhere high as hell?”
You shrug. “Probably. Could also just be taking an impromptu vacation. Bat boy goes feral and vanishes sometimes. Part of his whole… ecosystem.”
Truthfully, you’re a little surprised you haven’t seen him.
Last time was about a week ago—the two of you sitting cross-legged in a park like delinquent pigeons, downing pizza slices the size of your head and talking shit about the team’s performance that day.
Mal hums thoughtfully. “Sonar disappearing is either normal… or concerning. Depends on the level of cocaine involved.”
“Mm.” You sip again. “I’ll check in on him later. Just in case he’s face-down in a dumpster somewhere.”
Mal laughs. “He’s your problem. I’m not designated bat wrangler.”
You flip her off casually.
Then the break room door opens.
Malevola’s smirk grows slow and wicked.
“Well,” she murmurs in that faux-holy tone she likes to use, “look who crawled out of the cave.”
You don’t even get the chance to play dumb.
“The hell are you on about,” comes a familiar, exhausted voice behind you.
You turn.
And yeah—it’s Sonar.
But not the Sonar you’re used to.
Both you and Malevola exchange a glance.
He doesn’t look different.
But he looks different.
Tiny things.
The tilt of his ears.
The sluggish blink of his white eyes.
The way his shoulders don’t sit quite right beneath his suit.
You tilt your head at him, frowning slightly.
“…You good, dude? You kinda look like shit.”
Sonar stares at you, flat and deadpan, like your concern personally offends him.
“Thanks,” he mutters, “love hearing that first thing in the morning.”
“It’s noon,” Mal supplies helpfully.
Sonar flips her off without looking.
His gaze returns to you—tired, sharp, assessing you the same way he always does, even when he’s clearly running on fumes.
You sip your blood again, slower this time.
Because now that he’s closer… something’s definitely off.
Here’s the thing.
You’re not a goddamn bat.
You’re a vampire.
People love to lump you two together—“what’s the difference?”
The difference is you’re a fucking vampire–you eat people for a living, you're prettier, you smell better, and you have actual standards.
But yeah, you’ve got overlap—like having a high sense of smell.
So when something changes in someone’s scent? You catch it.
Your nose twitches automatically, and you ignore it at first until the scent hits again.
Heavy.
Musky.
Sharp around the edges, soaked into him like it’s been there for hours, maybe days. It’s buried under his usual cocktail of caffeine sweat, old cologne, and whatever cheap-ass soap he uses—but it’s there, almost persistent.
You scrunch your face, confused, and take another pointed sniff before you can stop yourself.
Your head tilts slowly.
Expression going from casual confusion to: What the actual fuck???
Because Sonar smells… different.
Not sick.
Not drugged.
More like—
Sonar raises a brow, deadpan.
“…Why are you sniffing me like that?” he asks.
But you barely pay attebtion to him.
You’ve only ever smelled that exact scent under two circumstances:
1. Right before you feed on someone who really, really wants you.
2. Someone who has aphrodisiacs swimming in their system for whatever reasons.
And Sonar?
He smells like both.
Slowly, the realization hits.
You slide a hand into your pocket, whip out your phone, checking the date.
Ah.
Right.
It’s the first week of mating season.
You snort under your breath, shove your phone away, and lean back against the counter like you didn't suddenly connect every weird detail.
“No reason,” you reply lazily, stabbing your straw back into your blood pouch and downing the rest like it’s the most casual Tuesday morning activity.
Malevola gives you a slow, wicked smile—one that says “I know exactly what you just figured out” and also “I am absolutely going to scream about this in the group chat.”
She snickers and gives your shoulder a pat before turning toward the door.
“Robert just called for me. Try not to start a soap opera while I’m gone, yeah?”
You flip her off as she leaves.
The room goes quiet.
Your eyes slide back to Sonar—who is currently rummaging through the cabinet and grabbing a bag of dried crickets like he didn’t just walk in radiating the kind of scent that drives others wild.
He tears the bag open with his teeth and you watch him chew sluggishly. He swallows, glances at you, ears twitching again.
“…What?” he asks flatly.
You stare him down.
He stares back.
“What?” he repeats, flatter this time.
You snicker, pushing yourself up onto the table and leaning back on your hands like you’re settling in for a show. “Why on earth are you here?”
Sonar lazily follows the movement of your legs like it’s instinct before snapping his eyes back up and raising a brow. “What do you mean? I work here.”
“Mmh, yeah, no, I know that.” You wave a hand. “But why are you here. At the office. In public. Around civilians.”
He squints.
“Like I said. I work here.”
“Sonar,” you say slowly, tilting your head at him with all the subtlety of a brick. “You should be home.”
He freezes like you said something that confirmed a suspicion he didn’t want to have in the first place.
You see the exact moment the truth hits him.
His shoulders drop.
His ears twitch once in defeat.
Then he sighs—long, exhausted, and so deeply put-upon you almost feel bad.
Almost.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
You beam at him sweetly. “Nope.”
He glares. “You can smell it?”
“Oh yeah.” You stretch, making no effort to hide your satisfaction. “It’s strong as hell, by the way. Like… offensively strong.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “For fu— I didn’t even think it started yet.”
“It did,” you chirp. “Congratulations. You are officially in season.”
“Don’t,” he warns, pointing at you like a tired substitute teacher at the end of his contract.
“You’re literally dripping pheromones all over the room,” you continue, thoroughly entertained. “And you’re working like everything’s normal. You should be home.”
He drags a hand down his face. “I hate this. I hate all of this.”
You shrug. “Go home.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He gestures at himself. “Because I’m fine.”
You snort.
“Sonar. Babe. Buddy. Pal.” You lean forward. “You smell like you crawled out of a heat-sponsored orgy.”
He stares at you, dead behind the eyes.
“This is the worst day of my life.”
“No it’s not,” you coo. “Last month you microwaved a fork.”
His ears flatten in offense. “It sparked, okay?”
You swing your legs idly off the table, studying him with shameless curiosity.
“So,” you hum casually, “you gonna keep pretending you’re fine… or are you gonna admit you should be locked in your apartment right now before you do something stupid?”
His eye twitches.
And for the first time today, he looks away from you.
He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I feel… fine,” he mutters, which is already a lie. “Other than maybe a bit sluggish, but I’m fine enough to work and shit. Shouldn’t even hit me fully for like… a couple more days.”
A couple more days.
Oh, the poor bastard has no idea.
“Mmm,” you hum, sliding off the table with a slow, lazy stretch. You stroll right into his space, close enough that he has to tilt his chin to look down at you. “You smell… nice.”
His brow shoots up, suspicious.
You smirk and let your eyes flash red for half a second, just enough to make his breath catch.
“You know,” you purr, “it’s dangerous for you to be walking around smelling like that—”
Your head tilts, fangs peeking slightly as you breathe him in again.
“—especially for those who get affected by your pheromones.”
His ears twitch.
“Dangerous?” he repeats, deadpan.
You nod slowly, lips curving.
“Like dangling a piece of meat in front of a starving lion,” you snicker. “I’m shocked no one’s jumped you in the supply closet yet with you smelling this delicious.”
His mouth opens but nothing comes out because he knows you’re not exaggerating.
He just hoped you wouldn’t notice.
Idiot.
You step in again, closing the distance, your chest nearly brushing his.
“Sonar,” you murmur, voice dipping just enough to make his spine straighten, “you’re leaking pheromones like you’re trying to summon a mate.”
His jaw clenches.
“And you’re saying this just to annoy me?”
You grin.
“No. I’m saying this because if some thirsty little nobody wanders in here and picks up that scent before you get home…”
You lean in, lips grazing the shell of his ear as you whisper.
“…I might have to kill them.”
He shivers.
And for the first time since he walked in, you see it.
The look.
The one he had the last time he was under you, wrecked with endorphins, whining into your skin.
You straighten up, smug as hell.
“Go home,” you tell him.
He stares at you.
And the scent coming off him—heavy, hot, wrong in all the best ways—rises just a little stronger.
“Say please,” he mutters weakly.
Oh.
So that’s how today’s going to go.
Your smirk turns into something dangerous.
“I don’t think you want me to say please,” you murmur. “Not when you're like that.”
He swallows hard. He knows you’re right, knows exactly how this ends if he doesn’t walk out that door.
You watch him struggle with himself for another second—the stubbornness, the pride, the Sonar-ness of it all—before something in you softens a bit.
You let the smirk fade into something smaller, quieter, the kind of smile you don’t hand out often.
“…Go home,” you murmur.
He blinks, thrown off by the shift in your tone.
You reach into your pocket, pull out your apartment keys, and press them into his palm before he can argue, his fingers curling around them automatically.
“Crash at my place,” you tell him gently. “I’ll come after my shift ends.”
You step back, giving him space to breathe, to think, to not combust in the middle of the SDN break room.
“There’s enough room for you to shift if you need to,” you add, eyes dragging over him once more, cataloguing every tired line of his posture. “The couch, the floor, the balcony—whatever. You’re safe there.”
He swallows, looking at the keys like they’re radioactive.
You continue anyway, already slipping back into your usual rhythm.
“I’ll let Robert know you won’t be in for the next month or so,” you say simply. “I’ll tell him your season started.”
His eyes flicker. “A month?”
You raise a brow. “You're lucky if it's just a month.”
He doesn’t argue.
You adjust your jacket, back-stepping toward the door.
“Need me to bring anything?” you ask lightly.
He opens his mouth but you cut him off with a small, tired wave of your hand.
“Never mind. I’ll bring snacks.”
You slip out of the break room, leaving him standing there, holding your keys, stunned, scent-hot, and suddenly very aware that he may not be spending this mating season alone.
And honestly?
You’re not sure which one of you that’s more dangerous for.
The rest of the day was still a struggle, but not because the Z-Team suddenly forgot how to function without Sonar.
They were fine.
Chaotic as ever.
Robert’s sanity, though? In shambles.
Telling him about Sonar’s condition had been the highlight of your day. You’d said “So… Sonar’s out for mating season” and watched the light leave that man’s eyes in real time. He closed them, pinched the bridge of his nose, and went silent in that way that screams “I regret every life choice that brought me here.”
Then he sighed and said, with the patience of someone signing a death warrant:
“Fine. Tell him he can take September and October. All of it. Just... stay away from HQ.”
Two months. Paid.
Because his biology decided to throw a horny party.
You’d pouted the entire walk from his cubicle. All that time off for pheromones, huh? Meanwhile you’re out here getting maybe a long weekend if you don’t die on shift.
By the time your hours were up, you were more mentally fried than physically. Too much comms chatter, not enough blood, and way too much thinking about the bat currently haunting your apartment.
You twisted the knob of your door and stepped inside, letting it close behind you with a soft thud. Shoes off. Jacket on the rack. A long, bone-deep sigh leaking out of you as you padded toward the living room and then stopped, your senses catching everything:
Warm air.
Drawn curtains.
And Sonar’s scent, settled into the room like he’d been breathing there for hours.
Yeah.
He made it.
You hum low as you trek deeper into the living room.
Your couch never stood a chance.
Sonar, who was in his bat form, was sprawled across it like a cryptid that broke into a studio apartment. All seven-foot-five of him, limbs and wings draped everywhere, fur bristled in sleep, his stupid tie somehow still on.
You snicker.
“Sonar,” you murmur softly.
He stirs, a low rumble vibrating out of his chest as one ear twitches. He peels his eyes open slowly, unfocused at first, then zeroing on you.
“…Vespera…” he grunts, voice deeper.
Your grin widens.
“Hey, big guy.”
You head toward the kitchen, setting the grocery bags on the counter with a soft thump—blood packs, water, painkillers (because you know he’s going to pretend he doesn’t need them later), and snacks that are definitely not FDA-approved.
Behind you, the couch groans under his shifting weight.
You feel his attention track you, glowing red eyes watching your every movement with slow, hungry awareness.
You hear him move, the soft scrape of claws on wood, the low rumble of breath, the faint shift of weight as something massive stalks up behind you.
Then his hands slide around your waist, clawed fingers curling lightly against your hips, sharp, yet gentle enough to remind you he’s him.
He leans in, snout pressing into the crook of your neck, breath ghosting across your skin. He inhales deeply, long and slow, dragging your scent into his lungs like he’s been craving it.
The exhale that follows is pure contentment. A warm, heavy purr that vibrates against your shoulder.
You lift a hand and rest it on the back of his neck. His fur is thicker in this form, plush and warm, and when your fingers rake through it, he lets out a series of small, involuntary clicking noises.
Cute.
If he wasn’t a seven-foot-five nightmare creature, it might even be adorable.
“How fucking domestic of us,” you snicker.
He huffs in amusement against your neck, a breathy half-laugh, half-growl.
“How are you feeling?” you ask, tone light, your hand still moving through his fur in slow, grounding strokes.
He hums low and deep, almost considering, like he’s actually trying to translate instinct into words. His claws trace along your hips in absent little circles, careful not to break skin, his body pressed close. Another rumble vibrates out of him.
Then finally, rough and low:
“…Weird.”
You keep your hand at his nape, thumb stroking a small patch of fur to keep him steady.
“Weird good or weird bad?” you murmur.
Glowing red eyes blink, slow and uneven.
“…Both.”
You hum at his words, slow and thoughtful, fingers still brushing over the warm fur at his nape.
“Yeah… sounds like everything’s gonna hit you hard by tomorrow.”
You tilt your head slightly, inhaling again, the scent rolling off him thick, simmering just under the surface.
“Smells like it too,” you add, voice dry.
His grip tightens on your hips for a split second before you gently push him back.
“Alright, Scooby-Doo, personal space. Move.”
He lets out a reluctant grumble but steps back enough for you to reach the counter. You pull out a plate and dump the dead mice you bought earlier onto it. He eyes them, ears angling forward with interest.
“Here,” you say, sliding the plate toward him. “Eat something.”
He hesitates for half a second, then he’s on the plate like he's never fed before. You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.
“Get some energy, big guy. You’re gonna be too focused on wanting to breed something to eat later.”
He freezes mid-chew, ears flattening just slightly, a low offended chuff rising from his chest.
You ignore it, humming to yourself as you start packing away your blood supply and the rest of your groceries, settling into your routine.
You head into your room, peeling off your clothes with a tired little groan, tossing your jacket onto the bed. Faintly, you hear the low scrape and crack of bones rearranging, the familiar sound of him shifting back into his humanoid hybrid form.
At least he’ll fit in the damn clothes.
You rummage through your dresser, digging past your own sweats until you find one of the oversized pairs he left behind months ago. You hold them up, give them a quick sniff (clean enough), then pad back out into the living room.
He’s hunched over the now-empty plate, finishing off the last mouse like it’s a snack pack.
You drop the sweats on the arm of the couch.
“Clothes,” you announce.
He grunts his acknowledgment around a mouthful, already pulling them on with that eerie speed he has when he’s not pretending to be civilized.
You flop onto the couch, grab the remote, and start flipping channels. Eventually you settle on some mindless reality show where everyone is shouting and somehow still boring. Good enough for background noise.
You lean back, stretch your legs, and glance over at him.
He’s sitting on the floor beside the couch now, half-dressed, eyes lidded. His chest rises and falls steadily.
“…Feel better?” you murmur.
He wipes a smear of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and looks up at you.
And he does actually look better.
“Let me eat you out.”
Just like that.
No buildup. No context. No shame—not even a dramatic pause.
You blink at him once.
“...The fuck, Sonar,” you snicker, lips twitching.
He shrugs, absolutely unbothered. “Been a while. Wanna eat you out.”
Like it’s part of his biological needs. Water. Sleep. Food. Your pussy.
A laugh spills out of you before you can stop it, “Okay, okay—down, boy.” You point a finger at him teasingly. “No biting you this time, though. Not trying to send you into another spiral.”
He snorts, settling between your knees already like he was just waiting for you to say yes.
“Yeah, whatever,” he mutters, hands sliding up your thighs. “Didn’t ask for teeth. I asked for a meal.”
“Yet,” you say, tone dripping with smug amusement, “you haven’t asked me for teeth yet. You’re gonna get pussy-drunk and then beg me to bite you, and that’s when everything goes straight to hell.”
You’re laughing under your breath as you lift your hips, letting him slide your shorts down your legs in slow inches. His fingers tease your skin on the way, deliberate enough to make you shiver.
He settles between your thighs like he’s been waiting there for days. His palms bracket your hips, thumbs stroking once, twice, claiming their spot. Those pale white eyes lift to yours, already a little hazy.
“I might be going into mating season,” he mutters, “but give me some fucking credit. I’m not bat-brained right now.”
You tilt your head, gaze drifting downward slowly, deliberately.
Down to his shoulders nestled between your legs, to the way he’s breathing through his mouth like he’s trying not to salivate, to the subtle twitch of his nose as he inhales your scent and pretends he isn’t doing exactly that.
Then you lift your eyes again and your smile is wicked.
“…Really?” you murmur, voice soft and loaded.
He tries to scoff, pretend you’re not seeing him unravel in real time.
“Don’t,” he mutters, staring pointedly at your face. “Don’t give me that look.”
You blink innocently. “What look?”
“The one where you pretend you’re not doing this on purpose.”
You grin.
“Sonar,” you whisper, brushing your fingers through his fur, “you’re literally kneeling between my legs looking desperate as fuck.”
He rolls his eyes at your sarcasm, a tired little flick that says yeah, yeah, keep talking, before he pointedly drops his attention to something far more important.
You don’t even get a full second to smirk before his head dips, the bridge of his snout brushing the edge of your cunt—light enough to tease, intentional enough to steal your breath. His inhale is slow, indulgent, dragging your scent deep into his lungs like he’s been starving for it.
He may have been drunk off your bite last time, blissed-out and incoherent, but this is different. This is him sober. Fully aware, fully present, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get a taste of you like this.
His tongue slips out—pink, warm—giving you one slow, deliberate drag from the bottom of your wet pussy up to the top, collecting everything you're giving him.
You feel the breath leave him in a shuddering sigh against your skin, too pleased for someone who swore he had “control.”
He noses your inner thigh once, almost nuzzling, then goes back in with another slow lick, like he’s reacquainting himself with a favorite flavor he hasn’t had in months.
“I swear…” he mutters against you, voice low and rough around the edges, “you taste even better when I’m not high.”
You shiver in his hold, instinctively lifting and adjusting your legs until you’ve framed his face exactly how you know he likes, your thighs snug against the sides of his jaw, his ears brushing your skin every time he moves.
“Is that a compliment?” you breathe, voice shaky, “I’ll take it as one.”
He huffs a soft, dismissive snort before his tongue pushes in deeper.
That first slow thrust has you sucking in a gasp through your teeth. The second one is firmer, more focused, and then he’s properly eating you out, mouth greedy and practiced like he’s been replaying the memory for months and now that he finally has you again, he’s going to make absolutely sure you feel it.
Your moans spill out in soft, breathy pulses, slipping free no matter how hard you try to bite them back. You tilt your head back against the couch, eyes fluttering closed as pleasure rolls through you.
His tongue drags up between your folds, savoring every bit of your taste, then dips, thrusting inside you in a maddening rhythm. Every wiggle, every push, every subtle grind of his snout sends a spark of pleasure ricocheting through your cunt.
You breathe out his name again, softer this time, almost slurred.
“Sonar…”
Your fingers drift into his fur, raking through the soft strands at the back of his head. He makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and a purr, his breath fanning hot against your inner thigh.
Then he seals his mouth around your clit, sucking harshly before flicking it with his tongue.
You jolt so hard your hand slips in his fur. He doesn’t stop—doesn’t even pause. He just does it again, working you with an obscene focus that makes your chest tighten and your breath break into little stuttering gasps.
“Fuck…” you whimper, hips twitching despite yourself. His hands tighten around your thighs immediately, holding you steady like he knew you were going to start squirming.
He repeats that same combo—suck, flick, drag of his tongue down the length of your folds—like he’s studying every reaction you give him, memorizing the way you tremble.
“Doing so good for me,” you sigh, voice syrupy, dazed. “Eating me out so well… fuck, baby…”
The second you praise him, he groans into you. A deep, rough sound that vibrates right against your clit before rolling through your whole core. You feel it in your spine, feel it in your toes, feel it in the way heat blooms in your belly.
He responds to praise like it’s another aphrodisiac.
His grip tightens again.
His tongue moves deeper.
Hungrier.
“You like that, huh…” you murmur breathlessly, sliding your fingers through his fur and scratching lightly at his scalp. “You like hearing how good you are for me?”
His whole body shudders.
He drags his tongue between your folds again and thrusts it inside you with a needy groan that makes your hips buck against his face.
He holds you there, pinned and trembling, completely at his mercy as he tongues you slow and deep, savoring every bit of you like he’s starving.
You can barely keep your eyes open.
Pleasure is curling tight and low, winding you up with each desperate lap of his tongue.
“Sonar…” you breathe, voice cracking just a little. “Shit… you’re gonna—”
He growls, the sound rough and possessive and vibrating right through your core, and you swear your brain blanks out for a second.
He’s savoring you, tasting you, letting every little praise and moan you give him pull him deeper under.
And the worst part?
He’s not even close to done.
Your whimpers start coming quicker—little broken sounds that slip out every time his tongue pushes deeper, every time his mouth seals around you like he’s trying to devour you whole. His name tumbles off your lips without restraint, tangled with gasps and soft curses you can’t hold back.
His grip tightens and hauls you harder against his face, practically burying himself under you. His tongue thrusts deeper, needy and desperate, the angle forcing your back to arch, your breath to stutter, and the rising heat to snap hard through your body.
Your orgasm hits with a sharp, trembling surge.
“Sonar…” you moan, voice shaking as your hips roll over his face. Slick spills down his snout, coating him completely, and he groans into it like he’s been waiting for it. “Such a good boy for me…”
He shudders at the praise.
His tongue licks you through your high, slow and greedy.
Your breathing stutters, sensitivity sparking across your skin, the overstimulation buzzing under every nerves—warm, dizzying, almost too much—before you lean back and pant down at him.
“You can give me another one, right?”
You didn’t even finish the sentence before his hands drag you back down, mouth already sealing around your clit.
You gasp, another moan ripping out of you.
“Be a good boy for me…” you whine, thighs trembling around his head. “Make me cum again.”
He growls and dives back in with a hunger that tells you one very dangerous thing:
He's going to pull more than one out of you.
He coaxes two more orgasms out of you with an obscene level of patience, working you through every shiver, every twitch, every shaky gasp until your thighs feel like they’re buzzing with static.
You barely get a breath in before his hands slide under you, lifting you effortlessly. Your voice cracks in a soft noise of surprise as he scoops you up like you weigh nothing.
He doesn’t give you time to question it.
He carries you to your bedroom in a few brisk steps, drops onto the mattress, and immediately places you on top of him, guiding you up his body until you’re straddling his chest, then his shoulders, and ultimately his face.
He pulls you down like he’s starving.
You yelp, the sudden spike of overstimulation hitting you like a shock. Your whole body shudders, thighs trembling uncontrollably as his mouth seals around you again. His tongue meets you with the same hunger as before, but sharper this time—more urgent, more primal.
“Sonar—” you gasp, voice breaking.
His arms snake around you, looping under your thighs and sliding up over your hips, locking you in place. You’re held down completely as he drags you back onto his mouth.
You tremble, instinct fighting to pull away from the intensity, but his hold is steady, grounding—pleading, almost.
The overstimulation hits harder now, a deep electric pressure curling low in your belly. Every slow drag of his tongue makes your hips jolt, every soft suck forces another noise out of your mouth.
He’s devouring you like he’s making up for every second he didn’t get to have you.
You relent, grinding down onto his face, letting him take control, letting the pleasure crash over the overstimulation until the two blur into something raw and dizzying.
His grip tightens around your hips.
He groans beneath you—deep, wanting, satisfied.
And you swear you feel the sound vibrate through you all the way to your spine.
“Need you to give me one more,” he rasps, voice roughened into something deep and primal. His breath is hot against you, his grip firm on your hips. “Just one more baby…”
Before you can respond, he drags his tongue through your folds with quick, hungry strokes that snap your breath right out of your chest. Your thighs tense instinctively, but he forces your hips to roll down against his face, pushing your clit against the bridge of his snout with deliberate pressure.
You choke out a whimper, fingers digging into the fur at the back of his head.
“T-think… I’m gonna—” your voice cracks, dissolving into a slurred moan as your body pulses with warning heat, “Sonar… baby boy, you’re gonna make me—”
He groans loud beneath you, the sound vibrating against your core, and it nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. He tightens his hold, dragging your hips in harsher, more relentless motions, guiding you exactly where he wants you.
His tongue thrusts inside you lazily again contrasting the rough grind he keeps forcing against your clit. The combination sends sparks shooting up your spine, your breath breaking into sharp, helpless sounds.
Your whole body spasms as the pleasure slams into you—sharp, overwhelming, white-hot. Your head tips back, mouth falling open on a ragged moan as your hips jerk helplessly against his face.
“S-Sonar—!”
His name rips out of you, breathless and broken, fingers locking so tight in his fur your knuckles ache.
The orgasm tears through you hard—your muscles clench, your thighs tremble violently, and little droplets gush out in quick, uncontrollable bursts. It hits his mouth first, then his chin, then down the line of his throat and onto his chest, dripping onto the sheets beneath him.
He groans eagerly and drenched, the sound only making your release pulse harder.
Your hips stutter wildly, rhythm lost, body shivering through the aftershocks. Only when you’re shaking too hard to stay upright does he finally let up.
He pulls back with a wet gasp, chest heaving, mouth and snout slick. And before you can breathe, before you can even blink, he flips you onto your back.
Your world tilts, sheets rustling under you, and then he’s above you—hovering, crowding in close, kissing up your stomach in slow, claiming presses of his mouth. His hands roam your hips, your waist, your ribcage with irresistible focus.
By the time he reaches your chest, you’re already grabbing at him, pulling, needing him close.
He pushes his sweats down just enough—just far enough—to free the heavy length straining beneath them.
He drags the tip through your still-twitching folds, letting the slick noise cut through the quiet room.
Slow. Teasing.
Dragging up…
Then down…
Then up again…
Your breath hitches.
He groans against your throat, voice low and gravelly from need.
He presses in slowly, deep and unhurried, pushing inch by inch into the heat he’s been starving for. Your back arches as his grip tightens on your waist. The moment he’s fully sheathed inside you, you both stopped breathing.
“Tight… so fucking tight,” he grunts, the words punched out of him as he pulls back an inch and sinks back in again.
He starts slow, like he’s deliberately savoring how you clench and flutter around him, how your body reacts to every single thrust. Each movement drags a new sound from your lips, each push has your back arching off the sheets.
His breath grows uneven, chest rising and falling against yours. The slow rhythm only makes it worse for him—every time he pulls out, the tightness around him makes him shudder, jaw flexing as he fights not to lose it instantly.
He watches the way he disappears into you, watches the slick drag along his length when he draws back, watches your thighs tremble.
“Fuck me…” he mumbles, voice cracking with something rawer than desperation. His brows furrow like he’s genuinely overwhelmed, like he can’t believe you feel like this.
He keeps staring—lost in the sight, lost in the heat, lost in the way your body tightens around him like it’s pulling him deeper.
And he doesn’t notice.
He doesn’t notice the way your breath changes, soft gasps sharpening into something low and hungry.
He doesn’t notice your pupils shrinking, your eyes darkening then flashing red.
He doesn’t notice the way your lips part, the corner of your mouth twitching as your fangs slowly begin to lengthen.
He’s so focused on your body swallowing him, too engrossed in the pull of your heat, that he doesn’t notice until it’s too late—your nails biting into his shoulder, your fangs glinting in the moonlight, and the hunger hitting you hard.
“Victor…” you purr, voice thick with hunger and something darker. The sound rolls off your tongue like a warning and a promise all at once.
His head snaps up at you.
His hips stutter mid-thrust the second he sees your fangs out—long, sharp, gleaming under the dim light. His pupils blow wide, chest heaving.
“Shit. Fuck. Bite me,” he blurts out instantly, like the urge hits him harder than reason ever could. He knows better. He absolutely knows better.
But he still says it—voice rough, hips pushing into you in a slow, shaky rhythm he’s barely hanging onto.
Your hand drifts up his abdomen, feeling the way goosebumps rise under your touch. You trace the hard lines of muscle, move up his chest, then higher—where skin gives way to fur along his collarbone. His body shivers under your palm.
Your eyes drag over him hungrily.
Your eyes drag over him hungrily, mind very much focused on one thing. Before he can say another word, you lean in fast and precise, sinking your fangs deep into his bicep.
A sharp gasp tears from his throat, hips bucking into you with pure instinct as your teeth pierce his skin. The moment his blood hits your tongue you feel your eyes flutter closed. Satisfaction floods your senses, deep and immediate, clouding the edges of your thoughts.
His hand shoots to your waist, gripping tight.
A ragged groan leaves him—half pain, mostly pleasure, melting into something helpless and obscene.
You drink deeply, savoring him, while he thrusts into you slow and trembling, trying to keep control and losing it just a little more with every pulse of his blood on your tongue.
You drink from him like you’ve been starved for months.
Every pulse of his blood against your tongue pulls you deeper, blurs your mind further, loosens the delicate restraint you thought you had. Satisfaction rolls heavy through your chest, then thicker, denser, until your body hums with it.
You don’t even realize how much you’re pumping into his system.
Not until his hips slam forward with a sharp, involuntary jerk that rips his rhythm to shreds.
“Ah—”
His entire body seizes under you and then absolutely collapses into the pleasure flooding him. His eyes roll back hard as his sweaty hands clamp around your waist, hips taking over completely.
He starts thrusting into you fast, sloppy and erratic, like he’s chasing a high that just keeps surging higher and higher. Each movement punches another helpless little sound out of him, nothing like his normal controlled self.
The whimper he lets out when he slams into you again is almost broken.
Your fangs are still embedded in him, still pumping dose after dose of your aphrodisiac while drinking him in, not exactly in the right state of mind to realize what you’re doing exactly.
He can’t handle it.
Not like this.
Not this dose, not this intensity, not with your body wrapped around him.
His cock twitches violently inside you.
Then again.
Then a third time, harder.
“Fuck—” he gasps, voice cracking sharply as he spills inside you, hot and sudden, like the pleasure ripped it out of him without warning. His hips jolt, trembling with overstimulation, but he doesn’t stop.
He can’t stop.
“Hah—hah—fuuuck—” he stutters, forehead knocking into your shoulder, breath shuddering against your skin. “Sweetheart… ngh—too much—too much—”
But his hips keep driving up into you, chasing a rhythm he can’t maintain.
He reeks of desperation, pleasure so strong it borders on pain.
“Already—already—” His voice cracks, high and shaky, like he’s hanging onto the world by a thread. “Already c-cumming in you—shit—shit—”
His thighs spasm beneath you.
He thrusts again, harder than he means to, burying himself deep as another wave hits him without mercy. His body trembles, muscles quivering as he tries to breathe through the intensity.
You pull your fangs from his arm slowly.
He whines, eyes blown wide when he looks at you, glazed and frantic, his breath coming in fast, shattered bursts. He’s still thrusting—gentle, trembling motions that he can’t stop, like his body is acting on pure instinct.
“Gonna— g’nna— ngh— gonna cum again—” he babbles, hips stuttering into you. “You’re s-so tight— so hot— god— I can’t— I can’t think—”
He gasps against your throat, voice climbing higher with every thrust.
“You feel—fuck— you feel too good— too good— losing— I’m losing my fucking mind—”
Your walls flutter around him and he nearly folds.
“Sweetheart—please— I—”
Another broken thrust.
Another helpless whine.
A full-body shiver.
“Too warm… too wet…” he gasps, feverish. “I can’t— can’t stop— god, I can’t—”
Your vision pulses with red as your body tightens around him again, that instinctive hunger mixing with the aftershocks of your release. His blood still clings to your tongue, thick and warm, and the taste of him only amps the heat curling through your core.
He’s not doing any better.
Every thrust shoves him deeper into the haze he’s drowning in. His senses are turned up past max, his brain unable to process anything except the feel of your body gripping him. It’s too much for him, unbearably so—every squeeze, every slick drag, every pulse of your walls has him unraveling further.
“Sonar…” you gasp, your voice breaking as your orgasm wrings through you. Your nails rake down his back, your thighs clenching tight around his hips. The moment you tighten around him he whimpers—a raw, involuntary sound ripped straight out of his chest.
He spills inside you again.
His hips give a violent jerk, his voice cracking as he pushes through his climax without slowing. His rhythm collapses, but the need driving him doesn’t—his body keeps thrusting into you, rough enough to shake the bed beneath you.
“I— I can’t— ngh—” he whines, the sound high and desperate. He drags you closer, as if he’s scared you might pull away before he finishes. His hips snap up again, sloppy and hard.
“Breed…”
His whole body tenses like he’s on the edge of something overwhelming.
“Need to… need to— need it to…” His words slur together, barely there. “Need it to stick…”
A sharp warning flickers at the back of your mind—your instincts pricking at the edges. You force your gaze up, and the sight of him hits you hard.
He’s gone.
His eyes are barely open, heavy with exhaustion and overstimulation, completely unfocused.
His mouth is slack, murmuring fragmented phrases that don’t fully form, just broken noises and half-words slipping out between labored breaths.
Drool gathers at the corner of his mouth, dripping down his chin.
Sweat mats down his fur, sticking it to his neck and chest. His abdomen is tight, spasming with every pulse of pleasure still ripping through him. His thighs shake under you, trembling with each thrust.
And he’s still moving.
Still pounding into you.
Still gripping your hips like he needs the contact to stay conscious.
Your slick is smeared down his length, mixing with the thick, milky ring at the base—evidence of how many times he’s already lost himself inside you. He’s flushed, panting, his entire body trembling with overstimulation as he ruts into you like he can’t stop.
“Need… need you…” he pants, head falling forward until his forehead presses clumsily against your shoulder. “Too warm… too tight…” His hips thrust sharply, a helpless reflex. “I can’t— I can’t think— just— need to—”
Another thrust.
Another cracked moan.
He’s barely holding onto himself, everything starting to override whatever thin thread of control he has left.
You notice it before he does.
The way his shoulders twitch.
The way his breath deepens.
The way the muscles under your hands shift from something instinctual clawing its way up.
Alarm shoots through you.
His fingers—no, his claws—dig into your hips suddenly, sharper than before, the tips piercing just enough to sting. His back arches, chest expanding, fur thickening as the first tremors of transformation ripple down his spine.
“S-Sonar…!” you yelp, grabbing at his shoulders as his body lurches. His thrusts falter for a moment from his changing size.
He lifts his head and looks at you.
And that’s when you realize he’s gone.
Completely gone.
His eyes are fully red now, half-lidded, glazed and feral. His breath drags out of him in deep, animalistic pulls, panting through his teeth as his body grows beneath you.
“…Victor!” you cry, voice cracking when another surge of pleasure bolts through you. You cling to him, trying to anchor him—or yourself—but the shift only accelerates.
He snarls.
A deep, guttural, vibrating sound from somewhere low in his chest, rolling up his throat as his hybrid form takes over. His frame expands, shoulders widening beneath your thighs, fur spreading thick over his body. His grip becomes stronger, almost bruising.
“Fill you…” he growls, voice warped into something deeper and rougher than human. “Gotta f-fill you up…”
You feel it as he changes.
His cock—which was already thick inside you—swells further, pulsing as it grows. More girth, more pressure, more heat stretching you open around him. The change forces a gasp out of you, your nails digging into his furred shoulders for balance.
He thrusts again—harder, heavier with a new animalistic power behind each movement.
Your breath stutters.
His head lowers until his snout presses right against your neck, inhaling deeply. A shudder runs through him, hips grinding upward with a possessive desperation that rattles through your whole body.
“Smells… good…” he rasps, voice nearly unrecognizable. “Mate…”
The word vibrates down your skin.
“Gonna fill you good…”
Another thrust, deep and unyielding.
“Make you feel… full…”
And then you feel it.
A swell at the base of him, pressing harder, bigger, stretching you further as it begins to form.
A knot.
You choke on a gasp, body tightening instinctively as his hips drive forward again, the swelling base grinding against you as if his body is determined to lock him inside you.
His thrusts get rougher, needier, more desperate by the second.
He’s not thinking anymore. He’s acting on pure instinct and every part of him is focused on one thing:
To knot you.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders so hard you feel the texture of his fur give under your nails. He snarls at the pain but instead of pulling back, he drives into you harder, like your desperation feeds his own.
His hips slam into yours with force that knocks the breath from your lungs. Every thrust sends a sharp jolt through you as his tip crashes against your cervix over and over, with no hesitation and no mercy.
Your back bows off the mattress, head thrown back, lips parted on a cry you can’t hold in. Your body is caught between unbearable intensity and addictive pleasure, every nerve lit and trembling.
Sonar bends over you, breath ragged, eyes blazing red and half-lidded.
“Gonna fuck you so well…” he murmurs against your cheek, voice shaking with the effort to speak. “So deep you won’t be able to think about anything but me.”
He punctuates it with another brutal thrust that forces a gasp out of you.
His tone drops lower, rougher, instinct tugging at every word.
“Everyone’s gonna know you’re mine,” he snarls, hips snapping into you again. “This pussy is mine. Gonna fill you up so good— you’ll be dripping for days.”
His breath breaks around the last word, turning into a pant. His fur is damp with sweat, chest pressed to yours, muscles quivering from overexertion and overwhelming pleasure.
Then there’s the knot.
You feel it swelling against you—thick, hard, pulsing with his heartbeat. Every thrust grinds the expanding base against your entrance, pushing, stretching, testing your body as though he’s trying to claim you completely.
He tries again, harder, forcing the knot forward.
You cry out, body tightening around him.
He groans at the sensation, head falling forward for a moment before he forces himself upright. He shifts onto his knees, gripping your hips and dragging you up with him, angling you so he can drive deeper.
Your lower belly ripples with every impact.
He watches the bulge in your abdomen rise and fall as he thrust, his length outlined beneath your skin each time he slams forward. His mouth falls open, a long, broken moan spilling out.
“G’nna— ngh— gonna get you pregnant…” he whines, voice dissolving into raw instinct. He thrusts again, hips trembling, knot swelling larger with every pulse. “G’nna make it stick… need it to stick…”
He’s panting like he can’t get enough air, eyes barely open with instinct and need as he tries—again, and again—to push the knot inside you.
“Please…” he gasps, hips faltering before surging forward again. “So close— just— just need—”
The knot presses harder, stretching you around the widest part of him.
His entire body is trembling with the effort of holding himself back, hovering on the thin edge between instinct and collapse.
The moment it happens, your body reacts before your mind can.
With a rough, instinct-driven thrust, his knot forces its way inside you, stretching you wide, locking him in place with a thick, undeniable snap of pressure that jolts through your entire core.
Your body jerks violently at the intrusion, a garbled whine ripping out of your throat as your back arches against the mattress. The fullness is overwhelming and it steals the breath right out of your lungs.
Sonar’s reaction is immediate.
“Yes… yes…” he hisses through clenched teeth, voice torn between relief and raw instinct. His claws tighten around your hips in a bruising grip as he grinds his length deeper into you. “Fuck—fuck—breed well…” His breath shudders. “G'nna— g'nna breed this cunt…”
His words melt into panting, desperate noise.
You twitch beneath him, overstimulation crackling through you, his body pressing you down into the sheets with unrelenting weight. The knot pulses inside you, every push grinding against your walls, forcing another wave of heat up your spine.
Then your climax hits.
Hard.
Your body seizes around him, clenching tight enough to pull a strangled groan out of his chest. Your vision blurs as you cum one last time, your legs shaking uncontrollably beneath his hold.
He whines at the way your body grips him.
“So… good…” he manages, voice wrecked and shaking. His head drops to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin. His tip twitches inside you, pressed right up against your cervix, sending a shiver through both of you.
“So good for me…” he moans, hips locked tight. “Don’t— don’t worry… gonna fill you up… n-nicely… promise…”
His words crumble into another shaky whine as he grinds into you a few more times, each movement slow and desperate, the knot keeping him welded to your body.
Then he breaks.
His release floods into you in heavy pulses—thick, hot and unrestrained. His entire body trembles with every spurt, breath hitching, whining softly in your ear as he empties himself completely. His claws loosen, but only barely, still holding you flush against him as if afraid you’ll pull away.
“B-be… a good little mate…” he whimpers, voice slurring with instinct and exhaustion. “Keep it… all inside…”
His hips give one last shallow grind, sealing the knot even tighter.
He’s fully locked to you, body pressed flush, breath shuddering as he rides out the last throbbing pulses inside you.
By the time his mind claws its way back into his body, he’s still pulsing inside you, weak spurts leaking from his overstimulated length, each twitch making your walls flutter around him.
“V-Vic…” you slur, voice trembling, “baby… I’m f-full. Please. I c-can’t take… more…”
You’re delirious, shaking, stuffed to the point of ache.
He lets out a broken whimper at your plea, pressing his forehead against your shoulder, breath shuddering over your skin.
“Just a bit more…” he whispers, almost pleading, “please… I’m not done…”
His body shudders again, balls drawing tight as he forces out the last thick pulses he has left, spilling everything into you until he’s practically dry. Your legs give out entirely, trembling uncontrollably under him as the last wave finally hits.
When he settles, you feel impossibly full, almost painfully so, every drop of him held inside by the swollen knot still locking you together.
You groan weakly, head rolling back against the mattress.
“I feel like I’m gonna… fucking puke your cum out…” you complain, breath broken and shaking.
A soft, ruined chuckle rattles out of him.
“…Don’t do that…” he murmurs, still hazy, “Or I’ll just… fill you up again…”
A violent shiver runs through you at the threat, your tired body clenching around him in reflex.
You try to steady your breathing, relaxing as much as your overstimulated muscles allow.
“How long are we stuck like this…?” you whisper, voice rough.
He shakes his head slowly, eyes half-closed, still panting a bit.
“Couple minutes… I don’t… fucking know…”
You groan again, throwing an arm over your face like you’re ready to file a complaint with HR.
“Next time I’m putting wax on my fangs…” you mumble, exhausted. “Fuck… I think I jumpstarted your cycle…”
Right on cue, his cock twitches inside you eagerly, betraying him instantly.
The knot hasn’t even fully deflated yet and he’s already responding to you again.
He snickers weakly, the sound warm and wrecked.
“Yeah…” he breathes, giving your hip a squeeze, “Yeah you fucking did.”
Summary: You and Sonar don't exactly get along. After one bad interaction, you two have become about as compatible as oil and water. But then Malevola gives you an invitation to a house party out of the blue and after you make a discovery that wasn't meant for your eyes, it has you looking at him a little differently.
Content: 21.3k words. 18+, MDI. AFAB. Enemies to lovers adjacent (more like petty inconveniences to lovers). Sonar being an obnoxious little perv. Restraint via telepathy, biting, P in V, creampie, switch dynamics, breast play.
Notes: I don't know, I never thought I'd be here, and yet here we are. I blame it on my crush on Moistcr1tikal. Inspired by the fan art from ☆ Purple | Sonar Nation ☆ on tiktok, they get all the credit, sonar's happy trail has infected my brain like a worm. Gif by @seashellisinmyheart, divider by @omi-resources
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 the Torrance branch thin, 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 breakroom 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, bigshot 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.
Soooo when are we getting an Overlord story line? After that last fic, he needs a human for himself!
. ₊ ⊹ overlord x human fem reader 18+
-> warnings/tags: minors dni. kidnapping/abduction, human trafficking, nsfw/smut, dub-con, spike oral, overlord doesn’t know shit abt humans. 5k words.
you’re so right anon 🙂↕️ he DOES need a human for himself. but y’all already know that any overlord situation would just be DARK and iffy, so pls heed the tags!!
there are references to this fic in here. it isn’t super important to have read it, but just for some context!!
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
It's unfortunate, but you've managed to find yourself in what is essentially a birdcage, hanging from a metal ceiling in a dingy room. There's no light, leaving you suspended in pitch black darkness. It's damp in here, the humidity swallowing the air around you as you sit with your knees to your chest.
Your arms are wrapped around your legs, trying to preserve as much warmth as you can. Your chin rests on your knees as your eyes close. You've been sold like a broodmare across the galaxy, finding yourself in all kinds of company since your abduction.
Your latest owner had you chained up and sold when she no longer found enjoyment in your company. Nothing more than her concubine, you belonged to the hulking and muscular purple organic who was a matriarch of her colony. You're still wearing the clothes that she made you wear, a white gown that is bunched at the back with a clasp, bringing in the bodice to flaunt your shape. There are delicate sleeves made of winding ribbons that wrap snugly around the length of your arms, tied into bows at your wrists.
You were sold to a mechanical henchman. You've heard of the mechanical species that roam the universe, but you haven't actually met one yet. To say you met the henchmen who purchased you would be an egregious overstatement of the truth. You were quickly shoved in a cage, the action so quick that you barely saw who you had been sold to.
No information was relayed to you as to where you were headed next, what new purpose you would find in the next chapter of your less-than-ideal life.
There are dull clanks and thuds from outside the room you're in, it sounds like wherever you are is healthily populated. You have to wait for God knows how long to meet your fate. You wonder if your new owners know that there are minimum requirements to keep you alive, like having food and water. Maybe you'll die before they even come to collect you, not privy to your essential needs.
Though it seems that there is a higher power listening in on your thoughts, because the door to the room slides open as you're contemplating your current reality.
Orangey, warm light bleeds into the room. It graces you and your cage in a welcome embrace, causing the shadows of the bars to run over your form. Your eyes adapt to the new light, your pupils shrinking as you peer up, taking your chin off your knees.
The silhouette of the mech that enters is entirely backlit, the imposing figure blacked out as rays of light shine around him. The shadow he casts is long, it reaches for you in a menacing crawl. It whispers to you in a growl, threatening to consume you whole.
He steps into the room, shortly followed by a smaller figure, but of the same mechanical nature.
With their entrance, a dull light automatically comes on. Their steps are heavy, booming echoes ricocheting against the tall metal walls. Now, in better light, you have a clearer view of them.
One of them is dark purple, a face completely covered by a mask that only has a small slit to act as a visor. He's almost unassuming in appearance, that is, at least, in comparison to the Goliath that he's stood next to.
The other, who is roughly about a third taller than the henchman, wears a sadistic grin with beaming red optics. He has a hooked nose, his features sharp. You're almost captivated by his optics, struggling to look away from them to assess the rest of him. He demands your attention without uttering a single word, he holds sovereignty over your soul with a clutched servo.
They speak in a tongue you've never heard before, but it's full of static and whirs that they borrow from their mechanical voiceboxes.
They converse back and forth for a few sentences each, but the larger one doesn't break eye contact with you throughout the duration of their conversation.
'This is a prize for the gladiators,' the henchman informs the other.
'A human,' the Goliath replies, having encountered your species once before.
'Yes. The gladiators will fight ruthlessly to claim it.'
It's simple, there are more debauched mechs around than first thought. Your species is known amongst the galaxies for your libidos, and a lot of these Cybertronians are eager to experience it.
'No. I'll keep this one.'
He did say that if he couldn't take Tarn's pet, he'd have to find a human of his own. How lucky that you've fallen into his lap like this, procured by his henchmen as a prize. Those gladiators don't deserve you, they wouldn't be able to do the things that Overlord could do to you. It only makes sense that you come under his ownership.
The larger mech steps closer to you, taking the handle of your cage and unclipping it from the chain that keeps it suspended from the ceiling. It jostles you as he drags you up to bring you closer to his face.
You shuffle to the back of the cage, trying to get as far away from him as possible, even though it's pointless.
"You'll be mine now," he tells you in perfect English. Your eyes widen, not expecting him to speak your language.
You don't answer, your survival instincts telling you that you need to free yourself from him. He's unlike any other owner you've had. The vitriol and bloodthirst oozes out of him in suffocating waves, the danger he emits causes every hair on your body to stand straight.
"My name is Overlord, I am your new master. You would be wise to heed my wishes." The smirk on his face is pure malice incarnate. You dread to think what wishes he has of you.
You nod your head stiffly, realising that your survival is now contingent on this. You will learn to appease this person so that your life doesn't become even more miserable than it already is.
He swings the cage to his side before turning on his pedes. You yelp as you're thrown around, grabbing onto the bars of the cage to stop you from hitting the roof of the cage or other bars. He walks with purpose out of the room, paying little mind to your care inside the cage.
It leaves you for an incredibly bumpy ride, your knuckles paling from how hard you're gripping the bars. Your knees bash against the floor, sure to leave bruises.
You're flooded by the light in the hallway, the stark contrast to the conditions in the room leaves you feeling exposed. As if there's now too much on show.
You struggle to make out anything that's on this vessel that you're now a prisoner of, barely registering other henchmen that pass Overlord. They greet him in that foreign tongue, one that you hope you'll come to understand some key words of during your time here. That's the only real way you've managed to get to grips with your previous environments, piecing together where you are and who you belong to.
• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– •
Unceremoniously, you're tipped out of your cage onto a hard metal slab. You scream as you fall a few feet from the cage, crashing harshly against the metal. You wince as your muscles scream, your bones suffering under the impact.
"Take off those coverings," Overlord barks, pointing to the white material that covers you.
You collect yourself, turning around to face him as you settle on your knees, your hands out in front of you to resemble an obedient position. You look up at him, apprehensive to follow his orders. Maybe he finds your clothes offensive and he wants to find something better for you to wear. You don't attempt to ask, afraid you'll run the risk of angering him.
You sit back on your haunches, moving your hands to pull on the tails of the bows on each of your wrists to loosen the ribbons. You don't dare to look away from him as you do, his commanding aura willing you to keep eye contact.
The wound ribbon unravels itself partly, falling elegantly from your arms to hang loosely. You shudder a breath as you reach behind you, letting your fingers find the clasp that cinches your dress before you clip it open. It clatters to the floor, easing the tension of the fabric.
You bunch the fabric by your hips before you start to pull it up. You sit up from the heels of your feet to let the dress move past it before you sit back down. Then, you drag it over your head before you bring it down in front of you. The fabric drapes over your lap as you go back to gazing into his optics. You had not been gifted a bra previously, so you're left in only your underwear.
Overlord reaches over, it takes everything within you to stay still. You harden your resolve until it's steely, trying to take deep breaths as his servo approaches.
He pinches the fabric of your dress between his thumb and forefinger before he drags it away from you. He looks you up and down, analysing every inch of you. You seem to be the same type of human as Tarn's pet, much to his satisfaction. There's only one way to check that you truly are.
He singles out his index digit, pressing it against your chest. You tense as the hard metal makes contact with your skin, before you feel the prompting to lie back. He does this with the same grin plastered on his derma, the one you haven't seen him abandon since being in his company.
You still aren't quite sure what he wants. You're still of the belief that he's going to be getting new clothes for you, but you don't really understand what he wants you to lie down for.
You go down without resistance, slowly lowering yourself until you're flat on your back with your knees cocked, feet flat on the berth.
The glimmer that shines in his optics intensifies. It's such a treat that you're following his instructions without being threatened to do so, you're a fresh slate that he gets to mold in any way that he likes.
The digit settled against your chest trails down your body, all the way until it finds the hem of your underwear. He's looking at it rather than your eyes, your stomach twisting with unease.
So this is what he wants.
His digit slips under the band of your underwear, causing you to squirm a tad. He pays it no mind, instead pulling on the fabric to bring it away from you.
Your eyes break away from him, instead shooting up to stare at the ceiling. Your underwear shifts down your legs until he takes them from you completely.
In the next second, he spreads your legs with two digits. You yelp behind closed lips as you try to focus on the ceiling. He studies your most private area, comparing it to what he already knows.
Ah, so you are the same as Tarn's pet. Wonderful.
"Yes, you will do nicely," Overlord confirms as he removes his digits from your legs.
Is that all? Is that what he wanted? Just to confirm what's between your legs? You aren't too sure about that.
He steps onto the berth, causing a surge of fear to strike through you at the fleeting thought that he might crush you. Before you can really register what he's doing, he shifts in size. You have to double-take as the metal grinds and slides against itself to bring him down to a fraction of what he once was.
You're startled, he can tell. Not afraid, but definitely taken aback. There's a slight tremor to your limbs, almost inadmissible.
He staggers over to you, causing you to crane your neck back when he's in front of you. He harrumphs before he brings himself down to his knees so that he's leaning over you, one servo planted by your side as the other takes a harsh hold of your jaw.
You once again tame your fear, your breath labored as he brings his helm closer to you.
"Now, will you kiss me?" He asks, emphasising the 'you' in reference to something that you're not aware of. Has he been rejected in the past? Turnt down by another and now looking to you to remedy that?
You nod, as best you can whilst in his hold. You will obey him, you will fulfill any wish he has. That's the sensible way to stay alive.
He tuts a laugh before he closes the gap between you, pressing his derma up against your lips. You hold your breath as your eyes fall shut, letting him take the pace as he graces you with a long and passionate kiss.
Overlord deepens the kiss further, gripping your jaw so tightly that it starts to ache. You kiss him back, trying to give him what he wants. He has plump lips, considering he's made of metal. In truth, if you weren't being gripped in the way you are, you might actually enjoy kissing him.
There's a hiss, barely audible, but clearly coming from his frame. You're not at liberty to check, to investigate what part of him is making that noise.
A gasp rips from your mouth between kisses as you feel something very long and very heavy protrude up, settling on your stomach.
What the fuck. Whatever that thing is, it's huge.
Overlord rubs his spike against your stomach, the friction hardly enough to make a difference to him.
You fear that he's going to try putting this in you without ensuring that you're ready to take it. You've only just met him, but you can do this. If this is what he wants, you can play this game. But you can't take that without prep.
"Wait," you stutter against his derma as you reach for his length, wrapping your hand around it to stop him from trying to guide it into you.
Overlord breaks the kiss, pulling back from you to look down at you.
"Oh, so you do speak," he says with a grin.
You look into his optics, concern pooling in your eyes as you try to navigate the best way through this.
"I can't," you say meekly, "I need to be prepared."
"Prepared?" Overlord echoes, taunting you in his response.
"It will hurt," you tell him, but you're not sure he actually cares about that, "and it probably won't fit."
You hope the last part is more convincing, if you frame it so that he won't be able to get what he wants, he might be more willing to listen to you.
He just stares at you with a shit-eating grin, not really believing you.
"H-How about I go first, hm?" You suggest, clutching at straws as you start to jerk his length.
"And what did you have in mind?" Overlord asks, interested in your proposal and even more interested in what those hands of yours have planned for him next.
"Why don't you sit down? I can suck it for you," you hope this works, your tone gentle as to not hit any fuses.
"Oh, certainly. Be my guest," he chuckles as he pulls back, maneuvering to sit back on his aft opposite you. His legs spread out and splay in front of him, his spike now in your view. You resist the urge to gulp at the sight of it, he's wielding an assault weapon between his legs.
You shuffle to get onto your hands and knees, crawling once to situate yourself between his legs. You look at him, trying to be as collected as you can before this beast. His optics prompt you enough, urging you to start. He's a mech of very little patience, you'll come to learn.
You wrap your hand around his girth, unnerved by the fact that your fingers don't touch. Maintaining eye contact until you can no longer, you lower your head to bring your lips to his tip. It's oozing with transfluid, which tingles against the skin of your lips. You kiss it once before you apprehensively open your mouth, leading him into you.
Your tongue lies as flat as it can as you push as much as you can into your mouth and throat. You go until you start to gag, getting a feel for how much you'll be able to handle.
You bring your head back up as you start to gently tug on the bottom part of his spike that your mouth can't reach. He chuckles airily above you, prompting you to start sucking properly.
Bobbing your head up and down his length, you suck on him to the best of your ability. You use your tongue to lick on the underside of him, your jaw lodged open by this behemoth thing. You moan when he hits the back of your throat.
Overlord's optics dim as his helm tips back, swallowing down a moan as you work magic on him. The tightness of your throat muscles squeezes the tip of his spike so wonderfully, the swirling motion of your tongue heightening the sensitivity of the experience.
"What a lovely little thing you are," Overlord chirps as he loses himself in the feeling of the texture of the roof of your mouth as his spike glides through it. The words are like cotton wool in your ears, muffled and not registered.
You're far more passionate than Tarn's pet, so eager and willing to suck on his spike like your life depends on it. One of his sturdy servos grips the top of your head, tangling your hair in his digits as he ups the ardour. You whimper around him, the back of your throat being bullied as he becomes addicted to the sounds of your gags.
Your mouth is so wet, copious amounts of saliva welling around his spike that you need to slurp up, lest you choke on your own spit. His grip on your hair is relentless, he holds no prisoners and reserves no mercy for you.
He could get used to this, the feeling of you sucking desperately on him. You want him, you're a horny little thing, eager to be spiked by a mech like him. That's what he tells himself, and that's what gets him going as he face fucks you.
You bring your other hand around him, using both in tandem to jerk him off, giving little squeezes. He rumbles a moan, his engines idling into a purr as you're everywhere all at once.
"You're good at this," Overlord praises. The best, actually. He's never had anyone service him like this, your unique mouth doing a lot of the heavy lifting. The way it's made up is so foreign to him, your plushy tongue feeling like he's fucking into velvet pillows.
Your spit starts to pool over your fingers as you work his length, your fingers running over the ridged plating that makes up his spike. The metal is sensitive, and you've got just the right grip for it.
Fuck, he could fall in love. You could get his wretched spark singing if you carry on like this. Your other owners have been fools, they've not appreciated what they had. But he won't make the same mistake, he'll create a home in this body of yours. Something that he can come back to every night, somewhere he can let loose.
"I love the sounds of your gags," Overlord says. He sure is a talker, you've realised. A man who loves the sound of his own voice. But his brittle praise fuels you, it implores you to keep going.
He vibrates as he moans out, forcing your head down further and further, taking you for everything you have. Your eyes start watering as you struggle to breathe, your knees slightly giving way as the slide against the metal berth.
Overlord groans finally, feeling the snapping of his pleasure as he lets himself release into your warm mouth.
Grunting as his hips rock into your mouth to deposit every last drop of his overload into your mouth, he watches as you swallow it with his spike still stuffing you. It sends a flurry of static through him, pure excitement just from witnessing that. Oh, you're perfect for him.
You pull off of him, which, surprisingly, he lets you do despite his hold on your hair. You pant as you recover your breath, licking the last drops of him off your lips.
A part of you hopes that this'll be enough to satisfy him, that he'll put you back in the cage and go on with his day. But the look he shoots you begs to differ, the realisation that no amount of hope will get you by in this place.
"You want my digits?" He asks, flexing them in front of you, "Come and ride them."
Is that an invitation or a challenge? Either way, you're in no position to refuse him. Like you said, you need preparation. It's been a while since you've been a sex pet for someone who has a spike, or cock, or whatever the appropriate term is for this situation.
You adjust yourself as he brings his servo lower, closer to his thigh. You almost straddle his thigh, lifted up on your knees to make room for his digits.
Taking a chance, you go to grab his wrist. You're surprised that he let you, so you take the next step by bringing his servo to your mouth. He pokes out two digits, curling the others towards his palm. He maintains that chilling grin, which you fear might be a permanent expression for him.
You take the digits into your mouth to suck on them, wetting them as much as you can. You lick up between the middle of them, letting him watch you as you do so.
"Such a talented mouth," Overlord coos, his optics honed in on his digits pushing into your mouth and pulling back out.
Wanting to get this over and done with as quickly as possible, you pop the digits out once you're satisfied with how wet they are.
You drag the servo down, tucking it underneath you. Overlord curls his digits up to your hole, anticipating what comes next. The tips find your hole precisely, and he wastes no time in pushing past the taut muscles.
You mewl as he pushes them further in, letting them get sucked up until he reaches as far as he can.
"Now ride them," Overlord orders.
You nod, moving your hands to gingerly place against his chassis for support. You start to roll your hips, bringing yourself up and down on his digits.
You're tight around him, so tight and so warm. He feels strange, more like a fantasy sex toy than anything. He had notches on his joints, which drag against your walls as you move. You can't deny that it feels nice, it hits against the sensitive parts inside of you.
He separates his digits, scissoring them inside of you to get you looser for him. You moan, dropping your head and closing your eyes. He helps you by thrusting his fingers shallowly, squelching your wet pussy.
Watching you fuck yourself on his digits is insanely sexy, his spike bobs with lust as he feels your pussy walls quiver around him. He's loving every minute of this, you're putting on a good show for him.
Overlord pulls his digits out of your pussy far too prematurely, denying you an orgasm, though you can't tell if he did that on purpose or not.
"Are you sufficiently prepared now?" Overlord asks, already wrapping his servos around your arms to force you back.
Your feet falter as he manhandles you, pushing you to lie back on the berth again. The nerves throw you askew, frightened to take such a large spike.
"Yes," you hush, trying to remain optimistic. You aren't really, you could've done with a bit more action from his digits, but you fear the punishment that you'll receive if you ask for more.
"Wonderful, because I'm not sure I can hold back anymore," he says as he spreads your legs to settle between them.
With a quick motion, he sheathes himself inside of you. He feels the resistance, but he's stronger. It makes you wince as he pries you open all at once, but you bite down on any further noises of discomfort.
It takes him no time at all to find his rhythm. He ruts into you like a beast, pistoning his hips to smack the metal against your skin. You cry out, the impact harsher than you were expecting. His spike stretches you so far it almost burns, something of this size not designed to be in your fragile human body.
Oh, how your cries only ignite his sadism. He's longed to be buried back in a human pussy for far too long, and the experience is just as good as he remembered it being. You milk him, your walls fluttering as his tip kisses your cervix.
Your face is contorted with a mix of pleasure and unease, as if you're enjoying what's happening but afraid to let yourself go completely.
"Enjoy yourself, little one," Overlord requests. He remembers the last time, how he wasn't aware that humans could overload, so he had no intention of making that a reality. But now that he's wiser, more experienced, he'll make sure it happens this time.
Overlord takes your wrists in both of his servos, pinning them by the sides of your head as he swings his hips, shaping your walls to memorise him.
Yes, this is the exact thing that could derail him from his duties. He'll take you every night until one of you has to tap out, until your cunt is so abused that he has to look to take one of your other holes to give it a break.
He'll ruin you, he'll rewrite your biological coding to adhere to his every desire. You'll be his perfect sex toy, curated for his unique use.
Your legs wrap around his waist as you let out unrestricted moans, your ankles locking together as your hips start to jut up to meet his thrusts.
"So eager for my spike," Overlord hums, "Give me a kiss."
You strain to raise your head, trying to meet him. He chortles lightly, enjoying your struggle. You sigh through your nose as he reaches down to you, kissing you firmly.
He's completely dominating you, devouring you whole as you have no choice but to surrender. You'll pray for his mercy, but the way he's fucking you is anything but merciful.
"Scream for me," Overlord commands into your mouth. You whine shyly, tensing your leg muscles to pull him closer.
"I said," Overlord starts as he pulls his hips back, "Scream."
He slams into you, a hard thrust that makes you wail. He repeats it, slamming hard but steady thrusts into you, a change of pace from the rapid romping he was doing previously.
A squeak of a scream is forced from you every time his spike comes to hilt inside of you. Your body rocks against the berth under the pressure of his actions, your tits bouncing as you pathetically whine into his intake.
"That's it," Overlord chuckles as your wetness covers his spike and interface panel. You're going to be so sore by the morning, the burn of the stretch only just starting to wear off.
"I can't!" You cry, "I can't take it!"
"You can and you will," Overlord retorts. He's pushing you to the very edge, he'll bend you exactly how he likes and you will not refuse him. You belong to him, he owns you. You are his to do with as he pleases.
Betrayed by your body, you feel a weak orgasm slap you in the face. It was unanticipated, you didn't feel the usual build like you usually would. Your toes curl as you scream, your cunt tightening.
"See, that's a good pet," he lauds you for your orgasm, he knew you could take it.
He keeps going, his stamina unmatched. He'll make sure there's nothing left of you after this, you'll be a puddle of pleasure and his overload on the floor. You'll be stuck like that until he comes back to do it all again, and again, and again.
"Do you want me to fill you? I'm close. Beg for it, beg for me to finish in you."
Fuck it. What's the point in resisting?
"Please, Master. Fill me with you, finish in me, I'll do anything, Master," you babble mindlessly, letting the spirits of your post-orgasm haze carry you through the words you need.
"I want to be dripping with you, I want to make such a mess that we're both soaked."
He finds his end quickly off the back of your words, your pleading exceeding his expectations. His voice cuts out as he throws his head back, rutting staggeringly into you as he overloads.
You gasp, his transfluid is so hot that you can feel it warm you up.
He pushes all the way into you, forcing trickles of his transfluid to spill out around his length. He stays like this for a moment, keeping you stretched.
"You'll make for a perfect pet," he smirks before he steals a kiss from you once more.
i’m not all that whoreknee for overlord and i think u can probably tell FNSKFJ
hey idk how to tell if your requests are open, but if they are... could you write more tfp or g1 Shockwave or Soundwave valve stuff? I really liked the most recent one you wrote with them both x reader, and also loved the oneshot you wrote with the human reader dominating Soundwave with his valve a seperate time. I wanna see the big bads lose their composure 👀 what could make them do that..
¸.•* tfp shockwave x soundwave x human fem reader 18+ ficlet
-> warnings/tags: minors dni. threesomes, valveplug. mentions of anal. kinda short, sry <3 900 words
i loooooove making these big bads turn into sex-driven pleasure bots MMHMHM yummmyyy <333
°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°
<- previous
Since the revelation that Shockwave does like to have his valve serviced, you and Soundwave have consumed any free time that he does have with bouts of hot, messy sex.
Right now, you're sitting on Shockwave's spike in the reverse cowgirl position. Soundwave is just in front of you, with his needy spike stuffed in Shockwave's valve. You're rolling your hips, getting Shockwave's spike to kiss the deepest parts of you.
As well as all of this, you're stretching Shockwave's valve with a vibrating dildo alongside Soundwave's spike. It's two birds with one stone, really. Shockwave gets his valve pleasured with the vibrations, and Soundwave gets to fuck against something that vibrates. It makes both of these high-commanding Decepticons lose their minds.
Oh, how the tables turn. Some days, they'll both be in your holes, fucking you until you're dumb. But in times like this? You're in charge. You call the shots. You have Shockwave writhing, his optic flickering as he tries to keep composed whilst he's got all of these sensations trilling through him. Soundwave is desperately thrusting his hips, aiming for both Shockwave's node and the vibrating toy on the topside of his spike.
It's a thrill like none other. You've successfully leashed and bridled these two fearsome villains, boiling them down to nothing but pleasure-chasing brutes. The screen on Soundwave's visor glitches, his vow of silence still intact despite how much lust you're wringing from his frame.
The same cannot be said for Shockwave, who has gradually got louder and louder since this session began. He's groaning and grunting, his engines revving with each wave of bliss that you and Soundwave send through his circuits.
Your cunt is leaking all over him, keeping him warm as you test his valve. You've promised that with each session, you'll increase the size of the toy until his processor breaks. He deserves it, and he loves it so much, so why would you deny him?
Sessions like these are the only respite the two of them get. Always worked to the wire under Megatron's command, they both find themselves hankering for any downtime, just so that you can all crawl into the berth together. Shockwave finds it hard to believe that there was once a time when he was so vehemently against this trio, when he refused to let Soundwave pry you out of his stiff, sharp talons.
He especially can't believe it when he sits back and lets Soundwave pleasure you one-on-one, all whilst he observes. He tugs on his spike as he witnesses the two of you together, Soundwave often incorporating his tentacles into the event. Shockwave will order you to talk through what's going on in your body whilst Soundwave heeds your pleasure, and it only gets all three of you off even more.
Shockwave's taloned servo is gripping your hip to make you bounce on him, a flurry of spluttered sounds breaking from his vocaliser. His sopping valve is so wet that it's completely soaked your toy, and a good portion of your hand.
"Your affect on me should be studied," Shockwave manages to speak through the static, "It is nothing short of an enigma."
You give a short giggle as you keep rolling your wrist to get the vibrating tool as deep as you can, clenching your walls around his throbbing spike just for good measure.
"You're what we call pussywhipped, Shockwave," you huff.
"And you, too," you nod up to Soundwave. "Both falling over your pedes to get some human action. You both love it."
Soundwave doesn't make a single note to protest. He knows he is. He gets lost in your cunt more than he should, but he just can't stop. It's addictive, you're laced with something more potent than dark energon, and neither of them can keep their servos off you.
You'll never get over how good the two of these 'Cons can fuck you, but right now, you're purely focused on them. You've had your fill of orgasms for the night, and now you want nothing more than to watch them both break.
"Fill him, Soundwave," you chirp up to the communications officer. You know he's close, you can tell by the stuttering of his hips on the occasional thrust in. "Give him whatever is left in your tanks."
Whatever is left will have to do, considering his first few rounds are still dripping from your ass and onto Shockwave's plating.
To your surprise, Shockwave is the first to come undone. His tight callipers squeeze around your toy and Soundwave's spike as he sprays a heavy stream of transfluid from his valve, decorating Soundwave's hip plating and a part of your hand. Within the same second, he spills hot, thick transfluid inside of you, adding further to the concoction of fluids that pools between your legs.
His overload drips from your hand, but you don't stop. The vibrations are still serving Soundwave, still aiding him closer to his overload, and you're here to see them both mindless with pleasure.
"Come on, Soundwave, I know you're close," you coo at him. His screen glitches some more, and you can sense his oncoming overload by the trembling of his frame. You're grinning widely, feeling the last drops of his last orgasm drip from your ass.
Staying in his fashion, he overloads without making a sound. You can only tell because the erratic thrusting of his hips stills to a halt, leaving him buried the entire way in Shockwave's poor, abused valve to make sure every drop is dumped into him.
"That's a good boy," you hush sultrily.
i'm gonna try my best to pump out some drafts RAHH so expect some more drabbles and maybe a full fic this week!!
THESE LATEST WAVEWAVE FICS X READER HAVE BEEN SO GOOD HOLY FUCK IM LOVING THE RIVALRY OH MY GODDDDDDDD 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 I wanna see Shockwave just. Tormented with this 😭😭 they r so rough w the human omg the humans poor back I can only imagine they r gonna need a break soon - maybe soundwave can prove to shockwave how good he is at fragging by fragging shockwave him self?!??!?!?!?
. ೀ prime soundwave x shockwave x human fem reader 18+
-> warnings/tags: minors dni, threesome, recording. 2.8k words
shockwave deserves a good fucking… he works too damn hard!!! and soundwave deserves to GIVE shockwave a good fucking, again, he also works too damn hard. (and i’m too damn hard.. for these mechs) — enjoy my lovely🫶 also i'm so sorry, this has been in my drafts FOREVER, i didn't realise i never posted it LOL
─ · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · ─
<- previous
Drool is spilling from the corner of your mouth as your cheek presses against the cold metal berth, lips damp with saliva as your eyes roll into the back of your head. Hard thrusts from the ship's scientist pummel into the back of your thighs and ass.
"If you— if you gave him a chance," you weakly protest with a scratchy voice, throat tired from all the screaming, "you'd get to experience how good he is."
It burns like acid in Shockwave's tank to hear you speak about Soundwave like that. To hear you laud the mech's sexual capabilities whilst you're currently being fucked into next week by Shockwave, it contradicts what he believes to be logical.
Not a day has passed since you were so elegantly gifted to Shockwave full of Soundwave's transfluid where Shockwave hasn't fucked you senseless, eagerly trying to wipe out any memory you have of the experience, which you clearly enjoyed more than anticipated.
"I will not be experiencing it," Shockwave states with a flicker of his antennae, "and neither will you, ever again."
He fucks you harder, absolutely destroying you on his fat spike. Your eyes go fuzzy, obscuring the sight in front of you as you weakly cry out for him again.
Blotches of black start to swarm your vision before it consumes you entirely.
—・୨ ✦ ୧・—
You stopped mentioning Soundwave, stopped trying to get Shockwave to see what he was missing out on. You don't belong to Shockwave, despite what he likes to say. But, he does you well enough that taking another partner is unnecessary.
That isn't to say that Soundwave doesn't miss your cunt, which he only had the pleasure to experience just the once.
He plays the recordings of your time together in the background of his processor whilst he's working. Sometimes, he taps into the surveillance in Shockwave's lab to watch in on you getting your guts rearranged by the scientist, imagining himself in Shockwave's position instead.
Jealousy is such a flattering colour on Shockwave, even if he doesn't recognise it as such. Both you and Soundwave enjoy taunting him. Soundwave likes it because the sounds you make when Shockwave ruins you gets his spike leaking a tremendous amount of transfluid. You like it because you get the best fucking you'll ever get.
Soundwave hasn't pushed, hasn't actively sought you out since your last encounter. Shockwave is rampantly jealous, and Soundwave doesn't want the risk of getting you harmed in any way by causing a rift.
So, he'll wait. Soundwave doesn't take Shockwave as much of a threat, but he isn't going to incite infighting in the Decepticon ranks just to get his spike sucked. He'll trust in your persuasive capabilities to convince Shockwave of the benefits.
Shockwave found it suspicious that you stopped bringing up Soundwave. He started to assume that maybe you were sneaking off to get your fill of him without mentioning it. But after his investigation into it, he found that wasn't the case.
Once the prospect of the three of you being together was gone, Shockwave started to have inklings of yearning for it. It was strange, he was against it when you were asking for it, and he wants it now that you've left it alone.
In times when you're tucked into bed asleep, Shockwave often finds himself self-servicing to the idea of it. He keeps his noises to a minimum so as not to disturb you, but he jerks hurriedly at his modified spike as he thinks about having you sandwiched between the two Decepticons.
—・୨ ✦ ୧・—
Your leg muscles are burning as you splay your hands over the glass of his chassis, riding him eagerly as your brows furrow, moans springing from your lips.
The two of you fuck like bunnies, he's always horny and ready to go and you're addicted to the feel of him. Whenever he isn't working, he's buried in you. It gives him heightened motivation to complete his tasks in a timely manner, allowing him more time with you.
You feel amazing riding his spike, Shockwave's digits flexing around your hip as static sizzles from him in pleasure.
"Allow me to…" Shockwave starts before the words no longer come to him. What is it that he wants to say?
"Hmm?" You hum with a grin, rolling your hips over him as quickly as you can.
"Let me— hngh," Shockwave struggles, "let me call Soundwave, so that he can join us."
Your hips stutter before your eyes widen, unsure if you just heard him right. He wants Soundwave to join? After all that obstinacy from before? His unwavering, adamant refusal every time you even hushed the first syllable of Soundwave's name?
"Yeah? Okay, go on then," you reply, trying to play down your excitement. You don't want to come off too strong, just in case he decides to get cold pedes. You don't relent with riding him as he sends a signal through the telepathic communication system that connects the two of them.
The message has been sent, and now the ball is in Soundwave's court as to whether or not he answers in time. Granted, you and Shockwave can go on for a long while, so you could still be fucking even if Soundwave does take his merry time in receiving the message.
"Fuck, Shockwave," you whine as your cunt pulses around his length, "You're so big. I've never been stretched like this," your mouth hangs open in a silent moan as your eyes nearly fall shut. He should need a licence to wield a weapon like the one between his legs, modified to the high heavens, each tweak directly for your benefit.
"I could make it bigger," Shockwave says. You can't tell if it's a threat or a promise, but you aren't sure you could take it if he got any bigger.
"You'd destroy me," you reply with a whine.
"And it'd mean that only I was capable of pleasing you," Shockwave answers. The jealousy still simmers inside of him, even as he tries to quell it by inviting the source of the jealousy into your bedroom affairs. He doesn't seem to understand that bigger isn't always better, but he's hard to argue with when he'd be good at drawing orgasm after orgasm from you, no matter what size he was. And he knows it. Smug bastard.
The door hisses open, but you don't stop riding. You hear it, but you don't care who it is. You're so close to orgasm that they can stand and watch for all you care, there's no way you're stopping.
Shockwave also says nothing, just grips your hips harder with his singular clawed servo as he encourages you.
You moan as you feel your high wind around your stomach, dragging you to a different plane as your mind snaps. The moan you let out is nothing short of pornographic, pitiful whimpers screeching into a high-pitched whine.
Slender digits brush along your back as you start to step down from your orgasm. Shivers ripple over your skin at the delicate contact, your head turning to look behind you.
A toothy smile crackles onto your face as you see Soundwave standing there.
"Oh, you made it," you say as you finally stop riding Shockwave. The silent mech nods in return before playing Shockwave's comm message out loud.
'If you want to interface with the human, come to my habsuite promptly.'
You giggle at the message before rolling your hips over Shockwave's spike, still stiff inside you.
"Actually," you breathe as you look back at Shockwave, "I was thinking that Soundwave could take you. So that you can see what you've been missing."
Shockwave, ever the difficult mech to read, just flickers the light of his singular optic.
"Were you hoping to stuff me full?" You say as you lean forward again, placing your hand over the ledge of his chassis to present your ass to Soundwave at the same time, "Have both of my holes full of Decepticon spike?"
Shockwave's engine rumbles, which is confirmation enough for you. Soundwave's tendrils snake up the side of your thighs before running over the curve of your ass. He brings his knee up onto the berth to mount it, tendrils moving to wrap around your waist.
Soundwave's long digits press against the flesh of your ass, pushing your cheeks apart so that he can have a good view. Not only are you fully on display, but he also has a good angle of Shockwave's spike inside of you. He takes a quick snapshot of the sight, storing it away with the other images he has.
"You can fuck me at the same time a bit later," you say as you trace a finger over the glass on his chassis, "I think you deserve a good time first though, hm?"
The thought certainly is tempting, and it feels as though your words are laced with a hypnotic agent to make him fully compliant with your wishes.
Soundwave uses the leverage he has around your waist to start moving you up and down Shockwave's spike again, the unexpected action making you moan out as your head tosses back. Shockwave's sharp servo lands on your thigh, suppressing any noises of his own as he peers over your shoulder to look at Soundwave.
"I'm in agreement," Shockwave manages to sputter out, "We can proceed as you wish."
You chuckle with an airy breath of victory, excited for what's on the horizon.
You look back to Soundwave, "Go on then, fuck him just as good as you fucked me."
Soundwave nods once again before angling his helm down to look at Shockwave's valve panel, which is just below where you're on top of his spike. It's already puffy and dripping with pink fluid, ready to be ruined. Little trails of your own juices are trickling over Shockwave's valve, only adding to how easy it'll be to slide into him.
Soundwave's hip panels slide back, allowing his slender spike to pressurise and poke through. Your ears perk up at the sound of it, your mouth nearly watering. You spin your head to look at Shockwave again, grinning down at him.
Shockwave lets out a noise that you haven't heard from him before, a deep growl that's bordering on a moan. Soundwave sheathes his spike into the scientist's practically untouched valve. How long has it been since someone has been in there? Shockwave can't seem to remember.
The silent mech pulls his hips back until he's drawn out to his tip, glancing down to see pink fluid already decorating his dark spike. Soundwave starts to record, realising this is definitely something he wants for his records.
He swings his hips back forward, which jolts both you and Shockwave under the force. The two of you moan in unison, unleashing Soundwave's restraint and causing him to start jackhammering his spike into Shockwave's valve.
You scream as you're bounced ruthlessly on Shockwave's spike, your tits bouncing as your fingers tighten on Shockwave's chassis ledge, holding on whilst you're taken for the ride of your life.
The tendril around your waist extends, slithering down your middle until the pliant feelers locate your clit. You preen at the feeling of it.
"Oh my god," you pant as the feelers start to toy with your clit. What a talent, to be able to please both of you at once. Your head drops down as your mind starts to fog with pleasure. You can't even begin to fathom how it's going to feel when both of their spikes are inside of you, what a lucky little thing you are.
Shockwave's vocaliser rattles a series of grunts and groans as the metal slapping against metal sounds through the room. Your pussy is squelching over his chubby spike, but the sound is almost inadmissible in comparison. You're so wet that you fear you might slide right off him any moment, your slick already coating your cunt, clit and valley up to your ass.
Soundwave's tendrils circle your bud expertly, already intimately aware of how much pressure you like. He's studied your experiences with Shockwave through surveillance, made mental notes and is learning from it in real time.
Your legs feel like jelly as they're practically useless at this point, your riding of Shockwave's spike wholly reliant on the force of Soundwave's thrusts and the assistance of the tight tendril around your middle.
Soundwave is looking down, making sure to capture every second of this. Your juices are dribbling down Shockwave's spike, conforming to the paths its already carved down his panels to collect on Soundwave's spike. It's all just a mess in of itself, fluids from the three of you mixing together as if they were always meant to be one.
The communication officer's strength is nothing to scoff at. After all, he was once a reigning Gladiator in the Pits who could go toe-to-toe with Megatron himself. Fucking into Shockwave's bulky frame and sliding him with each thrust up the berth is an easy feat.
Shockwave's claws tighten around your thigh, the skin that spills inbetween his digits going pale as he threatens to break the skin.
Yes, he can see what he's been missing. This is what had you so addicted, he gets it now. Soundwave's spike parts Shockwave's walls over and over again, hitting against his interior node.
The pleasure of his valve being fucked and his spike being ridden is almost drowning, so many sensations running through his hot frame all at once.
The room swells with need and hunger, your individual libidos rearing their heads to see which one can withstand the most. It's a desperate competition, and there will be only one victor. Whoever lasts the longest.
You're more than happy to admit that you will not be the champion, that all too familiar feeling of an oncoming orgasm already rising in your lower half. Why resist it? When you have two mechs who are eager to see you through every orgasm they can?
"I'm so close," you cry out, digging your nails into Shockwave's purple paint.
"You've earned your orgasm," Shockwave tells you, his voice glitchy.
'Cum for me.'
The recording plays from Soundwave in Shockwave's voice, and the encouragement from both mechs has you melting. You scream as you feel the band snap, your clit throbbing with the attention it's receiving. You tighten around Shockwave's spike, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as you let the pleasure merge with your soul.
The sound is a beautiful thing to be picked up on Soundwave's recording, something he's sure will make him overload during his next self-servicing session.
"I am also approaching overload," Shockwave begrudingly admits, his antennae pulling back as he has no choice but to relent. It seems Soundwave will be the victor, after all.
"Fill me up," you mewl as your sensitive pussy is still being used to satisfy him.
Shockwave's optic offlines as he lets go, the callipers of his valve squeezing Soundwave tight as his spike spurts an ungodly amount of transfluid. He dumps every drop into you, filling every centimetre inside of you. He doesn't stop until he's empty, fluid spilling over Soundwave's spike at the same time.
And it's just as well, because Soundwave isn't sure how much longer he can last for, either. He continues to pump his hips, the motions effortless with how wet everything is.
As expected, Soundwave doesn't make a single sound when he succumbs to his own end. The only sign is that he thrusts his hips until he can't push in any further, stopping his movements and letting thick ropes of transfluid decorate the inside of Shockwave's pretty valve.
You're grateful for the break in the bouncing, the pace at which you were moving was dizzying. You breathe thickly as you settle your mind, feeling the walls of your cunt throb against Shockwave's beastly spike.
The three of you remain physically connected as you all float down from cloud nine.
Soundwave's tendril loosens around your waist, the end of it moving round to stroke gentle lines up your back in a silent way to soothe you.
It sends pleasant shivers over your limbs, sighing as you lower your body to rest your cheek against the glass of Shockwave's chassis in what you hope to be a few more moments of respite.
'It's your turn.'
The recording is of Megatron's voice.
"My turn?" You ask with a pout, looking back at Soundwave out of the corner of your eye.
'Have both of my holes full of Decepticon spike?'
He echoes your own words back to you.
You're never going to have a moment of peace with these two freaks around.
-> warnings/tags: 18+, oral, choking, knotting, monster-fucker-esque, small amount of blood/injury, breeding mention, references to kidnapping. 4.2k words.
-> minors + ageless blogs dni, you will be blocked!!
guys i tried OKAYYY pls be nice </3 shockwave is a difficult character to write LOL
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The dynamic you share with Shockwave could probably be considered an unconventional one. You’re a test subject with benefits at best, a wanted inconvenience at worst. It was Shockwave that saved you from your certain death, when Megatron realised that you weren’t worth much as a bargaining chip. They mistook you for a human ally of the Autobots, so they plucked you from your mundane little life to spin it all upside down.
When Megatron ordered to have you thrown overboard, Shockwave interfered and requested that you be passed to him instead. Not because he cared, or harboured any sentiment towards you. He saw a potential lab rat, one that would allow him to have a better understanding of the native species of this planet, determining how useful your kind could be to the Decepticon cause.
Your use to the Decepticon cause, as he hypothesised, was close to zero. However, your use to him? That was a result he wasn’t expecting. Unexpected, but entirely and thoroughly enjoyed. Your mouth and your tight pussy provide him relief and satisfaction unlike anything else he’s ever known. Before you, he could be considered inexperienced in sexual relations. It wasn’t necessary or strictly logical to be derailed by such primitive urges, not when he had so many other things to pour his attention into.
Now, he just enjoys pouring himself into you.
It should be beneath him, to fraternise with anyone. Let alone an organic. He’s a tank constructed of science and reason, feelings of lust aren’t something that should plague his circuits, memories of your loving mouth aren’t something that should fill his processor whilst he’s tinkering away with Primus-knows-what. You are the embodiment of a dangerous temptation, the antithesis of Shockwave’s coding. This flagrant caricature of intimacy that you share is indecorous, it does a great disservice to Aphrodite herself.
Shockwave is already mass-displaced and sitting on your desk chair when you walk to the small living space that he had made for you inside of his laboratory. It has no privacy, it’s just a desk with some paper and pens, a chair, a bed, and a chest for any clothes. It’s so barren, but you’re grateful for the lengths Shockwave went to in order to acquire it all.
It’s unlike him to be residing in your little corner though, he’s usually stood hunched over his desk working on one thing or another. His frame is parallel to the desk, cannon arm resting over the surface of the desk as his servo scrolls through a datapad.
You notice some yellow flowers in a small vase on your desk, your head tipping with curiosity as you approach him.
“What are these?” You question, looking to them as you stop a few steps in front of him.
Shockwave looks up from the datapad, “they’re flowers. Begonias, to be exact.”
You huff a small laugh, “I know they’re flowers. What are they doing here?”
“They’re for you,” he replies flatly.
You quirk a brow as you bring a hand out to gently brush your fingertips over the petals. Are they a gift? Or something more?
“For me? Are you trying to bribe me?” You beam a toothy smile, “because you know I don’t need to be bribed if you want your spike sucked. All you have to do is ask.”
If a faceless bot could look annoyed, you’re looking at it. His antenna flicker back slightly, optic glowing a fiercer red.
“I’m not trying to bribe you,” he says mirthlessly, “I’m conforming with your species’ standard courting procedures.”
“Oh, I see. So you’re trying to seduce me?” You tease playfully, stepping foward to get closer to him. You grab the datapad from his servo, slipping it out of his grip with very little resistance.
“My research suggests that giving items with positive connotations strengthens social bonds and reinforces romantic connections,” he explains as you place the datapad on the desk. Your hand goes to find his, wrapping your nimble fingers around his digits to bring his servo up to your mouth.
“Uh-huh,” you hum, singling out his middle and pointer digits before licking up the length of them, “and you’re sure you don’t want me to suck you off?”
You put the claws in your mouth, dragging your tongue up in between them before sucking. You play with him, working his digits further into your hot mouth, mindful of his sharp claws against the back of your throat. You maintain eye-to-optic contact with him, making sure he doesn’t look away.
Shockwave watches you, enchanted by your simple teases. How you’ve managed to chain this Goliath with just your mouth, you’ll never know, but it's something you take pride in. To have a big, scary Decepticon putty between your fingers, it’s enthralling.
“You’re quite vulgar,” Shockwave states, but the subtle feedback static in his tone says that you’re doing an exemplary job at chipping away at his resolve. Right now, he’s nothing more than a mass on a spring at equilibrium, anything might cause him to snap.
You smirk, pulling back on his digits slightly to speak.
“I’m not the one offering up gifts so that I can get my spike wet.”
You swirl your tongue over his metallic claws, the cold metal a sharp contradiction to the warmth inside your mouth. You’ve come to need the slightly iron taste of him, conditioned like a good pet.
“I will overlook your tone if you agree to get down on your knees,” Shockwave replies.
You grin triumphantly, he’s so predictable. He’s a pendulum in a frictionless vacuum, unimpeded by any external forces, his next step always foreseen.
“Oh, of course,” you coo, dropping to your knees slowly with his claws still loosely caged in your mouth, “please forgive me, Master.”
Shockwave presses down on your tongue, a wordless warning. You pull his digits out of your mouth, opting to kiss down them to find his palm instead. As you pepper kisses with gentle licks over his palm, you hear the hissing of his interface panel, the sound alone enough to tell you that his spike is up and ready to go. You’re near enough drooling at the sound of the opportunity that has just arisen.
The purple mech pulls his palm from your lips, snaking his servo around the side of your head to thread sharp talons through your hair, gripping you snugly by the roots. He urges you forward and you comply without protest.
You inhale a mouthful of air before you latch yourself onto his spike. His spike is nothing to scoff at, it’s thick at the base, wide in girth and long in length. It’s dark silver in colour with purple biolights and there are ribbed purple panels wrapped around his base that run up the length, the ribbing slowly getting less frequent the further up you go. And yes, it is entirely ribbed for your pleasure. Perks of fucking the ship scientist, you suppose. His tip is flared with what looks like little pliable barbs that feel divine inside your cunt.
It’s a plethora of sensations, all the texture on his spike. It sends the nerve endings in your mouth (and in your pussy) into complete overdrive, completely overwhelmed from all the stimuli. He likes to toy with modifications, he can’t please you by eating your pretty cunt in return for all the miracles you work with your mouth on him, so he’s seen to it that his spike is nothing short of breathtaking.
You wrap one hand around the base as the other comes to rest on his hip plating before you start suckling at his tip. Your tongue runs over the barbs, they catch on you and make you salivate. Spinning your tongue around his tip, you move to press up against his weeping slit. You lap up the prefluid, eager to take whatever he’s gracious enough to give you. Your tongue rubs up and down the slit, spreading the tingly taste all over the wet muscle.
Shockwave groans, barely above a whisper. He can’t see you, his chassis protrudes too far out to look down, so he can only imagine what it looks like when you play with him. In a way, not being able to see it makes the physical sensation feel more intense. Maybe when he’s not this preoccupied, he’ll consider installing some mirrors in this little makeshift space of yours.
Your skilled tongue is giving kitten licks to his tip, some of them slower than others, to test how much self-discipline he really has. He’s been obsessed with your mouth for some time now, something he encountered as an accident. Maybe it’s the fact that he doesn’t have one, making him yearn for yours all the more.
Deciding to take control of the situation, he pulls your head forward to make you swallow his spike. You yelp at the action, muffled by his thick length which is now forcing its way past your spread lips until he bumps the back of your throat. He wasn’t one for teasing, his assessment of it concluded that it was illogical. Why taunt when you can get to your ultimate bliss quicker when you don’t? You’re still trying to teach him the art of edging, trying to make him see that it can lead to a more fulfilling orgasm, but he’s too greedy for you to wait.
Restabilising yourself, you start to bob your head back and forth whilst you squeeze the base of his spike, the parts of him that your sinful mouth can’t reach. Yet. Your tongue sways along the underside of him as you move, your lips running across the ribs that decorate him. A moan is trapped in the back of your throat as you try to inch more and more of him into your mouth with each pass, regulating your breathing through your nose.
It was your mission to please him, to alleviate all of the tension he carries with him every day. He works to the wire, he’s been isolated for decades, he deserves this. He deserves to lose himself inside your mouth and you’re more than happy to give him all the love that you can. His helm tips back as his claws squeeze in your hair, strong frame guiding your movements.
Sturdy hips begin to thrust up into your mouth, using two forces to make you accommodate him. Your thighs tense as you feel your underwear start to stick to your folds from wetness, your nails scraping down the paint on his hips. He ex-vents loudly before he gives a particularly harsh thrust, forcing you ¾ of the way down his length. Your eyes start streaming with tears as he pries open your throat. You can feel the thrumming heat of his tip flush against the muscles in your throat.
Your body tenses, liquid heat pouring through you as you feel the excitement wrack you, snatching you with such a force that it’s almost dizzying. Fuck, there’s no way you’re gonna cum from this, right?
Your hips rock against nothing, trying to get some friction against your clit from the material of your underwear. It’s wet and hot, your clit is throbbing and begging to have attention, but you don’t want to take a moment of your attention away from your hulking mech.
The release finds you quicker than you anticipated, and much easier, too. You moan against him as you suck harder, the coil in your lower half springing free as an orgasm takes you.
His optic shutters as pleasure shoots through him, your throat wrapped so tight around him. Your gag reflex is flexing against his tip, massaging him and alluring him towards painting your throat pink.
“Did you just orgasm? From performing oral on me?” Shockwave asks, almost in disbelief.
Your eyes almost roll at his terminology, you decide to give a harsh tug to the base of his spike.
“There are no protests from me, I found it quite enjoyable.”
The inability to breathe is causing your vision to vignette, you hum pathetically in your chest as your eyes start to feel heavy as your tongue is forced to come to a stop. For a moment, he thinks he might’ve pushed you too far, so he eases up the iron grip on your head. Rather than pulling away, you start to suck him harder. His hips stutter and he’s reassured that you’re doing just fine.
So be it. He pulls back, allowing you a short moment of air, before forcing his cock back into your mouth as you babble. You’re slurping along his length, the vulgar sound echoing in his audials. Your lips are so overworked, plump and smeared with spit and pink fluid.
You resist closing your eyes as he regains control, using the pull on your hair to facefuck you at the pace he wants. Your tongue tries to keep up with him, curling and flicking against him. The barbs drag against the channel of your throat as he bullies himself further in, your jaw now as slack as it can be. Something of this size was not meant to go into a human mouth, but he’s trained you well.
“You will take it. You will.”
His end is nearing, he can feel the volts snapping at his circuits as he solely focuses on how you’re servicing his spike. His processor floods before short-circuiting, not being able to give you any warning before he fills your mouth with sweet transfluid.
You brace for the impact, his overload simply incredible in quantity. You do all you can to swallow, forcing as much down as will go, but his rate is too quick. Some spills from the sides of your mouth, back down his length. He overwhelms your mouth like a volatile reaction that’s reached activation energy, the outcome messy and overflowing.
You pull off his spike with the pop, the last bits of transfluid that you couldn’t take dribbling out into your cupped hand. You gasp, panting for breath as your lips tingle with a buzz.
Sitting back on your heels, you’re looking up to him now that you’re in his line of sight. Keeping eye contact, you lick the remnants of his overload out of your hand. He watches you with fervour, his spike bobbing with excitement.
You give a final long stripe of your tongue across your palm before you sigh, recovering yourself.
The ache for you radiates in his spark, he’s coming undone by the unbearable pressure of all of the things he hasn’t done to you yet. You have rewired his instincts, his chipsets are sovereigned by your body language. How could you, a small organic, manipulate the levers of his progression? He’s looking down at you in a sultry position, transfluid smeared over your lips and dripping down your chin, eyes glazed with lust, but he can’t help but feel the unwavering control he always has is being robbed from him, right from under his pedes.
“You okay, big boy?” You ask, his staring not going unnoticed.
As if he blinked, his optic faded in colour briefly before coming back.
“That was… Satisfactory.”
You grin with a chuckle before bringing yourself up to your feet, your hands crossing over your body to pull at the hem of your shirt.
“Satisfactory?” You parrot in jest as you pull the fabric over yourself, “you wound me.”
Sharp claws quickly tear into your trousers before you can even let go of your top, turning the garment into mere shreds.
“Allow me to rephrase,” Shockwave says before he stands, towering over you, “it was sensational.”
Shockwave makes quick work of your bra, tearing the band at the back. You gasp as you let it fall from you, a playful grin spreading on your lips as you become more and more bare in front of him by the second.
“I’ve not known pleasure like it in all my years.”
“That’s more like it,” you hush as you bring your hands up to the broad window on his chassis. His spike stands proud, prodding against your sternum.
Shockwave collects your hands in one servo before he tosses you towards the desk, face first. You barely have a second to register before he plants the same servo on your back and makes you lie on your front. The force causes you to go down with an oomph, your ass now fully on display for him, albeit with your underwear still on.
The wet patch has grown significantly, leaving nothing to the imagination of what your puffy cunt looks like when it needs to be full of Shockwave’s ungodly spike.
Shockwave curls his claws under the elastic of your underwear before pulling them down your legs, letting them fall to your ankles. The cold temperature of the room hits your soaked pussy, glistening under the harsh white lab lights. Strings of your pleasure web against your folds, all for Shockwave to see.
“I didn’t realise that fellatio gave you such stimulation,” Shockwave observed.
You scoff, you’re not quite sure you’ll ever get used to how clinical he is with his wording, but his performance makes up for any awkwardness he injects into the atmosphere.
“How about you just get to the good part and fuck me senseless, hm?” You purr as you peer back to him out of the corner of your eye.
Shockwave doesn’t verbally reply, but he does grab your leg with his servo before bringing it up, propping it against the surface of the desk so that you’re completely spread open for him.
You shuffle slightly to get comfortable before Shockwave places his canon arm down alongside you. It was thrilling, to have such a weapon of mass destruction mere centimetres away from you as this rutting beast rearranges your insides. It’s like walking on the edge of a nuclear chain reaction, a single misstep could prove critical.
Shockwave’s flared tip presses up against your dripping hole before he breaks the seal and pushes forward, your eager cunt spreading wide for him. You let out a breath you didn’t realise you had been holding, his slow entrance of you punctuating every rib and bump of him. They pushed along your entrance as he worked his way inside.
You mewled, hands curling into fists before the back of your ass came flush against his hip panels. It was a tight fit, even with all of his training. Shockwave’s servo wrapped around your calf, anchoring himself to you for stability.
He was stretching you so nicely that tiny little shivers ran down your spine. Your toes curled as he started his pace, strong and steady to start. His thrusts were heavy-hitting and constant. Groans rumbled from the pits of his chassis, hips pumping in an assured motion. He knew how he liked to have you, cunt quivering around his massive size. Your body jolted with each thrust, high-pitched cheeps breaking away from you each time he came to hilt.
You meek sounds proved to be the catalyst he was needing, his frame reacting in a scientifically logical way. He increased his pace, lifting your leg a little higher to get as much as he could inside of you. Even if he was the whole way in, he wanted to be even deeper. His tip kissed your cervix, the barbs pulling against your sensitive walls.
Your meekness soon became unbridled moans, hands unfurling to dig your nails into the wood. The flower vase still sat atop the desk, the flowers swaying in the vase slightly with the motions. His hips angled up slightly, so that he could get the deepest ribs stroking against your spongey g-spot. You choked on a moan, your eyes rolling back.
“Yeah, fuck–” you spit, “my god, don’t stop. I don’t think, I don’t think I can stop myself from being loud.”
“Then don’t hold back.”
His claws gripped your calf harder, small pinpricks of blood swelling to the surface of your skin as a result.
His hips continuously pulled out and pushed in over and over again, your teeth nibbling on your bottom lip. You had your reservations about screaming, never knowing who may be wandering these halls on the Nemesis. Did it really need to be announced that Soundwave liked to indulge in the organic?
It felt like you were on fire, heat building in shuddering bursts as he impaled you until it felt like you would split in half. If he went any harder, he may very well end up fucking through you. There’s sweat trailing down the hollow of your spine as your breathing was mismatched. He drags his claws against your skin, leaving angry red marks that pearl with blood in their wake.
Your muscles are sore and you can feel the inevitable orgasm rising second by second but you're too caught up in the moment to even notice. You're shaking all over his thick spike and he shivers the feeling of your pussy convulsing around him. It should be considered an extreme sport in itself to take a war machine like this, forged from the toughest metals to be a robust soldier of war who uses his entire weight to slam into your pussy. Every stroke he gives baffles you with how deep he can get.
Your body is hot, so incredibly hot. It doesn’t help that Shockwave runs high, especially his cannon, which is currently thrumming with energy next to your ear. The texture of his spike is too much all at once, you can feel every detail of his spike as it rubs against your walls. You can’t stop the specks of your vision that blur before you see white, your body surrendering to the pleasure. You cry shakily as your legs quake, your wetness coating his length in a milky sheen.
Your pussy is so wet he hardly has to even try to push into you, the warmth surrounding him sucking him in over and over again avidly. The squelching of your cunt as it gets bullied by his fierce spike is one of Shockwave’s favourite sounds.
“You said you would scream, I want you to scream.”
A cry is ripped from your throat as your hips buck, "Shockwave!"
The desk creaks from the force being pulsed through it by the two of you fucking on top of it, the vase is somehow still placed on the desk, but the water inside is sloshing like a tidal wave crashing against the shore of a beach. You’re screaming without any care for who hears you, your pussy is stretched so obscenely over his fat spike and the skin-on-metal sound is so rapid and loud that it’s making your ears trill. His need to consume every part of you is a volatile compound, unstable and explosive. It’s something he must harness, this anomaly in his spark.
His servo frees your calf, letting it fall back onto the desk. It doesn’t stay empty for long, as it moves to wrap around your neck. His claws are dangerous, it adds to your burning need. The hold isn’t crushing, but the tension on the sides of your neck certainly heightens your senses.
The most you can ever get from him are grunts and groans, still working your way to making him moan and whimper, but the beastly juggernaut behind you right now is on the brink of letting out the most orgasmic sound he ever has. You want it so bad, you wanna hear him moan out your name as he fills you with hot transfluid. He always shoots out buckets, enough to fill you until your stomach swells, your desperation for it is frazzling any other thought that floats between your ears.
Shockwave’s spike swells at the base, which you slowly start to notice as you feel a pliant texture bounce against your entrance with each thrust. Confusion overtakes the euphoria for a moment, a hushed ‘what?’ pushing past your lips.
It takes considerable effort, more than he anticipated, but he forces his modified knot past the resistance of your walls with a pop.
You don’t register what’s happening before he latches inside of you, stiff spike spurting unfathomable amounts of transfluid straight into your cervix. The sound that vibrates out of his vocaliser is a deep and guttural moan, so low that you could’ve mistaken it for a growl.
When you realise that he’s fucking knotted you, the pathetic moan that leaves you is downright embarrassing.
“I have seen your… Teratophilic desires, on your datapad,” Shockwave explains, “so I thought to give you what you wanted.”
Your jaw drops as you gargle on unbelievable horniness. The reality of it hits you, and the orgasm that takes you steals all the breath from your lungs, streaks of fireworks glistening over your vision as you ride your high out on his chubby knot.
“Oh my god,” you sigh, “Shockwave, oh my god.”
You sound like a broken record, babbling nonsense as he keeps himself lodged inside of you. This was the sexiest thing he’s ever done. You can’t believe he modified his spike to have a knot, just to fulfil your monster fucker fantasies.
His knot is huge, the stretch is bordering on painful, but your mind is reeling. He grinds his hips against you, not a single drop of his transfluid seeping out of you.
What a lucky little organic you are.
Shockwave’s frame idles to a low purr as he curls himself over you, nuzzling his helm against the back of your head to nestle your hair.
“Next time, I’ll breed you.”
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