Corporate!Sonar who drags his ass to work despite the raging hangover and three hours of sleep (fuck Jared and the sales guys by the way for holding the ‘client dinner’ at a club by the way) solely because he can’t miss seeing you only to find your desk empty when he walks in and your Outlook calendar location set to “working from home.”
Cue your phone buzzing like a rose toy in your pocket during the all hands meeting with pic after pic of Sonar’s dick, hard where he’s pulled it out of his slacks accompanied with “see what you do to me??” and “can’t even have the decency to show up and help 😒😒”
You take a long lunch that day, and Sonar takes the rest of the afternoon remote. And really work is where the pussy wifi is…
Corporate!sonar who sees you get a paper cut while making some copies for him. The little crimson drops on the paper just has him feeling a little wild. Next thing you know he’s leaned up against the copier all “oh, no :( here let me help with that” and your finger’s in his mouth, tongue laving over it like he’s dying to get a taste. Accounting submits a request the next day to have the copier moved out of their area.
at least the ceiling's very pretty | corporate!sonar x reader - dispatch
warnings: corporate!au, coworkers to a secret third thing, light angst with a nice ending, alcohol consumption, implied drunk sex, non-implied sober sex!, hooking up, piv sex, creampie, just a sprinkle of Sonar's secret inferiority complex, it's a secret from even himself!, spooning as a sex position, cuddling while fucking, and cuddling after!, just a lot of touching, author wrote this in an airport
word count: 2.1k
summary: In which Sonar rings in the new year by taking things a little slower. Or, Sonar wakes up in your apartment after the company new years party and exactly what you would think ensues.
When Victor wakes—groggy, fur crusted around his mouth—it’s to the dreamy green gaze of a leather jacket clad Jensen Ackles.
Which is really too much to be confronted with at sunrise, hungover and disoriented with sleep. Clearly this isn’t his bedroom. The Supernatural poster peaks out at him through a cracked closet, edgy scratched lettering mostly obscured by a jacket—his—flung haphazard over the door.
Once he gets his senses in order, the rest of the room comes into focus. He’s tucked under soft sheets, cotton or linen and freshly laundered by the crisp feel. A quick tilt of his head on the down pillow tells him he’s alone, the blankets turned back as if someone had just slipped away. The far window is cracked and a breeze drifts through, carrying the soft sounds of early morning traffic and song birds, two blocks away he can hear the high pitched sounds of two strays fighting.
It’s still dim, the room lit only with the warm, orange light of early morning. His mouth is stale, tongue glued behind his teeth with sleep and the sour taste of last night’s champagne. Victor sits up, stretches, hears all the bones in his back crackle and pop back into place.
He does another sweep of the room, a handmade quilt with fraying edges pooling at his—mm, yes, naked, very naked—lap. His clothes are strewn on the floor scattered amongst a handful of pieces which are not his. It’s not until he sees a familiar top flung over a pile of books that his brain pieces together exactly where he is.
How he got here.
The company holiday party. Their CEO asking Victor to toast. Flutes of stupid expensive bubbly and warm, alcohol induced courage in his veins. The sweltering feel of your hip under his hand, your cheek in his palm. A count down to fireworks. Lips kissing him back, fingers in his fur, a cab, a key in a lock, a weight in his lap—
Oh, shit. It’s yours, this place. The old wooden bed frame, the stacks of books, the desk with papers and little post it notes stuck to the mirror, the scent of clean laundry and lotion and you all over it. You, who he’s never even managed to see outside the office.
And he’s rock fucking hard thinking about a night he can’t even remember.
Fuck, what a goddamn beta fucking move. He finally, finally gets into your pants after months of disinterest at best and he blacks out like he’s twenty at his first frat house. Jesus—
Victor’s ears stand on end in seconds as somewhere through the closed door, a sink runs.
Footsteps light on wood in the hall.
The knob turns.
He stops breathing.
“Oh, you’re up,” you whisper and something about it has his chest fluttering.
That you don’t disturb the relative silence, keep everything feeling soft and hazy. There’s a thin robe thrown over your shoulders, tied at the front to hide you from his view. The color makes your eyes almost glow in the low light. Has him even more conscious of his own nakedness, pulling the sheets tighter around his waist.
“Yeah…” he trails off, stuck taking in the view.
He’s got a line for this kind of thing. Something clever to say, get you fawning for him, but it doesn’t come. There’s something so mesmerizing about your figure among the tasteful art on the walls, family photographs propped on a shelf, little trinkets that hint at so much more beneath the surface he’d never have seen.
You fit here. Which he supposes should be obvious given that it’s your place, but it’s so different from the sanitized, business casualness of work. All wood and old, second hand rugs instead of stainless steel, sharp angles and the chill clack of linoleum. If he saw you like this on the street he might have walked right past. Wouldn’t have even known it. This looser version of you, sleep in your eyes and bare skin on display is nothing like he’s ever seen.
It’s almost, holy if he had to put a word to it. Like seeing something secret, sacred. Makes him special.
There’s a glass of water in your hand and two little white pills that you hold out to him.
“Got these for later, but might as well take them now,” you place the glass in his shaky grip and watch patiently as he pops the painkillers and downs the whole glass. “Figured you might need them after last night.”
The water trickles a bit into the fur on his chin and alleviates some of the pounding in his head. You, tucking yourself back under the blankets next to him, however, does not help the pulsing between his legs.
“Thanks,” he replies quietly, looking pointedly between your body and his.
He’d like to ask if he actually managed to seal the deal after whatever the hell happened in between his last drink at the office and waking up, but it seems like such a bitch move to black out on fucking champagne he’d rather not admit it.
“If you’re wondering whether we fucked or not, I have no idea.”
Victor whips his head around and finds you staring past him out the window, sun gradually rising over the city skyline. Your face is a pleasantly neutral slate, like you’ve just asked him for the Q4 reports. Ever impossible to shake.
Equally impossible to impress.
“How are you feeling about that?” he chances, running his fingers across a worn spot on the quilt.
The stitches catch under his nails and try to hold strong. When he looks over again you’ve shifted down to lay on your side facing him, robe falling open in the front and revealing a mouthwatering view of your breasts pressed together. His face drifts forward as if magnetized to true north in the valley between your tits.
“How am I feeling about it?” you repeat back at him, smirking. “Is that one of your sales tricks, get me to show you my hand before you give me the pitch?”
It’s like he’s suddenly on the other side of the table. You’re the one in your element here, your space, your smell marking the territory. But you invited him in, he reasons. Rather enthusiastically if blurry memory serves. Kissed him back before the liquor really set in.
Maybe there's a shot.
A chance in hell.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” he sighs, rolls his eyes and flops back down on the pillow. “Maybe I just want to know. ”
You hum and there’s another shuffling of fabric. When he chances a look back in your direction, the robe is on the floor.
“Maybe I’d like to go for a round I’ll actually remember.”
Vic nods, almost in a trance as he moves to pounce. He’s between your legs in a second mouth on yours and hard cock grinding on your belly. You kiss him back, lips sliding against his but not quite meeting the tempo. He licks between your teeth tries to get you moving, tasting tooth paste, crisp and cool. You trail a hand, slow up his back, scratch softly at the bare skin just under his shoulder blades. The touch sends shivers rippling through his spine.
Another excited stroke of his tongue over the roof of your mouth earns him a nip.
“Slow down,” you murmur, not letting him get too far away, but gripping a handful of hair at the back of his head and moving him how you want. “It’s not even fucking seven in the morning. What, you think we’re gonna do, huh, doggy? Too early for that shit.”
That was sort of the plan and it must show on his face because you’re sighing and rolling him off you the next minute.
“C’mon, you’ve never had morning sex? Like this,” you mumble in his ear, licking slowly up the sensitive edge as you get him on his side, pressing yourself against him back to chest.
His brain is still foggy, hands moving through honey as he gets with the program. You sling a leg up over his hip and he reaches down on instinct, wrapping a palm under your thigh.
“See,” you groan as you get a hand around his length, leaking in your palm. “Isn’t this so much better?”
Victor moans out an answer, hips rocking into your grip. He’s never actually done it like this before, now that he thinks about it. Not totally conducive to getting off quickly and definitely involves a lot more touching than he’s used to.
But he’s a quick convert once he figures out how to worm his other arm between you and the mattress, get a handful of tit, roll your nipple just until you whine. It’s addictive the way you mold into him, not an inch where you aren’t connected. Shameless. Victor finds there’s another strange heat joining the one already boiling in his belly. A little voice that’s almost like envy in his head. The one that usually whispers he’s a catch, he’s a fucking alpha, he’s a winner—but he suspects you don’t have that voice at all.
Don’t need it.
“Victor,” you whisper again and he’s filled with the same giddy pride he gets when the client shakes on sale. “Get in me, please.”
“Look who’s impatient now,” he can’t help the smug twinge to his voice and welcomes the tight pull on his neck fur in response.
It all falls away when you run his tip through your folds, slick and dripping, all for him. Got him wrapped up on your bed, in your sheets, pressing him against your entrance to get his dick all wrapped up in you too.
Undeniable that you want it. How he imagines you’d do if you liked him.
“Fuck,” Victor curses as just the first inch slips inside.
His mouth finds your neck and sucks at the skin there, leaves a mark he hopes you can’t hide under a collar. Your free hand comes up and slides against his on your breast, links your fingers together as he works his hips up slow until his thighs meet yours.
“You gotta move,” you gasp, pussy clenching like a vice around his cock. If you weren’t so wet, he probably couldn’t. Might just die in bliss stuck inside you forever.
But as it stands, he’s still breathing, if heavily. So, Victor pulls back halfway and rocks forward. The glide is perfect. He can’t go very hard in this position, limited to just sweet half grinds inside that rub him against your front wall and keep you moaning for it.
The rest is all a bit of a blur. The haze of early morning and barely any sleep have him drifting on a cloud of sleepy pleasure. You must dip your hand down after a minute, play with your clit, because a moment later he feels you clamp down tighter, shake in his grip as the fur between his legs grows wetter with your release.
He’s not far off from you. The next few thrusts have him grunting, biting down on the soft skin of your neck, rope after rope of thick release pulsing from him. The rush of oxytocin gets him floating higher than a good bump off a the marble countertop of his favorite uptown club.
“Don’t,” you whisper, hand grabbing at his hip when he moves to pull out.
It makes that pleasant, heady feeling drag on, much longer than he’s used to. You stay like that, holding his hand to your chest as your breathing evens out. Victor lets himself float, doesn’t think about how he’s starting to get why people stick around after now.
There’s a warm calm that rushes over him as the sun rises fully and you doze in his arms. He lays and waits. Waits for the drop to come, the weird empty wilting in his gut that always follows a hookup.
It doesn’t though. And he’s not sure what to do with that.
He should likely use this time to think about what he’ll say to you at work later. If he can act as if this hasn’t happened, as if he hasn’t seen you undone, surrounded by cool earth-toned linen with the soft sunlight on the high points of your skin. That under all the button downs and slacks there’s dimples and rolls and curves that his palms can map the shape of.
All these things he can’t unknow.
He should think of them. Of what they mean. But he’s tired. And you’re warm around him, still connected at every touch point. Never ending bandwidth to take every inch. All hands on him.
thinking about corporate!sonar who flirts with you over private teams chat during the all hands meeting. talking like “aw babe, don’t take calls from the cubicle there’s a space in my office :)“ quickly followed by a picture of his lap, hand resting on his slacks next to the very prominent imprint of his dick straining against the fabric.
Corporate!Sonar who insists you work from home at his place the morning after a hook up. You come to, all groggy and wrapped in stupid expensive sheets, with him already dressed and straightening his tie, grinning down at you. He's trying to be smooth, offering to get you a car home. Damn, of course he's not making you take the train. Sonar's a high quality male--he treats his partners right, you know.
But, wouldn't it just be easier to stay here? He'll make an excuse for you and you can sit your pretty ass on his bed all day, answer some emails, drink his artisanal coffee, and be waiting for him when he gets home. And if you notice the tips of his ears getting a little flushed when he asks, well it's probably just the light. He doesn't stick around long enough for you to think to much about it. Maybe you'll ask when he gets home.
corporate!sonar who insists on stopping by your desk before every big sales meeting to pester you to kiss him "for good luck." holds up his manilla folder to hide your faces from view until you give in and he gets his tongue on yours. walks into the pitch a little higher than usual <3
corporate!sonar who notices how much your back’s been hurting from sitting in those terrible office chairs all day and volunteers to be your own personal lumbar support 😭 patting his lap and gesturing to the fur like “c’mon baby, I don’t have all this cushioning for nothing”
Corporate!Sonar who has some moments of clarity. Who’s the only one on the team to stay late and help you with the pitch deck for an overly demanding client. Who’s actually…very intelligent when he isn’t trying to talk you into drinks at his place. Sonar who you start to see in a different light, who must actually have something more going on under the surface. Who did something to earn his place here even though he’s a cocky shit about it.
And when he tells you he likes your work, being genuine for perhaps the first time in all the years you’ve worked together, says he thinks they don’t give you enough credit but he sees—it’s got something burning in your cheeks other than just frustration. Got you thinking he might be the only person in this godforsaken place who really appreciates you. That you might be more to him than just a pretty face and a nice pair of tits.
