Flashing [ SONAR ] at work ... and consequently Malevola, too. Fem-bodied reader.
You loved your boyfriend, truly. You did. You also loved seeing him melt and fall to the floor looking at you for the whole world, or office, to see.
The screen is bright, your own chest staring at you as you debate whether or not this was worth it. You were at your desk, and from what you could tell, Sonar was on break right now.
But so were a few of his coworkers.
Oh fuck it. If they see your tits, they see your tits.
Your thumb finally clicks send, and you lean back to listen for Sonar's reaction.
Silence for a few seconds.
... A few seconds more.
You hear what sounds to be someone spitting out coffee onto the face of a not so lucky victim, before the voice of your dear man bat practically echoes throughout the office.
"Oh my god its boobs."
"Where??" That was definitely Visi's voice.
There's an audible hiss. "Fuck off, this is mine."
Malevola's voice cut through, smoother and already no doubt looking over to take a peak at Sonar's phone. "Can I see?"
Quick footsteps approach the break room door, your man bat peaking through to yell your name. "Hey babe? Can malevola see your nudes?"
You think for a split second, before throwing any and all rational thought away for the prospect of a hot demon mommy admiring your tits. You raise a thumbs up, enthusiastically. "Go ahead!"
He smiles, tossing his phone behind him and bounding over to you to pepper your face in wet kisses. "You," Kiss. "Are." Kiss. "So." Kiss. "Perfect." Kiss, kiss- you guessed it, kiss. You giggle, pointedly ignoring the sighs and muttering about HR violations and pda.
You hear a whistle from the breakroom as the red-skinned demon calls out your name. "Nice tits gorgeous!"
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.
Hii! I saw that you were looking for Robert requests and I had this silly idea about the reader, who’s maybe an new ex villain working under Robert that meets beef and immediately goes “I need to spoil this baby” and they kind of kidnapped him. Reader brings Beef back to Robert with a whole bag of dog food and a new dog hoodie for Beef. Robert is thankful but so worried and confused.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ The Beef Thief ⋆.𐙚 ̊
~*’ Robert Robertson x reader
~*’ Word Count ~ 1502
~*’ Summary ~ When Beef seemingly disappears in the office Robert is distressed. And when he finally finds the culprit, he’s more intrigued than bothered.
~*’ No warnings just fluff
“And the sun drips down bedding heavy behind”
<————————————————————->
Robert’s whole day had been filled with anxiety. One that sat under his skin and he couldn’t itch away. It started during lunch when Beef seemingly disappeared into thin air. At first he shrugged it off, guessing Chase was off somewhere snuggling him to death or he decided to waddle into another department begging for food.
But when second shift started and Chase walked in with empty arms, no chubby Beef, he really started to internally panic.
“Hey,” Robert greeted him casually in his usual monotone tone. Chase sat down in the cubicle next to him. “Where’s your shadow?” He asked, motioning towards the absent dog at his legs.
“Beef? I don’t fuckin’ know, your dogs a traitor.” He grumbled tugging his headphones on and then drowning himself in the computer placed infront of him.
Robert was left with a multitude of questions but with the last few minutes of his break coming to an end, the only thing he could do was sit with those thoughts.
He booted up his old SDN computer which flickered to life and wrapped his headphones around his ear. Immediately. The sound of chatter burned his eardrums.
“Hey- can we clear the coms?” His voice cut through the frequency. He rubbed the bridge of his noise waiting for the rebuttal. The channel erupted into cackles.
“Aw, you gettin’ sick of us already Robby?” Invisigal spoke up ending her sentence with a snort.
He deeply groaned at her remark while he scanned over the screen of the computer focusing in on a center icon. Your icon was MIA, no tracker on or the comms. Just his luck, missing a crucial part of his team.
The girl in question was usually quiet. Never really inserting her into conversation unless spoken to. You had always stuck around Sonar and Malevola, the three of you seemed to mesh well.
He clicked on your icon, examining the info. <i> Forgery, embezzlement, breaking and entering, obstruction… Robert was surprised to say the least.
“Does anyone know where Y/N is?” He asked over the voices clogging the comms. The line stayed silent, no one caring to answer. He would ask Blonde Blazer about it later, after he finds Beef. A few notifications popped up. This was going to be a long shift….
<———————————————->
Robert has practically overturned every table in the office. Looking high and low for the little butterball who left without a traced. His head was pounding, forehead dripping with sweat.
He even left treats out by his desk trying to lure the boy back. But he never turned up, Robert made a list in his head on where to search. The downstairs gym was the first place he’d go to look. Maybe he ventured there on a whim for food and got locked down there. He hoped that was the case and that he didn’t venture outside. As he finally reached the gyms door, a familiar voice echoed down the hallway away from it.
He abandoned the gym’s door following the noise. His heart started to race, pulse quickening.
“Who’s a good boy? You are!” A voice cooed from around the corner. Too coaxing, too playful. He inched closer, swallowing the fear in his head.
He clenched his eyes shut trying not to think of the worst, he reopened them, and rounded the corner swiftly.
“You’re perfect, just look at you. Yes, you are!” The tone shifted, saccharine on the surface, softer when he listened close. Something that made Robert’s stomach coil tight.
“Beef?” He called out, his voice cracking on the syllable of his name.
The rustling stopped up ahead. Then a muffled bark. He placed his palm on the door pushing it open. The scene was nothing he expected.
You were crouched on the ground, two hands scratching the black and white dog who was belly upped to the ceiling. The light from the window leaked into the room putting the two of you in the spotlight.
The door creaked loudly as he opened it up further. You jumped, pushing yourself up and turning towards Robert. Hands awkwardly hovering in the air.
The coil in his stomach came undone almost instantly noticing how happy Beef looked. The dog noticed his presence, giving a little excited snuffle as he waddled towards him.
“So, you’re who stole him?” Voice flat, eyes unamused. But inside, he was more than grateful. Although he was pretty skeptical.
“Stole? No, he was all by himself wandering around the break room,” Then you paused, brows furrowing with a slight frown on your lips finally realizing. “I’m sorry. I thought.. I thought he was stray! He was begging for my food.” You tried to explain while waving your hands around. Robert couldn’t help but let his face twist into something lighter.
“Have you ever seen a stray that size?” Your eyes bounced back to Beef looking at his figure. Your mouth turned into a ‘O’.
“Oh. I just figured he was a little big boned.” You deadpanned making Robert realize you really did think he was a stray. For a ex-villian, it seemed you actually had a heart.
He bent down to pet Beef, noting the green adorable Dino hoodie around him. His eyes widened.
“Did you buy him a… onesie?” Your face flushed with heat as you look away from his stare.
“It was cold in the office today.”
You said far too fast to sound casual. “And he looked sad.”
Robert blinked at you, trying to conceal the smirk pressing on his lips. He picked the dog up and pushed him close to his chest.
“He has a coat,” He paused, pulling the hood off of his face to get a good look at the spoiled boy. “Like.. built in with all his fat.”
“Don’t say that!” You rushed to Beef’s defense. You pouted strolling close to Robert, covering the oblivious dog’s ears. Robert studied your face, cheeks turning a faint shade of red.
The dog scratched towards you, you looked up through your eyelashes to Robert’s gaze as he hesitantly held the dog out to you watching as your eyes lit up. Then he notices the collar around his neck missing.
“His collar must’ve gotten stuck on something and fell off.” Robert muttered watching as Beef licked your chin. You softly giggled holding the dog like your most prized possession. A trophy in the shape of a fat ball.
“He didn’t have one on when he came begging to me,” You pressed the dog against your cheek playfully cooing again “No, you didn’t. Beefy boy.”
“Begging? And you fell for it?” He ran a hand through his brown hair.
“I mean, I gave him some of my leftovers. Then I bought him some dog food cause what if he really was a stray?” You trailed off scratching his head. Robert watched how gentle you were with him. His heart fluttered but he didn’t show it.
“What’d you feed him? Deli meat? Turkey? Ham?” You shook your head slowly at Robert. Strands of hair falling infront of your face showcasing your pretty features.
“Roast beef..”
There’s a pause.
A long one until Robert breaks the silence with a deep laugh that has him doubling over. A smile creeps onto your face finally letting the fearful facade fade away knowing you’re off the hook.
“Wait-“ Roberts says in between his fit of unexpected laughter. “Is this where you’ve been all second shift? Feeding Beef, Beef and spoiling him?”
“Yeah.. but i asked Blonde Blazer first! I told her I had something important to do. I lied but it was for a good thing, right?” You searched for approval through Robert’s facial expressions. He narrowed his eyes towards you.
“Sure. Just this once.” Then he continued “… Thank you for looking after him. I appreciate it. A lot.” He tucked his hands into his pockets, feeling embarrassed. Then rocked onto the back of his heel unable to meet those doe eyes.
You soothed Beef with a kiss on his head. He whined as you puckered your lips toward him. Robert watched, focusing in on your lips touching Beef’s fur. That lucky mutt. He thought to himself, grumbling silently.
“Of course. Anytime, really.” You responded turning your attention back to Robert. He feels awful for what he has to say next.
“But, I got to go home and take him with me.” A frown overcomes your face. You look back to the dog who immediately burrows himself deeper into your body like he does understand the words of a human.
“He doesn’t want to go.” You smoosh him close. Robert sighs with a smirk walking closer to you.
“Beef.” The butterball tilts back sticking his tongue out begging you for a pat but when Robert tries to reach for him he yelps. He’s taken aback by the sudden reaction but you only spare him a wide tooth grin.
SUMMARY: it's been three years since you've seen robert. your break up wasn't going to go down in history as being the most amicable but was else could you expect after spending all those years together? but despite the souring end of your relationship, and all the years that have passed, there's something still there. lurking under the surface of all the hesitancy and skepticism. is the spark worth tending to? or will you both burn?
PAIRING: robert robertson x hero! afab!reader, slight robert robertson x invisigal
CONTENT: childhood friends to lovers, to exes to..lovers? multipart series, reader has a hero name (Lume, Luminara), reader has a background and some trauma to be uncovered, loss of a parent, slight description of an unnamed illness, reader does not have a relationship with their mother, slow burn, slight canon/timeline divergence eventual smut, mild angst (for now), robert can be a bit of a dick, no use of Y/N, pronouns used: they/them, little to no description of body type, and no description of complexion
WORD COUNT: 10K.
a/n: welcome to the series! super excited to have this out and see how you all enjoy it. this is my first gn/afab reader so if there's anything I missed in here please point it out to me! along with any missed tags as well! I hope you enjoy and lmk what we're thinking so far! all banner creds are in the tags, and more detailed credits at the end of the work!
part ii
An infinite amount of thoughts run rampant in your mind at any given moment. It wards sleep away from you half the nights of the week, it distracts you from your daily routine, and slowly takes more and more away from you every passing day. You fear that you may never be able to find a way to silence them. But the one that always manages to push itself through the crowd to make itself known is: whether or not your father would be proud of you.
You were on the edge of eighteen when your father passed. The man you knew, larger than life and full of energy, was taken away from you far before he died. In the end, he was bedridden, thin, and paled, but he still managed to find the energy to show how much he loved you every time you came to visit him. Your logical mind tries to undo all the damage that’s been inflicted upon you by saying, Of course, he would be proud of you. That your hiatus from hero work doesn’t erase all the good you’ve done - the work, the blood, sweat, and the tears you put in this life; that despite it all, you’re still a hero. Logically, you know that he would be. But you still can’t find it in yourself to believe it.
The third anniversary of your hiatus is approaching fast. In three months in six days, it will mark three years since you’ve been active in hero work. The thought always weighs on you heavier whenever it gets closer to the date, but that doesn’t mean you don’t sit with it every day. And with the anniversary on the rise, it also means that the news articles recapping your career, your task force, and questioning whether or not you’ll ever return to hero work will flood your feed and newspaper stands in no time. You think that you’ve learned to hide the fact that you’re on the verge of drowning very well, but everyone in the office has learned how to tell exactly when it finally sinks in for you.
Blonde Blazer brings you coffee and, coincidentally, can’t finish her breakfast pastries. Galen offers to pick up the random dispatcher position that opens up when he can tell you’re really down. His attempts at being nonchalant, the shrug, and his “More work makes it easier for me not to watch the clock. Honestly, you’d be doing me a favor, Lume,” are weak at best, but you like to let him believe he got one over on you. And Chase ups the ante on how often he hounds you about hiring another official dispatcher for the Z-Team. You know he means well - you know that they all mean well. But you can’t take on another person to look after right now. Especially when you know just how likely it is that within a week, you’d be in the same position you are right now, taking over as dispatcher instead of assisting Blazer in teaching your rehabilitating new heroes.
The sun reflecting off the glass windows of the SDN building hurts your eyes, but still, you take the moment to let it warm your skin. You’re tired of carrying this weight. You feel it in your bones, in the deepest part of your soul. It doesn’t matter how hard you try to shake it; it clings to you. It’s attached itself to you in ways you didn’t even realize, embedded itself, and taken root so deep you feel as though you’ll feel it forever. You didn’t know just how much being a hero had become such a fundamental part of how you viewed yourself until you weren’t one anymore. Your hero costume feels like just that. A costume. Days like these, you feel like you're masquerading, playing make-believe, and imposing yourself on the people who are the real heroes. But in the end, what did it matter? Your watch still dings as it ticks to your clock in time, you’re still expected at work, and maybe despite it all, in the technicality, you are still-
“Luminara!” The young girl who mans the front counter sends you a bright smile and a big wave, “Good morning!”
She’s a sweet young girl, a sophomore in college who only works about three days a week. You still remember the first day you met her. Her eyes lit up, and her mouth parted as you walked in the door. She introduced herself with shaky hands and an even shakier voice. She told you that she was a big fan, that she had even met you once when she was about seven years old. That she still has the picture on her nightstand. She’ll never know just how much that moment meant to you. Or how, after that encounter, you locked yourself in your office and cried for almost an hour. Her eyes are still just as bright the first time you met her as she looks at you now. Maybe even brighter. She looks at you like you’re still a hero. It twists your gut into a knot. And you still can’t place whether it ignites something in you or drags you deeper into the abyss.
Nevertheless, you greet her the same way, passing her the Red bull and the granola bar you packed yourself for lunch. She tries to refuse it, but you’re already at the elevators, waving her off with a smile.
You sigh as the doors slide shut, thankful that you’re the only one inside. It gives you the time to mentally prepare yourself for the day. The management of the villains turned heroes, especially the Z-Team, the hovering. You don’t have the luxury of being able to feel bad about yourself. Not here and not today. It’s not fair. To your colleagues, to the members of the Phoenix Program - they deserve you at your best. So that’s what you’ll do. No matter how hard it is to distinguish the fire in your mind, you will be the best you can be for them. A few short moments later, the elevator dings, and you open your eyes. The doors slide open, and Chase stands at the ready just outside, hands locked behind his back.
“Well, well,” he says, “real gracious of you to finally show your face.”
“Chase, it’s 8:06,” you reply.
All Chase does is huff through his nose and begin his regular track of following after you.
“Still late. Another minute and I woulda called in for a wellness check.”
You’ve known Chase since you were a child, still notching your height on the doorframes in the house you were born in. Your father was a busy man before his illness stole his life from him. He was California’s top hero and a part of the Brave Brigade, so the majority of his time was spoken for. And your mother had other places she would have rather been than be at home raising you. So in came Chase. The youngest member of the Brigade and the unwilling babysitter of both you and Robert. Half of your childhood was spent with the two of them, bouncing back and forth between your and Robert’s houses, driving Chase up the wall with your antics. Chase likes to tell you that this is your karma. Payback for all the years you spent on his heels, driving him crazy with the thousands of questions you badgered him with. And he tells you that he has a lot to pay back.
“Har, Har. Another year and I’m buying you a Life Alert, old man.”
“Fuck you,” he says, “Always were a little punk.”
You smirk and swallow down a chuckle. He’s always been so easy to piss off.
“And yet, who’s following who?”
Chase grumbles in his acquired old man fashion, but still follows you down the hallway. You would find it odd that he didn’t have a quick quip up his sleeve to throw at you. Had you not known him as well as you did. Chase likes to have the last word. Unless he has something else he wants to bring up. You know that it’s coming. Because at this point, it’s routine, teetering on the edge of being a comedic bit. He asks you whether or not you’re ready to give in. You tell him no. He rants and he raves about how you’re too fuckin’ stubborn for your own good. How you’re gonna run yourself into the ground. You think that’s what your father would’ve wanted? For you to work yourself to death inside of a sad, gray fuckin’ cubicle? All good points, in his defense. But you still tell him no, that you don’t do sidekicks and wander off to find some work to occupy you. Which is never hard at SDN.
“Don’t even start.”
He lets out a grumbled sigh, and you hear the pitter-patter of his feet pick up pace as you near the cubicles.
“You know it’s time, kid. You can’t keep going like this. And I ain’t gonna be around forever to take care of your sniveling little ass. Shit! I’ve spent too long doing it already! So why don’t you stop being a pain in my ass and give this old man a break, huh?”
You force yourself to chuckle. Because if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry.
“Chase, really, I’m perfectly fine! I got it all managed!” Your head cranes over your shoulder to look at him as you round the corner. “And like I always say, I don’t do sidekicks-”
The sight makes you rebound into a full stop, Chase nearly crashing into your back at the sudden cease in movement. The cubicle you mentally prepared to sit at for the entirety of your day is filled. A man sits in the chair you bought out of pocket, clad in an SDN distributed button-up that looks to be about a size too big, hunched over the desk, pressing randomly at the buttons of the dispatcher monitor. But it’s not the fact that there seems to be a new Z-Team Dispatcher that stumps you. It’s the familiar stature, the body language, the fluff of auburn hair. For a moment, you sit in denial. A lot of people have hair that color. A lot of people are lean, a lot of people slouch, and a lot of people poke and prod at things they’re unfamiliar with. And even though you try to convince yourself that you’ve just seen someone who happened to look like him, you feel it in your gut. It’s not a wonder, it’s a fact.
You don’t need him to turn around; you don’t need the confirmation. You just know. Because you’ve learned everything there is to know about him. You learned the arch of his neck, the part of his hair, the curve of his shoulders. The tips of your fingers tingle at the phantom memory of how he felt against your skin. You remember everything about him. Every freckle, every burn, and scar. Every bump and ridge, and missing piece. You retained every lesson given about his body, his silent language, his soul. No matter the size of the room or the number of people who filled it, you could always find Robert. It was strange, really. The gravitational pull that tethered the two of you to each other. The one that is clearly still alive because, unprompted, Robert turns in the swivel chair, takes the headset off, and turns to you.
And for a moment, it feels as though the world stops spinning. Everyone else in the room seems to blur out of frame, and it’s just you and Robert left. You, Robert, and the halo the traitorous sun casts upon him.
It’s been three years since you’ve seen Robert. Three years since you’ve seen him stand to his full height, see his lips part and his eyelashes flutter. Three years since you’ve heard his voice, and when you finally do, it hits you straight in the gut.
“Lume.”
And it’s utterly world-shattering. Hearing him call you by the name the public refers to you by and not your name. You see it form on his mouth before he takes the moment to correct himself. It sounds awkward and clumsy. Hesitant, almost. And above anything else, it sounds wrong. You can’t recall if there was ever a time he’s ever called you by your hero name outside of the public eye.
“I didn’t know you worked here.”
It’s been years since you last spoke, more than the sad excuse for a text that you were angry to receive, and the pathetic drunken voicemails that you hoped he never listened to. How could he have known? There’s no way that he could have. You doubt Chase told him-
Chase.
At least the motherfucker has the decency to look a little sheepish as you turn to him, eyes flickering from you to literally anywhere else in the room. You and Robert differed in many ways, but one noticeable way was that while Robert lost touch with Chase after his father died, you grew closer to him. You talked on the phone frequently, texted regularly, and sent birthday and holiday cards every year in the mail. It was Chase who convinced you to get back out there, ten months deep into your hiatus, the one who told you about the mentorship role opening up at SDN. He’s done so much for you, you don’t believe you’ll ever be able to repay him. But all you want to do right now is send the old pruny bastard flying out the fucking window.
You force a deep, hearty breath out of your nose and point your first two fingers in his direction.
“We’re talking about this later.”
“You’ll have to catch me first.” Chase doesn’t spare a second as he scurries off to his neighboring cubicle and squeezes himself close to his desk, “This body can be fast when it wants to be.”
“You’re lucky I waited this long!” Chase adds. “I ain’t got the time to sit around and wait for you to come to your fuckin senses. So take the fuckin’ help, kid.”
Your body feels like it’s vibrating with the amount of emotions that swirl through you. Your skin heats up, and your heart bangs itself around in its cage inside your ribs. In the years passed since you’ve seen him, you’ve come to believe that if the time ever came that you did cross paths again, you wouldn’t feel this way. You imagined that you’d see him and just feel a sense of nostalgia. That by the time you saw him again, Robert would simply be a boy you grew up with. A man you shared similarities with. A part of your childhood you’d always hold dearly. Not the ex you spent almost a year mourning the life you built with him in your head, not the man who left you in such a state after the breakup that you spiraled downwards hard. So hard that you scared people. That you’d see him and your stomach wouldn’t squeeze, and your skin wouldn’t tingle. And it makes you so angry. That your own body revolts against you just at the sight of him. Even after all this time. Even after all the destruction.
Those eight years come rushing back at full force as you take him in. The nights on the couch. Wearing his old, tattered sweat pants and sharing a beer you couldn’t stand the taste of. Robert asleep on your chest, his fingers indenting in your shirt as they flexed on your waist like he was scared to lose you in his sleep. The nights where you fought in your kitchen, on opposite ends of the island, when both of you were at the ends of your ropes, and they were no longer adult conversations or you and Robert versus the problem. When they turned into you versus Robert, screaming matches and insults that ended with you crying yourself to sleep in your bedroom and Robert lying awake on the couch, unable to sleep due to the sound of your sobs reverberating off the walls.
Robert rubs at the back of his neck in an anxious habit. There’s a look on his face that’s a mixture of hope and hesitance, and the question you’d been dreading tumbles out of his mouth.
“It’s been a while…how have you been?”
You don’t know how to answer that.
Should you be honest? Tell him that you’re tired? That you’re stuck in what feels like a constant state of fight or flight, that you spend half of your time reckoning with the fact that you don’t know if you’ll ever have what it takes to be a hero again after what happened to you, that going the trauma you did and your breakup right after the other changed you on a fundamental level? That seeing him now for the first time in three years, now working at the same place you do, makes you feel things you don’t know how to explain yet. Or do you smile at him, be polite, and tell him you’re doing fine?
And despite the mask you have on, he can tell.
“Loaded question, I know. Probably isn’t the best thing I could’ve said. Sorry.”
He lets out an awkward chuckle, but your heart still squeezes at the sound.
“It’s fine, Robert. Have you met the Z-Team?” You ask.
His eyebrows pop to his hairline, then he blinks and sputters,
“I, uh- No, not yet,” he scrambles to take his seat and put his headset back on. “You’ve worked with them before?”
He looks up at you for your answer. Flashing those soft brown eyes at you, his lashes brushing his cheeks as he blinks. It makes you want to run your fingers through his hair, feel him lean into your touch, and have him kiss your palm. It’s instinctual. An instinct you thought you’d shaken years ago. And you decide at that moment that it’s better not to look directly at him.
“You can say that. They’re definitely an acquired taste.”
“They’re a gaggle fuck group of jackasses if that’s what you mean by an acquired taste,” Chase calls over the wall.
You can’t help but chuckle at Chase’s commentary. As much as you want to be professional, Chase’s words held some truth. Robert will definitely have his hands full with this lot. But in the plethora of dispatcher shifts you had with them and the few lessons you had with a few of the members, you’ve managed to form an odd sort of bond with them. Which Chase thinks is troublesome, seeing how many times they’ve been such a pain in the ass that their dispatchers quit before the week was up. He believes it to be a ploy so that Blazer will get so fed up that she’ll have no choice but to put you as their dispatcher full-time. And Chase “will be damned if you spend any more time in this fuck ass cubicle with these no-good-shitty-ass-hero-wannabes.”
“Well, you know me,” Robert says, “I’ve always been one for a challenge.”
Robert’s eyes flick up to you again, a sly smirk pulling on his lips. You’ve always been so infatuated with Robert’s eyes. They truly were the window to his soul, ever expressive. They shine and crinkle in the corners when he’s happy, fade and blacken when he’s angry. And they shine just like they are now when he- Yeah. You definitely shouldn’t look directly at him.
For a second, you find your exterior softening. Your shoulders dip in towards your chest from the curved position of leaning on the desk, and you can feel your lips try to tick up in the corners at his implication. But then it hits you all over again. How things ended, how it took him seven-and-a-half weeks to reach out after the breakup- as if you hadn’t begun to build a life together. As if that life wasn’t ripped away from you, as if it wasn’t his choice.
You stand to your full height once more and step back. And then that displaced look on his face returns.
“Good luck on your first day, Robert. Don’t let them push you around. They respect that.”
The wheels on the swivel seat drag against the floor as he pushes himself out from the desk, straining to follow you until you’re out of his line of sight.
“Lume, wait a sec-”
You make the conscious decision to keep moving. And start to believe that is how you’ll navigate this new area with him. Not lingering, and always moving. Maybe in the long run, this will be best. You’ve hurt each other enough over the course of your lives, and until you’re sure being around Robert won’t hurt you more, you’ll keep moving.
JULY 16th, 2022. THREE YEARS PRIOR.
“And so, effective immediately, I will be going on an indefinite hiatus from Hero Work.”
Prior to this announcement, the room had been pin quiet. The occasional click of a camera or pop of a water bottle sounded, but not one person in that room had made a noise until now. The gasps are loud, they fill the air, and strike you straight through the heart. A woman in the front row covers her mouth with the tips of her fingers, a man in the far right corner bows his head and takes his wide-rimmed glasses off to rub at his eyes. The disappointment is evident. There’s shock, and fear, and grief written all over their faces. Reporters look around the room for answers that only lie with you and murmur amongst themselves.
They react to your announcement like death. They’re grieving the kid of the Brave Brigade member who followed in their father's footsteps, the one who grew into the shoes they laid out to fill and earned their place amongst the new top heroes of California. Your father made a legacy for you, made space for you in the legend that became a household name, and you’re hanging it up. Because if you’re not around to soar through their skies and keep the streets safe as you have been for the past decade, Luminara is as good as dead.
“I could never thank you all enough for the endless amount of support and opportunities you’ve given me. And I hope, despite my decision, you can still look back on my efforts to keep the citizens of Los Angeles safe with pride.”
You can feel the tears begin to burn behind your eyes, and a strangled cry tries to crawl its way out of your throat. The tears you must furiously blink away irritate your head injury, a deep, hidden pain underneath the gauze the doctors carefully bandaged around your forehead. You clear your throat and push yourself to finish.
“Thank you all for being here. I will not be accepting questions at this time.”
Then the crowd erupts. The cameras flash until the room is white, and reporters shout your name. Your team scurries to usher you away, your publicist taking your place behind the podium to take over where you left off. Your manager, the same one you’ve had since you were seventeen, takes you under his arm and tells you that you did good. But it doesn’t feel that way. You feel your failure every time you move, the stabbing pain in your back, the sting of your head injury, the scrape of your bones. You’ve only just announced that you will no longer be taking part in being a hero, and you already feel as though you’ve lost a piece of yourself. It makes you want to pull away, push your publicist out of the way, and take it all back. Shove the words back down your throat and rip your bandages off to prove you’re okay. But you know this is the decision that must be made. And that hurts the worst.
For the past ten years, you could always say that you knew what tomorrow had planned for you. You’d wake up early, just as the sun begins to peak over the mountains, and prepare yourself to be Luminara. Sore through the Californian skies and protect the city you’ve called yours since you were young. But now…you don’t know what tomorrow holds for you. All you know that is waiting for you is an empty house and a fridge full of booze you can’t drink.
Your team escorts you into a nearby break room, depositing you in a hard plastic chair and pushing bottled waters and muffins in your direction. They talk amongst themselves, attempt to talk to you, but it all sounds so distant. You want to respond, you want to answer whatever questions it seems like they’re asking you, but all you can manage to do is stare wordlessly at the crack in the wall and try to fight off the breakdown you feel building under the surface.
“Excuse me, Luminara?”
A hand comes down on your shoulder, and you nearly jump out of your skin. The meek young intern who has seemingly been calling your name much longer than necessary quickly removes her hand as she feels you flinch under her touch.
“You got a text,” she says.
“Oh,” you murmur, taking your from her outstretched hand, “thank you, Amber.”
The brightness stings your eyes, but it only takes a blink for you to adjust and read the notification.
Robert
You doing okay?
Robert
I just saw your press conference.
Robert
I’m proud of you.
The first emotion you feel after days of embarrassment and grief is anger. Your blood rushes, and your chest tightens. He’s proud of you? After everything that happened, he has the nerve to tell you he’s proud of you?
-
“You’re a fucking hypocrite.”
The clock is close to ticking to your second hour of this fight. A fight you’ve had a countless amount of times by now. Dinner is abandoned on the table, Robert’s chair is still pulled halfway out from where he stood in attempts to flee the return of this conversation. You don’t blame him for wanting to run from having this argument again because you don’t want to have it either. But the difference here is that you’re willing to have difficult conversations to save Robert from himself. You refuse to grow accustomed to the bruises and gashes on his skin. You refuse to allow him to continue to ignore the fact that his unorganized plans to find Shroud will end with him getting killed. It isn’t a matter of if anymore. It is a matter of when. You’ve woken up from too many nightmares of burying him, alone in a bed that’s still made up on his side. Too many nightmares of having to speak at his funeral, once as Luminara and once again as who he truly knows you as. Of having to throw dirt on his casket and only having pictures on a mantle and distant memories to remember him by.
“How am I a hypocrite? Please, tell me! Because all I’m trying to do is make sure you don’t push yourself somewhere you can’t walk away from.”
He stands on the opposite side of your kitchen island, lit by fluorescent light. His molars grind against each other as his chest continues to stutter with angered breaths.
“You sit there and get on to me about losing myself?” He gasps out an angry chuckle and stretches his pointer finger at you. “You’re in the same boat as me, sweetheart. How many nights have you spent at headquarters?-”
“That’s different, and you know it!” you interject.
“How many nights did I have to make sure you’ve eaten? How many times do I have to tell you to give it up and get rest, just for you to tell me you don’t have the time to rest? But I do it, and it’s a problem?”
You let your head fall into the comfort of your palms, fingers rubbing and pulling at your temples. Your ears are ringing, and a migraine starts to build at the base of your skull. It’s been months since things between you and Robert followed the normal way of life. Quiet nights spent tucked into one another on the couch, falling asleep still sticky with sweat but too exhausted to shower, waking up to a kiss on the forehead and a cup of coffee on the nightstand had all been replaced with this. Leaving for work before the other has come home, if they have at all. Notes left on counters about Beef running low on food with no loving sign off, arguments in the kitchen you danced in, laughing into his neck as he spins you.
It’s been so long that you can no longer pinpoint exactly when this all started. You don’t know if it was the first time you found Robert on the brink of exhaustion, eyes ringed with dark circles, and fighting sleep to the death just to follow one more lead. Or the first time you found Robert sewing up a new gash in your guest bathroom at 3:52 in the morning. But you’re tired. All you need is for this task mission to be over and for Robert to at least try to understand where you’re coming from. That’s all. Just one clean break, where you two can start fresh and put in the effort to getting back to being okay again.
“These are two entirely different circumstances, Robert. They can’t be compared,” you sigh.
“They’re not, though! You’re fighting against the goddamn Syndicate,” He huffs out your name in a tempered growl, “You’ve got no clue what you’re up against. You think just because you have a few extra hands than I do that you can take down one of the most powerful villain organizations like it’s easy? You’re going in just as fucking blind as I am.”
His voice doesn’t raise in volume but grows weighty.
“The only difference between you and me is that I dedicate my time working to successfully complete my mission. You do it because if you stop running, you’ll actually have to sit with all your loss, and all your mistakes. And you can’t fucking stand it the idea that maybe you’re not as perfect as the billboards have made you out to be.”
The anger and frustration falters. It’s true that in the months you’ve spent going in circles, running round 2’s and 3’s of the same argument, that you’ve grown accustomed to the way things unfolded. You’d bring it up, Robert would huff and bare his teeth like a cornered animal. You’d try to clarify your reasoning, hands outstretched in offering that was up to him whether he wanted to take or bite. Despite believing you had your walls built high enough now in preparation for what would inevitably take place, Robert is able to pierce through them. He always had. Just never like this before. Never has Robert pierced your soul like this before. Never has he been armed and chosen to wield it against you. The soft brown eyes you’ve spent half your life gazing into, watching irises gleam, and pupils expand, have hardened- the beautiful highlight of gentle expression extinguished and replaced with a look of anger you’ve never seen directed at you before.
“You like to forget that I know you.” He says. “And I know you’re a fucking hypocrite.”
-
You feel the material of your phone creak under the clench of your hand, the pathetic thread of messages taunting you through the screen. For a moment, you consider letting the message sit forever unanswered in your phone. Because eventually, his name will shift downwards in your messages, sit at the bottom forever out of sight. Eventually, the memories won’t haunt you, you won’t replay every fight, every smile, every late-night postcoitus come down where all you did was lie wordlessly in each other’s presence, tracing shapes onto the other person’s skin. You consider taking a deep breath, shutting the damned thing off, and handing it back to Amber. But something else takes over you, and before you know it, your fingers are frantically typing at the screen.
I have a skull fracture, two broken vertebrae, and just told the country I might never keep them safe again, so I’m doing fan-fucking-tastic, Robert. Thanks so much for deciding to reach out.
You get no reply. And you can’t decide whether or not that makes you content or sends you deeper into anguish.
APRIL 2025. PRESENT.
A lot of things have transpired in the last few months that Robert had not been expecting.
He wasn’t expecting to get blown up, fall hundreds of feet out of the sky, and spend four months in a medically induced coma. He wasn’t expecting to get jumped or rescued by Blonde Blazer, of all people, and spend the night with her at a hero bar. He wasn’t expecting to walk away at the end of the night with a new job and a chance to be Mecha Man again, and he absolutely was not expecting to now be your colleague. Or employee? Underling? He wasn’t exactly sure about your position or the hierarchy at SDN just yet, but he’s now sure he will be seeing you for eight hours a day, five days out of the week.
He still remembers the last time he saw you. Unexpecting, and angered by the lack of resolution in your relationship, and drained from your undersupply of rest due to your task mission. He remembers seeing your smiling face on half the billboards in the city, hearing your voice on the ads that played in every app he opened, or on the TVs of restaurants and electronic stores he passed by. There were times he found himself standing in place, letting it play in its entirety, simply gazing. He remembers seeing your press conference on the news. He remembers reaching out to you afterwards, and he remembers instantly regretting it. But time passes, as it always does, and that memory gets lost in the log of the million other regrets that he has. In the end, your name had been added to that list more than he’d care to admit.
The day goes by slowly, the clock seems to lose its pace, and Robert can’t stop looking at it. And he can’t stop looking for you. He tries to keep his mind preoccupied, to keep his focus on dispatching and not on you, but the task proves more difficult than he remembers warding off the thought of you being. You’re in the same building as him. For the first time in three years and that fact keeps biting away at the back of his mind. He just needs a glimpse, he thinks. Then he could center himself and try to get the team through their first shift of the day with the least amount of casualties that he could manage. He could get by with just a glimpse.
He breathes in deeply through his nose, his leg bouncing as he rubs harshly at his face. Chase was right. These guys are a gaggle fuck group of jackasses. They mock him, they don’t listen and refuse to take their job as heroes even remotely serious. Now, he understands why it’s been so hard to fill this position. The team laughs over the comms, cackling about yet another shitty joke about his name and about how Invisigal saw him in his underwear. So he takes the second. He puts his microphone on mute and dials down their volume. And like an angel, you appear just as he glances up.
You round the corner, your face relaxed, teetering on the edge of looking tense to the average person. Someone must call your name because your face pulls into the well-practiced, softened look you wear to make sure you seem approachable. But your expression melts and your eyes warm, a smile pulling on your lips once you recognize the caller. The sun hits you at just the perfect angle that makes your skin glow. And as creepy as it may sound, as you speak to the person whose name he’s yet to learn, he takes the perfect moment to admire you. Not on a magazine or through the pixelated screen of his phone, but through the lens of his own eyes. The curves of your face, the shine of your eyes. The way your suit hugs your figure. The dip of your waist and the apex of your thigh that shows through the gap in the latex. A sight Robert no longer has the right to admire so blatantly as he is now. Not after how he left things. But he could never pull his eyes off you.
“Listen, I get admiring from time to time, but this is starting to get fuckin’ weird.”
Robert jumps.
Chase is leaning over the divider, arms half folded and chin jutted down in silent jest. Robert doesn’t know how much Chase knows about your breakup. But if the interactions they’ve shared since he’s been is any hint, it doesn’t seem like he’s holding any grudges. Or, with some god-like strength, you chose not to tell him exactly what happened. He knows that you were close enough to Chase that you would. He can remember all the times he’d come home from work to follow the trail of your joyous voice into the bedroom to find you on a call.
He’d kiss your forehead in greeting, then leave to shower before joining you in bed. You’d still be on the phone by the time he came out, laughing and recounting stories to whoever obtained your attention through the line. Leaving Robert to mouth at your neck and rub at the skin of your stomach to try and steal it back, just to find out the person you’d spent three hours on the phone with was none other than Chase. Even through all the hardship you faced towards the end, inside and outside of your relationship, that was one thing that never changed for you.
“I wasn’t staring,” Robert says, adjusting the headset right again, “I was thinking.”
“Yeah?” Chase goads, “Thinkin’ bout what?”
“I…am not required to answer that.”
Robert attempts to fake his focus on his dispatching, enjoying the seemingly rare moment of silence over the line when Chase’s voice travels through the air again.
“Still single, y’know.”
“What?”
Chase says your name softly, and it sounds like a song, as he nods in your direction,
“Still single. If you were wondering.”
The sentence lands heavy. Stupidly enough, that hadn’t even been a thought that crossed his mind. Even now, with the question he originally didn’t have now answered, it sparks something in him. You were a vision, a miracle on two legs. You were kind and generous to a point that if you weren’t stopped, you’d give until you had no more. Anyone would be lucky to have you. And at one point, he was that lucky person. But now he was…well. He didn’t know what he was to you anymore. Was he simply an ex? The guy who broke your heart after eight years spent together? Was he written off as simply a childhood friend you lost touch with because that was easier to explain than the mess of what your relationship turned into? Or was he something else? Something new, unconfirmed whether it was something good or bad.
“Listen, I don’t know how much you two talked about…what happened, but I don’t think that’s ever gonna be a possibility,” Robert says. “Like ever.”
“Didn’t need to.” Chase replies, “I was there to witness the worst of it.”
Robert’s heart sputters. It wasn’t as if he’d never thought about it. He did. Often. And even if he was stupid enough to believe that you were doing fine, he got the evidence to prove that you weren’t. Six 8-minute-long voice memos you sent to him, drunk, over the course of your first two weeks apart. The six voice memos that added up to roughly an hour would forever be ingrained in his mind. He can time every sob and sniffle, he deciphered every befuddled murmur, he listened to every curse of his name. He knew you were bad - because he was too. But Robert had not been okay for so long that it was hard to tell when he got hit with another blow. He was used to not being okay. He knew things were hard for you, but he never thought you’d be in a place where you needed help getting out of. And he never thought he’d be the one to put you there.
“Wasn’t good. Drinkin’ a lot.” Chase says.
Chase looks at you with a cocktail of emotion. A look he’d deny ever having on his face, but he looks at you with such pride, and fear, with love and hope all wrapped up into one. Robert and Chase have always been close, but Robert always saw Chase as the cool older brother he always dreamed of having. Somebody to talk to, to look up to. Somebody who would be there for him. Chase looks at you like a parent does as they admire the child they’ve watched flourish into adulthood.
“Kid’s strong though. Came back in the end.” He states. “Who knows? Maybe you'll both come back in the end.”
From across the room, you laugh, angelic and sweet. And he wonders if the person you’re speaking to feels the same warmth flood through their chests at the sound. He doesn’t fight the smile that appears on his face, but it falters as your eyes drift to him. Your brows cinch in confusion as you find him already looking at you, and Robert quickly pulls another half-assed grin and sends you an awkward wave. Which you return, just as unsure as he was.
“But what the fuck do I know?” Chase says, “Maybe they fuckin’ hate your guts and think you’re an emotionally constipated cocksucker who needs to invest in a good therapist to work through the long fuckin’ list of issues you’ve got going on.”
Robert’s face scrunches, and he flinches back at the statement,
“Was that something that was said?” He asks, “That sounds way too specific to just come up with on the spot.”
Chase only shrugs.
“Private information. Not at liberty to confirm nor deny.”
The thought had appeared to you earlier this morning, but it decides to revisit you during lunch. If there is a God, it’s obvious to you now that the guy really doesn’t like you.
You imagine somewhere beyond the sky and the clouds, he laughs at your strife and torment, weighing out which would be the funniest option to fan the flames with to watch you struggle even more. This one is especially cruel, though. Somewhere deep in your mind, you began to believe you may never have to see Robert again. You’d never have to feel the swirl of emotions in your gut, never have to relive all those memories over again. But this isn’t a passing moment. You don’t see him in the corner of a coffee shop; you don’t get the choice to speak to him or pretend you never saw him at all. He’s here now, and there’s no way around it.
Though the air in the building has shifted for you, those around you stay the same. People still wave to you as they pass in the halls, make conversation at the vending machines, and you do your best to keep up. But it’s hard. Your mind strays, retracing your steps to find its way back to every encounter you’ve had with Robert. Recent and former. Your chest grows heavy at the fact that you’ll now have more experiences to add to the list that your mind rewinds again.
A hand wraps around your clad wrist, and you halt in your step. You don’t need to turn to know who it is. You knew that it was only a matter of time before Robert sought you out, ever the diplomat when he wished to be. You knew the conversation was coming; you just wish it didn’t have to be so soon.
“Hey,” he breathes, “can we talk?”
You roll your lips and take a look around the hall. This isn’t the place to have this conversation. But you don’t have much of an option- especially if you want to limit as much interaction with him as possible.
“Let’s go somewhere private.”
His fingers drag across your wrist as he lets you go, the feather-light touch fading slowly as you lead him down the hall to the first conference room you can think of.
You let him in first, let him take a seat in whichever chair he chooses, as you lock the door and close the blinds. Dread sinks over you, head to toe, goosebumps erupting over your skin as you pull the chair out on the opposite side of him. You’re still close, less than three feet away, but any closer is dangerous.
You don’t know where to start. You don’t know if you should speak first or let the awkward silence swirl through the air until Robert mulls over what he wants to say. You don’t know if the conversation will simply skim the top or if Robert believes that you’ll get to the bottom of everything that’s happened between you and come out people reborn. But you don’t have it in you to delve that deep. Not here and not today.
“So..” you trail. “How was your first shift?”
Robert blows a huff of a chuckle out of his nose,
“It was, uh, something,” he answers, “definitely something.”
His chair is angled towards you, pulled out from the head of the long table to close the gap, elbows resting on his knees, folded over. His presence doesn’t take up as much space as you remember. You wonder when he learned to make himself smaller.
“How many times have you dispatched them?” He asks.
“More times than what was in my job description.” You chuckle. “It’s hard for them to keep a dispatcher.”
“Yeah. I can see why.”
For a moment, the air is lighter. You share a soft laugh at the now shared experience of the chaos of the Z-Team. He looks at you through his eyelashes and his cheeks round with a smile. But then it all comes crashing down on you once again.
“Listen, Lume.” he starts. “I can’t even begin to apologize-”
You decide at this moment that you can’t. You believed that you’d have the strength to resolve this here and now, and move forward with a new slate. But the fear takes hold of you and drags you back.
“Robert, let’s not do this. Not right now.”
“I just want to-”
“I know what you want to do.” You say, eyes softened and smile pained, “Just not right now.”
His chest falls, and he drops his head. Your chest sinks at the disappointment in his posture. You’ve always hated the dejected stance on him, always hated when you hurt him. But this time you don’t extend your hand. You keep it tucked to your chest and don’t offer the chance to be bitten.
He nods and finds your eyes again.
“Okay,” he says. “How do you want to move forward?”
Yet another question you have no idea how to answer. But you have to, nevertheless.
“I have too much going on right now for things to be difficult in another part of my life,” you start. “I don’t know how things are going to progress from here, and I don’t know how either of us will feel in the future. But right now, I think the best way is to keep what happened outside of the office. Start fresh for now.”
He takes a moment. Letting your words really ruminate before he decides what he wants to say. Then he nods again.
“Alright. I can do that,” he replies. “Just know whatever you need, I'm here.”
The statement stuns you. It’s been a long time since you viewed Robert as someone you could rely on. But it would be nice to be able to feel that way again. You send him a soft smile and nod,
“Okay.”
“You weren’t as hard to find as I thought you’d be.”
Chase turns to look at you and then swears, with a snap of his fingers. He pulls out a chair in defeat and plops down into it. It was always so funny to you when you got the upper hand on Chase. It’s not often, but the victory is sweet every time.
“Let’s get this over with.” He says.
You pretend to think, finger tapping obnoxiously on your chin,
“Nah. I think I’ll wait. Drag it out a little longer.”
You sit in the chair beside him at the small rec room table and slide him a Crunchbar. A peace offering that he hesitantly accepts. He looks at it like you poisoned it, keeps his eyes trained on you as he grabs it like he’s waiting for you to launch yourself at him. Once it’s in his hands, he tears the wrapper open and breaks it in half, sliding the side still in the wrapper over to you.
“This’ll be good for you, kid. You need the break. And Robert will be good.”
You know that. You know that you’re overworking yourself, and you know that Robert will be a great dispatcher. But it doesn’t ease the sting. You lean slightly to take the candy bar in your hand.
“How’d the day go?” You ask.
“As good as it could go for those shitheads,” Chase says, “Flambae lit a park on fire, Sonar fangirled in front of his hero and made a goddamn fool of himself- now, that was some funny shit - and Invisigal rocked Robert’s shit.”
You stop mid-peel of the wrapper and almost choke on your breath. The other two instances you could predict. That was all in the realm of normal for the Z-Team. But what was that last one? You clear your throat quickly and ask for clarification.
“I’m sorry- What happened?”
And Chase tells you as if you had simply asked what the time was.
“Invisigal happened.” He says, “Didn’t listen to what Robert told her to do - big fuckin’ shock there- they had it out right here, and she punched him.”
Before you can truly register the thought that’s formed in your head, you’re up and out of your seat, phone in your hand, and on the way to the closest conference room.
“Where the fuck are you going?”
The door is left ajar in your leave, and you still have no idea what exactly is that you’re going to say when you type out your message.
Team Meeting in 5. Conference room B.
The team is already there when you arrive, which still surprises you. You’d like to say you know exactly how you earned their respect, but you don’t. It all happened before you had a chance to notice their change. One day, faith for you was born. And it showed. This gives you hope that the conversation that is to be had will go well.
The small chatter that filled the room ceases, and they greet you all in their own personal manners. They smile, and all break out into the regularly chosen pieces of dialogue after a new dispatcher is selected. They tell you the new guy sucks, that he’s nowhere near as good as you are, that they want to talk to Blazer about making you their official dispatcher. Except for Invisigal, whose line of sight is strictly trained on the mahogany of the table. She chews on the inside of her cheek and takes a quick peek at you from the corner of her eye before she quickly looks away again.
Insecurities lie deep within Visi. It wasn’t something that was hard for you to figure out once you really observed her. And you made the effort to try to help her work through them. But Invisigal has to want the change for herself. She has to make the conscious decision to do good and choose the right decision. And punching your dispatcher, no matter how angry they make you, is not the right decision.
Punch-Up is the first to ask,
“When are ye comin’ back?”
You take a quick breath and hope that as you begin to speak, the words will come to you.
“I fully understand that the last batch of dispatchers you all have had has not been especially to your liking.” You start. Your tone clear and firm. Half of the room has the smarts to realize that this meeting isn’t like the others. This isn’t a meeting to simply see how they behaved and how they thought the new dispatcher was faring.
Because you already know. There are no little white lies they can tell you about how, yeah, they fucked with the new guy, but it’s all in good fun! The day went well either way. Something has happened, and you’re already aware of it. And you’re here to set the record straight. Flambae takes his feet off the table, Mal and Prism share “oh, shit,” looks across the table, and Visi still has yet to look at you for more than a split second.
“And I know that we all work well together as a team. But when I got hired at SDN, I was not hired as a dispatcher. I was hired to be a mentor. I was hired to connect with you all and teach you how to be the great heroes I know you all have the power to be.”
“What’s this about, boss?” Sonar questions, ears twitching as he pushes himself off the wall he leaned on.
“I’ve gotten word about a few things that have happened on today’s shift. And I don’t care about you giving the new hires a run for their money. If they can’t stick it out, then they’re not the right dispatcher for the team. But what I do care about is keeping you all on the right track.”
The group is rag-tag. They’re disrespectful and hard-headed. But you’ve managed to earn their trust and their respect. And you will forever be grateful for that fact, and you would never consciously do anything to jeopardize that. And you can see it in their face that they understand that. So you choose your next words carefully.
“And some of the behaviors I’ve learned about today are something I never want to hear has happened again.” You say.
Invisigal’s posture deepens; she leans her body away from you and bows her head further in the opposite direction. She doesn’t like criticism. This is something you’re aware of. But the only way she can grow is if she accepts that she made the wrong decision and learns from it.
“Robert was a great hero. And he’s good at what he does. And yeah, he can be a bit of a prick sometimes, but so can all of you-”
“That is true,” Punch-Up interjects.
“But he’ll do good by you. All you have to do is give him a chance.”
The room looks at you apprehensively. Faces scrunched in reluctance and eyes clouded with uncertainty.
“I’m not telling you that you have to trust him just yet; that’s something he has to earn from all of you. Just like I did. So all I’m asking of you is to keep trusting me.”
The room grows silent. The team looks amongst themselves as each of them tests the waters, waiting for somebody to make the first decision. Prism is the first to answer.
“Fine. I still think he’s a bitch.” Prism says, “But if you think he’s got what it takes. I’ll give him a shot.”
And it’s not long before the rest of the group gives a nod and soft murmurs of agreement. One by one, they all leave their seats and begin to file out of the conference room. You give Golem a pat on the arm and turn to keep Visi in your sight. She doesn’t go invisible, she doesn’t push Flambae out of the way to dash out of the door. She simply comes to a stop in front of you, face artificially stern but eyes gleaming with despair.
“Well, go on,” she spits. “Just yell at me so I can leave.”
“I’m not going to yell at you.”
Her brows furrow and her head twitches to the side. She doesn’t believe that you’re not here to berate her. And that makes your heart sink. You want the best for her. But she also has to face the consequences of her actions.
“I believe you have what it takes to be a hero.”
Despite the disheartened look she wears, her eyes still spark.
“You have it in you to do infinite amounts of good. But there is only so much that I can do for you before it comes down to you. You have to want this for yourself, and you have to not let your anger control your decisions.”
You reach out and touch her shoulder, and you smile when she allows you to.
“You don’t have to be a villain anymore. But I can’t let this slide without any repercussions.” You say. “If I hear of this happening again, it will be on your permanent record. Am I clear?”
A moment passes. Then she nods.
“I understand.” She says.
You give her a squeeze on her arm and move out of the door. But before she gets too far, you call out to her.
“I believe in you, Visi. It’s time you start believing in yourself.”
She doesn’t say a word, but the dispirited look on her face shifts into something softer, more hopeful, and her lips twitch like she wants to smile. And then she vanishes.
Once you’re sure she’s gone, you flop into one of the empty chairs and finally take the moment to rest. While you didn’t plan for today to go smoothly with all that was already happening, you had no idea this would be the way things went. You sigh and throw your mask on the table, fingers rubbing and prodding where the migraine lurks under the surface.
Life as you once knew is changing course. You’ll have to learn a new routine, a new way of thinking, and a new level of professionalism. You could never have imagined this would be the way you and Robert would meet again, and you could’ve never imagined you’d struggle with it as much as you are. The thought makes your heart beat haphazardly and makes your head spin. It’s involuntary, and that’s what makes this so much harder. You can’t fight against a threat you can’t predict, a threat you can’t control. The weight is crushing, you can feel your collarbones start to creak, and your knees bend under the mass you try to carry. The seams crack, and the stitches tug, and you fear that it’s only a matter of time before you completely crumble. You don’t know what you need, you don’t know what can stop it before it begins. You let out a deep sigh and curl your fingers into the soft skin of your palm. Your gloves protect you somewhat, but you can feel the curve of your nails dig crescent indents in your skin.
The clock on the wall strikes 5:15. Your day is over. The office slowly empties, and you finally register the ringing of the alarm on your watch. You press a button, and it silences. The chair squeaks as you stand, and you take in one more deep breath. Despite the obstacles in the way, your day didn’t completely crash and burn. You finally got to do the job you were hired for, you got to mentor and teach members of the Phoenix Program, you didn’t burst into tears in the bathroom, and you didn’t wring Chase’s neck like you wanted to this morning. So, maybe that means there’s hope for tomorrow.
You don’t know what the future holds for you now that Robert is inserted into your daily life again. You don’t know whether or not the road leads to you and Robert crashing and burning and hurting each other more than you already have. You’d be stupid not to believe that it wasn’t an option on the table. But there is another option, where you both don’t crash and burn. Where something happens, and that something is good. Whatever that may be. But that’s a bridge you don’t have the energy to cross yet. But whether you’re ready to take that step or not, that bridge is in sight, and one day you’ll be right in front of it.
That’s all you can think about when you look over at his cubicle and watch him work. His fingers glide over the keyboard like it’s second nature to him. You hear him bark out orders, telling his team where to go and what to do, like it’s natural. You’ve never seen any of the other new employees take to the job this quickly. And while you haven’t been here for forever, you’ve been here long enough to know that your thoughts count for something.
But he’s a huge downer. His tone is always flat. His expression is always sour. He walks like the weight of the world is on his shoulders (though considering the fact that he’s Z team’s dispatcher, you don’t exactly blame him). And one look at him tells you that he’s seen his fair share of monsters. It’s in his eyes. It’s in the way he peers around a room in silence. It’s in the heaviness of his steps. Hole in his ear. And all the other little scars you start to see peak out from his clothes whenever he stretches or shifts around too much.
Plus, he rarely eats. You don’t know how he goes through most of his shifts without shoveling something in his mouth to stave off the boring moments. But when he does, it’s nothing but highly processed garbage from the vending machines. No lunch from home. No sandwich from one of the many delis down the street. Nothing but junk.
And he’s not that social with you and your co-workers. Sure, he talks to you. Always has a dry joke to crack at you about his team or work or what’s happening on the news. And sure, he has been convinced to join you and a couple of other dispatchers out for drinks once or twice. But he doesn’t seek any of you out.
And talk about that name, too? Who names their kid Robert Robertson? And who lets that tradition continue two more times after the first time. If you had to live with a name like that, you would be depressed as hell, too.
Still, that doesn’t change anything. None of that changes anything. You don’t care that he’s got that cute, doe-eyed thing going for him when he’s not looking at you with a thousand-yard stare. You don’t feel any sort of way about his deep voice and how he always seems to know the right thing to do and say. And no, you don’t think his scares and his frame and his seriousness are attractive. At all. Not even a little bit. The new guy is fucking depressing. When he’s not making a stupid joke, he’s a downer in every sense of the word. And any week now? You know his desk is going to be cleared out and some new guy is going to be taking his place. Someone with big hopes and dreams and a discernible sense of joy, you’d bet. Which would be a real shame.
“Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight…”
Because you like guys like that are fucking depressing. You like it when they're suddenly not too.
“Robert…” You whimper out your co-worker’s name. Eyes fluttering shut as your grip around his shoulders tightens. But at the moment, all you can do is hold onto the man as he fucks into you and fucks you stupid. Just letting him and his surprisingly long and pretty cock stuff your warm, wet insides, over and over again. “Fuck, you’re so…fuck!”
When he hears you curse and feels your fingernails dig into his skin through his shirt, he lets out a low, low groan. One that you feel right in your stomach as he keeps the grip he has on your waist strong and his pace steady. He’s been through a lot worse than a pretty girl scratching up his skin. He’ll survive this. He’ll survive whatever you decide to do to him next, too. Besides, you’d like to consider it payback. Payback for him taking so long to bring you back here and fuck you, of course.
Back here is a small conference room in one of the more unused sides of the office, about halfway through your thirty-minute breaks. You rarely see anyone come around here. So much so that the room is pristine to the point that you can’t help but wonder if it was ever used. But questions like that don’t matter at a time like this. All that matters is that Robert picked up your signal to follow you to this room while the two of you were taking your break. All that matters is that Robert knew exactly where to put his hands the second you shut the door and locked it behind him.
All that matters is that your pants are on the floor and his cock was out, and a condom was rolled on it with speed that you’d almost consider super. But you know what this really is: eagerness. Towards your body. Towards you. Toward the very idea of fucking you quick, hard, and dirty. And you know it because it’s exactly what you feel in this moment. And perhaps even every time you look at him. Not that you would ever tell him that, though. In fact, you’d rather do anything but.
Too bad he noticed, though. But then again, you wouldn’t be here if he were completely oblivious to your feelings, now would you?
“You’ve been eyeing me all afternoon,” Robert mumbles in between the sounds of your pants and gasps of pleasure as he continues fucking into your pussy at a speed that’s almost surprising for a guy like him. Currently, he’s got you seated on top of the conference table with your lower half dangling just on the edge and your legs wrapped around his torso, making sure that he can never get too far away from you. It took him long enough to get the hints you were dropping since his first shift. You’d be damned if you’d let him get away easily. “How long have you been sitting, soaked in your own mess, huh? Could’ve just asked me. How’d say no to a girl like you…?”
At his words, you huff at him, turning your head away to make a point about ignoring his little comment. You didn’t want to just ask. You wanted him to just know, as stupid as it sounds. You know he’s not a mind reader. But you know the guy has eyes that work. You’ve seen them on linger far too long on your ass when he thinks you can’t see him, and on your chest when you’re busy trying to explain something to him. It was only a matter of time before the two of you ended up here.
Too bad he took so long to read the room.
“Hey. I asked you a question.” He calls out, trying to get a proper response out of you. Out of the corner of your eye, you look at him- not wanting to give him the satisfaction. At this, he mumbles something about only working with brats, and you find that you don’t love all of these jokes of his. Even if they are true most of the time. Still, you can’t help but notice the fact that his expression looks serious. Focused, even. Though you can’t help but wonder if it’s because he’s trying not to nut too early or if he’s actually a little pissed at you, minor bit of attitude.
Maybe it’s the former. Maybe it’s the latter. Maybe it’s a little bit of a mix of both. You don’t know. He did say he it’s been a while since he’s done anything like this. And you do know he’s already got enough bad listeners to manage. Doesn’t really matter that much at the moment, though. Because either way, he doesn’t let your silence go in peace.
At least, he doesn’t let you ignore him.
The second you turn your head to the side, he’s leaning up to attach his lips to the now exposed part of your neck. The side. Your jugular. Down low. Up high. Everywhere and anywhere he can reach, he’s there. Kissing and nipping at the skin. The second melt into his touch and let out a particularly breathless moan, his mood lifts. He smiles even. He seems proud of himself.
And while you certainly think he’s pushing it with you, you let him. Because right now, the way he peppers your neck with attention feels good. It feels great, actually. And not to mention, he’s only giving you the threat of a hickey without actually leaving one. Which is a good thing. A really, really, really good thing. For both him and you. Because you would have killed him if you did. At least, you would kill him if he left one anywhere that you couldn’t cover up in your uniform.
“Getting close yet?” He asks you suddenly, in between the kisses he keeps delivering to your neck. He seems to like doing that. You seem to like him doing that to you even more. “And how long do we have?”
For a second, you almost don’t hear his questions. The way his cock kisses your insides and the way his facial his hair tickles your skin hog your attention in a way that makes it hard for literally anything else to compete. But then he asks the question again, this time a little louder as he slows down his pace just a little bit. And it's enough to send you scrambling in a desperation you would rather have kept hidden.
But the sound of his chuckles tells you it's too late to hide your feelings anymore.
Just like the sound of your phone alarm going off to signal that you have two minutes to get back to your desks before you’re officially back on the clock, it tells you that it’s too late to have the happy ending that you were hoping for. So you start to push back. You start to pull away. Because rules are rules. Work is work. And Robert seems like he could be a stickler for law and order in the pettiest situations possible, sometimes.
At least, that’s what you would have thought if you didn’t know who Robert was at this point.
Because he’s more than just a cute face. He’s more than just your new co-worker. And he’s more than just huge, a downer, and downright depressing. Even on his best days. No, he’s more than all of that. He’s a man.
A good one. A kind one. A ridiculously attractive one, even when he’s not trying to be. And you’d be damned if you’d let one like this slip away. From work...
“...you’re not getting away from me that easy, pretty girl. Let’s make you cum first. Then I’ll get you back, okay?”
please do anything with Royd. He’s so big and strong and handsome and sexy and I knowwwww he talks you through it I knowwwwww he’s just the absolute best at giving aftercare PLEASE RAINY I LOVE YOUR WRITING SO SO VERY MUCH!!! (We are very low on the royd fics and I know you’re one to bring light to his amazingness.)
~☎️
Big Lover//Royd Boyfriend Head Canons
👽: I’m honored! lol. I hope I did his character justiceee
🖇️: Royd x gn!reader
☑️: Proof Read
⚠️: NSFW/SEXUAL THEMES/Just a bunch of head canons on how Roy would be as a lover Tehehe/I need a hug from him/Need him to hold me, cradle me, bend me over and—ENJOYYYY :3
SFW
★ Every time Roy puts on those reading glasses to tinker with some circuit board or manual, you catch him peeking over the frames at you. “What?” he’ll say, grinning. “Jus’ making sure you still there.” Like you’d ever leave when he looks at you like that.
★ He doesn’t just call you “baby.” It’s “baby girl,(boy/honey)” “sunshine,” “my sweet thing,” sometimes all three in one sentence when he’s feeling particularly soft. And when he’s working? You hear him muttering to his tech, “C’mon now, don’t be like that—” in the same gentle tone he uses with you.
★ After you kept stealing his hoodie (the worn one that smells like coconut oil and motor grease), he bought five more. Different colors. Left them everywhere. “So you always got one,” he explains, scratching the back of his neck, “even when I’m wearing one too, yeah?”
★ You have ritualistic market visits. Roy insists on going every Saturday, your hand tucked in his much larger one, that tattoo on full display. He knows all the vendors by name. Buys you fresh flowers weekly. “Orchids today? Or you like da plumeria?” And he carries everything, won’t let you touch a single bag.
★ When he passes you in the kitchen, the hallway, anywhere really—his hand finds your head automatically. Sometimes it’s a kiss pressed to your crown, sometimes just his palm resting there for a heartbeat. Grounding himself. Reminding himself you’re real.
★ You’ll find him at 2 am, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, fixing some gadget with a focus that’s almost reverent. When you pad in sleepy eyed, he pulls you into his lap without looking away from his work. Keeps one arm locked around your waist. “Go back sleep if you like,” he murmurs. “I gotchu.”
★ This man’s camera roll is seventy percent you. Candid shots mostly, you reading, laughing, sleeping in his shirt. When caught, he’s unapologetic. “What? You pretty. I like lookin’ at pretty things.”
★ He’s so fun and whimsy with you. First time thunder rolled through, he built you a blanket fort without being asked. Fairy lights he’d been “meaning to install” suddenly appeared. He crawled in beside you, this giant man folding himself small, and distracted you from the hectic storm outside with banter and stories from his past.
★ You get a monthly allowance. And it’s fatttt. He insists even if you make your own money. And still insists on buying you things, having you save your money for you. He’ll pay for your nails. (If that’s what you like.) Take you out to expensive restaurants and eat with amazing views. If you wanna have a fun night and go clubbing he’s basically your personal body guard. He’s great at extravagant. It’s easy. But he’s also sentimental.
★ He’ll buy the book you mentioned once. The specific tea or coffee you like but can’t always find. A weighted blanket because he noticed you sleep better when he’s holding you. (It’s especially nice when he’s out working.)
★ When you talk, everything stops. Phone down. Tools down. Eyes fixed on you like you’re reciting scripture. And he remembers everything—your best friends promotion, that song you hummed Tuesday, the outfit you glanced at while out. All the small things really matter.
•••
NSFW
★ Those huge, rough hands that can manipulate the smallest wires, the most delicate circuits? They know exactly how much pressure, where to press, when to be gentle and when to grip hard enough to leave memory shaped shadows on your hips. “Tell me if too much, yeah?” Even when you both know you’ll never say stop.
★ His accent deffo gets thicker. Especially when he’s inside you, words spilling against your throat. “So good fo’ me—das it, das my baby—”
★ Roy doesn’t just compliment, he worships aloud. A running commentary of “Look how perfect you stay,” “You know how beautiful? Nah, you don’t even know,” “Gonna take care of you so good, baby, I promise—” until you’re dizzy with it.
★ Cockwarming. Elaboration? Sometimes after, he just… stays. Keeps you connected, pulls you onto his chest, idly plays with your hair. “Not lettin’ go yet.” Like the separation physically hurts. And when you clench around him—involuntary, aftershocks—his breath hitches, “Shoots, baby, tryin’ kill me?”
★ He’s strong as fuck. He knows this. And enjoys it. There’s something about being able to maneuver you exactly where he wants you that makes him almost feral.
★ Lifting you against walls or holding you suspended, one arm banded across your waist, back against his chest while he shoves his free hand down your pants, thick fingers fucking into you. “So light, baby, like nothing. Can do this all night, yeah? You like?”
★ He joins you in the shower “just to help.” Runs soap slick hands over every inch of you. Presses you against cool tile, water pourinh over both of you. “Gotta make sure you all nice and clean” You’re the cleanest person alive by the time he’s done.
★ One time, he took you down to the shore after dark. Blanket. Stars. His hands under your shirt while waves crashed nearby. “Nobody around but us, baby.” The ocean was loud enough to swallow your sounds. He took full advantage.
★ Roy leaves marks. Thoughtful about placement, where only he’ll see them, where they’ll peek out just enough to remind you. Sucks bruises into your inner thighs with the same focused patience he uses on his tech. “Jus’ one more, promise.” (It’s never just one more.)
★ Aftercare Isn’t Optional. The man who takes you apart so thoroughly is meticulous about putting you back together. Always. Warm cloth, cold water, gentle hands checking in.
★ “You good? Need anything? Tell me true now.” Wraps you in his arms like a shield after, nose buried in your hair, “Did so good fo’ me. Always so good.”
Flambert in bed just cuddling and roberts spooning flambae and suddenly just puts him in a headlock just lightly at first flambae wakes up like 'awe thats cute he cant hurt me' and then robert still sleeping tightens it and flambae just goes 'oh OH Shi-' and starts trying to wake him up lol
i just know he’s an overprotective person i feel it in my bones :3
fluff.ᐟ robert stands up for you.ᐟ robert takes care of you.ᐟ robert x drunk! reader.ᐟ kissing.ᐟ z-team being assholes.ᐟ
𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐨 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤, feeling slightly stressed and looking to unwind.
I, the newest member of the group, had been with them for just a few months and was already feeling like the odd one out.
As we walked into the bar, everyone’s eyes immediately sought out the drink selection and they quickly ordered a round of shots, passing them around the table.
“Bottoms up, newbie!” Sonar grinned, sliding a shot toward me with a wink. The others laughed—Flambae clinked his glass, Invisigal already downed hers—and I hesitated just a second too long.
“Come on, Y/N,” Coupé teased. “Gotta keep up with the Z-Team tradition.”
One shot turned into three. Then five.
My head spun as Punch Up shouted another round.
Laughter got sharper, voices louder—jokes started landing like slaps. Malevola leaned in: “Wow, you’re adorable when you’re wasted.” Prism snorted.
“Just one more,” Invisigal cut in, already filling my glass.
I hesitated, smiling awkwardly. “I don’t think I can drink anoth—”
Invisigal pushed the glass up to my lips. “Don’t be a downer, Y/N.”
Laughter followed. I didn’t want to seem uptight, so I raised the glass and downed it. Bitter warmth burned my throat. My vision blurred at the edges, the room spinning with the pulsing music and neon lights.
It was all fun until it wasn’t.
Until the teasing started getting sharper.
Until “newbie” turned from playful to mocking.
“How sad, she can’t even handle her drinks.” Coupé spoke.
Invisigal up snickered. “She’s lucky we even invited her.”
My cheeks burned—not from the alcohol, but from humiliation. The laughter stung worse than the liquor.
From across the table, Robert’s jaw tightened. He’d been quiet most of the night, sipping his drink, watching the dynamic unfold. When he saw how my smile faded, that was it.
“Enough,” his voice cut through the noise like a blade.
The laughter faltered.
“What?” Invisigal scoffed. “We’re just messing around—”
“No,” Robert said, eyes narrowing. “You’re not. You’re ganging up on her.”
“You all think this is funny, but it’s pathetic. Real mature guys. Silence. The team shifted uncomfortably.
Robert stood, tossing a few bills on the table. “She’s done for the night. I’ll make sure she gets home.”
He pulled off his jacket and draped it around my shoulders. “You good?” he asked softly.
I nodded shakily. But I wasn’t good. I felt lonely. I felt hurt because how much their jokes had really stung. All I was trying to do was fit in.
Robert’s gaze swept over them, jaw set in anger.
“You should all be ashamed,” he said, his voice low and firm. “You think it’s funny to make someone feel small?”
“Robert we were all joking around sharing a few laughs, calm down.” Invisigal chuckled.
“Of course you think that’s funny because you’re a bunch of immature assholes who don’t know how to be a team.” Robert responded.
His eyes darkened as he continued, “You think you can just gang up on someone and call it a joke? It’s not. It’s pathetic. And honestly, it’s sad.”
He stepped back, guiding me toward the door, but not before adding one last line that cut through the silence like glass. “I hope you all are thinking right now whether you want to be part of a team that lifts each other up…or just a pack of cowards who kick someone when they’re trying their best to belong.”
He continues “I swear—if anything happens like this again, I will cut every single one of you off.”
Robert slid an arm around my waist, steady and sure, as I stumbled slightly on wobbly legs. “Come on,” he murmured, voice softer now. “Let’s get you out of here.”
I leaned into him—my head spinning, eyes stinging with unshed tears—and he gently lifted my arm over his shoulder, supporting me like I was something fragile worth protecting.
We stepped out into the cool night air, the noise of the bar fading behind us. Neon lights blurred into streaks as we walked towards his car.
“You okay?” he asked again, glancing down at me.
I swallowed hard. “Just…embarrassed.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said firmly. “They’re the ones who should be ashamed.”
As he opened the passenger door and helped me in, pulling my seatbelt across like I was someone precious—he didn’t look angry anymore.
He looked…tender.
Robert settled into the driver’s seat, starting the engine smoothly. The interior of the car was warm and quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos of the bar we'd just left.
He turned to face me, his expression still concerned. “Where do you live?” he asked softly.
I rattled off the address, the words feeling thick on my tongue. The alcohol had left my head fuzzy. As Robert entered the location into his navigation, he glanced over at me again.
“You sure you’re alright?”
I nodded, my eyes slipping closed for a moment as I leaned against the window. The hum of the car’s engine and the sound of Robert’s steady breaths were almost soothing.
“Just…tired,” I murmured.
And it was true—not just from the alcohol, but from the adrenaline crash and the emotional turmoil of the evening. All I wanted was to crawl into bed and forget this night ever happened.
Robert must have noticed the exhaustion in my voice, because his driving became even more careful—he took each turn gently, avoiding any bumps in the road.
He kept quiet, letting the silence wrap around us like a balm, understanding that what I needed most was rest.
The streetlights cast a soft glow over his face as he focused on the road, the only sound was the rhythmic thump of the wipers against the occasional raindrop.
As the miles ticked by, my eyelids grew heavier and heavier.
Without realizing it, my head slid further down the window, my breathing slowly evening out.
Just as I started to doze off, a small part of me was aware of Robert’s gaze flicking over to me every few moments. Checking on me. Making sure I was really alright.
It should’ve been disconcerting, having someone watch me sleep, but somehow with him…it made me feel safe. Like I could let go, knowing he would keep watch.
It felt like mere seconds before the car came to a gentle stop, jolting me slightly from my half asleep state. Blinking against the streetlights, I recognized we were inside my apartment building garage.
Robert unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to me. “We’re here. Think you can make it inside?”
I nodded, fumbling with the seatbelt before pushing the door open. The cool air hit my face as I tried to step out—legs wobbly, head spinning.
I made it two steps before my knees buckled.
I fell forward onto the floor with a soft thud, more startled than hurt.
“Shit. Y/N!” Robert’s voice was sharp with panic.
The next second, he was out of the car and sprinting around to me, dropping to his knees beside me. “Hey—hey! Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?”
I groaned slightly, blinking up at him under the dim glow of the garage. “M’fine… just… gravity hates me,” I slurred weakly.
He let out a breath—half-laugh, half-relief—and carefully slid an arm under my legs, scooping me.
“C’mon,” he murmured. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
Robert easily carried me over to the elevator, my body feeling light in his arms. I didn’t protest—I was too tired both physically and emotionally to do anything more than loop an arm around his neck for support.
He set the elevator to head up to my floor, then turned to me with a small smile. “Floor?” His voice was still tinged with worry.
I tried to focus on speaking clearly, but my tongue felt heavy in my mouth. “Mfffthh... third,” I managed.
Robert hummed in acknowledgment, hitting the correct button.
We waited in comfortable silence as the elevator ascended. I let my head loll against Robert’s chest, eyes fluttering shut again.
When the elevator lurched to a stop and the doors opened, I reluctantly picked my head up.
I could feel myself swaying slightly as I dug into my pocket, fingers feeling clumsy as I pulled out my apartment key.
Robert noticed me struggling, and gently took the key from my fumbling grip.
Robert took the key with a nod, shifting to hold me more comfortably in his arms before walking over to my apartment door.
There was a soft click as he inserted the key into the lock, turning it with a quiet twist. I felt a pang of embarrassment, realizing how vulnerable I must look—being carried into my own home by a coworker after a drunken night out.
But he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, his hold on me only tightened as he pushed the door open, guiding us inside.
Robert stepped carefully into the dark apartment, gently shifting me in his arms as he reached out with one hand, feeling along the wall for a light switch.
After a second, his fingers found it.
Click.
Soft light flooded the living room from two floor lamps in opposite corners, casting a warm glow over everything.
It looked…homey. Pictures of me and family on the walls, a cozy couch covered in blankets, a bookshelf packed with plants and little trinkets.
Robert carefully set me down on the soft couch, adjusting a pillow behind my head to make sure I was comfortable.
The room spun again, and I closed my eyes, trying to will the world to stead itself.
“Let me get you some water,” he said softly, voice warm with concern.
He disappeared into the kitchen—fumbling slightly as he opened cabinets, clearly not knowing where anything was. But he didn’t complain.
After a moment, I heard the tap run and then his footsteps returning.
He came back with a glass of water. “Here,” he said gently, offering me the glass. “Drink at least half. It’ll help tomorrow.”
I tried to sit up, only to wobble dangerously, nearly dumping the water on myself.
Robert reacted instantly, steadying me with one strong hand, the other taking the glass from me before it could spill.
“Easy,” he said, guiding me gently into a sitting position. “Take it slow.”
I winced at my own clumsiness, feeling foolish. But he just held the glass to my lips, helping me drink without any judgment in his eyes.
Just patience and care.
The water felt cool against my dry throat, the steady pressure of Robert’s hand against mine grounding me. When I’d had enough, he eased the glass back, placing it on the coffee table within easy reach.
I leaned back against the couch, feeling a bit steadier now. The room still spun a little, but not nearly as badly now.
I looked up at Robert, feeling a wave of gratitude and embarrassment. He’s seeing me at my most vulnerable, and instead of mocking me...he helped.
“Thanks,” I murmured.
He smiled, that small but reassuring smile that made his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “Don’t mention it. You just rest.”
But before he could get up, I reached out and caught his sleeve, stopping him.
“Robert?”
He turned back, eyes questioning. “Yeah?”
“Stay,” I said quietly, the words out of my mouth before I had fully realized what I was saying.
He paused, his eyes softening impossibly. “You sure?”
I nodded. For some reason, the thought of being alone right now made me feel lonely. Vulnerable. But having him here, even just for a bit longer it felt comforting.
Robert nodded, understanding flashing in his eyes.
He sat back down on the couch, positioned close enough that I could feel his warmth but still giving me just enough space to breathe. The cushions dipped under his weight, a solid, reassuring presence.
His arm stretched out along the back of the couch, almost but not quite touching me.
Before I could second-guess myself, I let my head tilt sideways, resting it gently against his lap.
My cheek rested against the soft fabric of his jeans, the warmth from his legs gently seeping into me.
My eyes drifted shut, and I let out a sigh—a mix of exhaustion and relief.
He didn’t stiffen or pull away. Instead, his hand moved almost involuntarily, fingers gently threading through my hair in a soothing rhythm.
The silence settled over us again, broken only by the soft rustle of fingers through hair. My eyelids felt heavy, and I felt myself sinking into the safety of the moment.
Then, before I could stop myself, a question slipped out. “Why’d you stand up for me against the team?”
Robert's fingers paused for just a moment, then resumed their gentle rhythm. When he spoke, his voice was soft, thoughtful.
“Because it was the right thing to do.”
I shifted, turning my body so I was lying fully on the couch now, head still resting in his lap. My eyes opened, gaze meeting his.
The position felt intimate, more so than before, but I was too exhausted to care. “But why did you do it?” I repeated, voice drowsy.
He considered the question for a moment, his fingers still lightly playing with my hair.
“Because I care,” he said finally, as if it was that simple.
Those two words seemed to echo in the room, their genuine simplicity washing over me like a wave.
A small part of me wanted to laugh it off, to make a joke out of the moment. But the sincerity in his eyes and the steady motion of his hand in my hair made it impossible.
“You barely know me,” I pointed out softly. “How can you care about someone you barely know?”
Robert exhaled, his thumb brushing lightly against my temple. “You’d be surprised,” he murmured.
His gaze flickered away for a second before meeting mine again. “I saw how hard you were trying to fit in with everyone. And then I watched how they treated you.” His voice tightened slightly.
“I just...couldn’t stand it.”
The raw honesty in his words sent a shiver through me—because no one had ever really seen that before.
Not the effort, not the loneliness, not the way I’d been grasping at belonging like it was something I could earn if I just tried hard enough.
I swallowed thickly. “They were just joking,” I mumbled weakly, an old defense reflex kicking in.
Robert’s fingers stilled in my hair again. His expression turned sharp—not angry at me, but for me. “No,” he said firmly. “Jokes don’t make people feel like shit.”
A beat passed before he added quietly, “You deserve better than that.”
Robert’s voice dropped to a near whisper, his thumb tracing the curve of my cheekbone.
“During the few months you’ve been with us...” He hesitated for half a second, then exhaled. “You grew on me faster than anyone else ever has.”
His fingers stilled in my hair, holding eye contact like it was suddenly vital that I understood every word.
“It wasn’t just tonight—I noticed you from day one.” He confessed.
“I told myself it was nothing,” he admitted quietly, “but seeing them mess with you tonight? That burned straight through all my damn excuses.”
The air thickened with unspoken words. Robert’s eyes searched mine, vulnerability flashing briefly before he spoke again.
“I’ve liked you since the beginning.”
There it was—the confession laid bare. A truth he seemed to be wrestling with.
“But I’m scared you won’t believe me,” he murmured, “because you’re drunk right now, and probably think I’m just saying shit to say it.”
Robert hesitated for a breath, then slowly leaned down—his movements careful, giving me every chance to pull away.
His lips brushed against mine, soft and questioning. A spark flickered to life between us.
But before he could deepen the kiss, I whispered his name against his mouth— “Robert...”
The sound tore through him like a gunshot. He jerked back instantly.
“Shit—I shouldn’t have done that.” he blurted out, voice rough with guilt as he sat up straight. “I’m sorry.”
Before he could pull back any further, my hand shot up, softly grabbing the front of his button-up shirt.
The sudden motion caught him off guard, a hint of surprise crossing his face as I drew him back down to me.
We were close enough now that I could see the faint freckles on his face.
“Don’t apologize,” I whispered against his mouth.
Then I kissed him.
His breath hitched as my lips met his again—firmer this time, surer. His stubble scratched faintly against my palm where I cupped his cheek.
Robert inhaled sharply. For a split second, he tensed under my touch—afraid I wasn’t thinking straight, worried he was taking advantage.
But as I tugged him closer, his tension melted away.
A smile played across his lips mid-kiss, both a relief and an answer to his earlier doubts.
His hand found my waist, pulling me in, deepening the kiss without needing any more encouragement.
All I could feel was the heat of a his body, the rough scratch of his stubble, the taste of his breath.
We broke apart only for brief, desperate breaths before diving back together, more urgently each time. His hand tightened around my waist, pulling me closer still.
God, why did it feel this right? Why did being with him feel this natural?
Robert shifted, effortlessly lifting me up and settling me on his lap. His hands spread wide on my back, holding me steady as I hovered over him—close enough that our noses brushed.
Breathless, I framed his face between my hands, thumbs tracing the sharp line of his cheekbones.
His eyes darkened, fixated on me like I was the only thing that mattered.
“You’re breathtaking,” he murmured softly.
“You’re just being nice,” I whispered back, running a thumb over his lower lip.
His lips parted slightly at my touch, but he didn’t break eye contact.
“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he said quietly. “Everything is full honesty when it comes to you.”
A shiver ran down my spine at the sincerity in his eyes. It was like he was laying himself bare in front of me.
I leaned in again, capturing his lips with mine—this time slower, deeper.
Our noses brushed as our mouths moved together. The sound of rain against the window mingled with the soft smacking of skin as our kiss quickly grew heated.
The kiss was unhurried now—wet smacks of lips parting and reconnecting, breaths shared between us in small gasps when we came up for air.
At some point the lights flickered and died. The room plunged into semi-darkness, leaving only the soft glow of the moon streaming through my apartment window.
In the new ambient lighting, everything felt even more intimate.
His fingers traced lines down my spine, sending ripples of heat through me. I moaned softly against his mouth, arching against the touch involuntarily.
The night outside might’ve shut down, but in that moment, all I could focus on was his body under mine, the heat of his skin, the way he tasted on my tongue.
His lips traveled to my neck, hot against my skin. I gasped softly, nails digging lightly into his scalp as I tilted my head back, arching into it.
He took his time, leaving an open-mouthed trail of kisses along my neck, nipping softly in spots. I shivered, breath unsteady as I tangled my fingers into his hair.
God, just the feel of him, the taste of him... it was setting my nerves on fire. And he definitely knew.
A low moan slipped from me, Robert’s name on my lips like a whisper and a prayer all at once.
“Robert...”
His hands tightened at the sound of it, almost bruising in their grip. I could feel the reaction ripple through his body.
He lifted his head from my neck, eyes dark under the moonlight.
Then he crushed his mouth back against mine, devouring me.
In one fluid motion, he stood, supporting my weight with ease as I wrapped my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck.
Robert carried me effortlessly through the apartment. He opened the bedroom door with ease and close it with his foot, the latch clicking shut.
With the rest of the world out of reach, it was just us. Just the quiet sound of breaths, the press of bodies.
