im sinking my teeth into their biceps they are NOT SAFE
No one on the team safe but especially not these two.
I believe Sonar isn't that strong. He's got some muscle but it not crazy or anything. This, however, will not stop him from putting you in a chokehold anyway. The first time he did it, he was just sitting with you scrolling on his phone. His arm was around your shoulder and he just subconsciously put you in a gently chokehold, squishing your face between his bicep and forearm. Once he found out you liked that a lot, he literally never stops doing it. He also welcomes you biting his bicep with open arms, it makes him feel incredibly strong. He also may or may not start working out more for the sole reason that you like to be put in a chokehold.
As for Robert, I think youd have to ask him for it to ever happen. Robert had a lot of past trauma and just wouldn't want to put his partner in a chokehold for no reason. When you ask him though (in the middle of sex), he obliged. Robert lost a lot of muscle from being in the coma but he still retain some, plus with him working out in his free time, his bicep his a good size (bigger than Sonar's, smaller than Flambae's). When you first bite his bicep, he pulls away immediately, think he was going to far and you were trying to stop him. After explaining you just like biting his bicep, he'll absolutely go back at squishing you face in a chokehold.
Summary: With the SDN's holiday party around the corner and despite your protests to not attend, it ended better than expected.
A/N: Sonar's turn for a holiday party fic, this time more Christmas/Hanukkah related. I don't celebrate Christmas, so this is the best i got. Ugh not a huge fan of this, I apologize it kinda sucks and seems out of character.
CW: Fluff - Established relationship - Partly deaf reader
Words: 5.1k
Holidays. The very mention made a shiver run down your spine. It wasn't so much the season itself as it was the toxic combination of the people, the miserable weather, and the sheer volume of cheer constantly being shoved in your face, along with the wretched Mariah Carey Christmas music. The relief of being almost completely deaf in your left ear was a daily blessing; the sound reached you only as a distant, muffled thrumming that vibrated the air, rather than a distinct melody. If you had to endure a true, high-fidelity experience of that song one more time, you'd gladly rip your hair out.
That wasn't the only reason you hated the holidays, of course. It was also the constant dragging into situations revolving around forced holiday parties. You never understood the hype. You never understood why gift-giving seemed like such a necessity. Sure, when you started dating Victor after his time in Harvard, you’d started giving him presents during the holidays, but it was purely because a specific type of Twinkie he liked only came out around Christmas. That was commerce, not sentiment.
He knew your profound distaste for anything holiday-related. So, when the SDN mentioned an official holiday party—and that a Secret Santa was involved, yet another tradition you despised—you did everything in your power to try and skip it. And yet, somehow, you had found yourself picking a name from a bowl. The only upside? Picking Beef's name. You honestly hadn't expected Robert's overweight chihuahua to be a part of it, but at least you didn’t have to guess what an actual human might pretend to like. You could just buy a giant bag of dog treats and call it a day. Simple, honest, and entirely free of holiday cheer.
Honestly, it was all thanks to Melova and Alice for convincing you to go to the SDN office party—and definitely not Victor. His only attempt at persuading you was a bribe: himself as your gift, practically completely nude, sprawled out dramatically under the pathetic faux Christmas tree Melova had left at your apartment. The tree stood barely a foot high, shedding plastic needles onto the rug, mocking the sincerity of the entire season. No amount of sharp, angry sign language was going to change the outcome, though the satisfied, smug smirk on his face was nearly tempting enough to warrant a second thought.
Now here you were, arms crossed tightly over your chest, resisting the inevitable. Victor and Melova were attempting to get you to wear matching holiday sweaters with them before heading out.
“They all look dumb,” you signed sharply, your hands moving fast and tight, emphasizing the word DUMB directly toward Victor's face.
He squinted, his pure white eyes staring at you for a moment, then shifting to Melova, a deliberate attempt to misinterpret the clear communication. “I agree,” he said, his voice flat. “The blue ones do look nicer.”
You threw your hands up in the air, a sign of utter surrender, and let them fall with a thump against your side as Melova cheered and shoved the scratchy, overly festive wool into your arms.
You let out a heavy sigh, the sound barely audible even to yourself, and resignedly accepted the fate of the holiday sweater. It was a vicious dark blue-and-white atrocity covered in cheap, sequined reindeer. The wool was scratchy—the antithesis of comfortable—and already you could feel the static beginning to prickle the fine hairs on your arms.
Standing by the edge of the worn, familiar couch, you pulled the sweater over your head, tugging it quickly down past your chin. It landed with a disappointing thump over your comfortable t-shirt, instantly sealing your decision: this garment had an expiration date of roughly fifteen minutes past arrival at the SDN office.
As you smoothed the cuffs—a purely mechanical action, devoid of any pleasure—your gaze immediately landed on Victor. He was a few feet away, standing rigid as he attempted to wrestle his own blue-and-white patterned nightmare into submission. His version of the sweater was currently snagged, a tight woolen halo caught precisely on the tips of his large, expressive bat ears. He was tugging the hem with both hands, his white eyes fixed on the ceiling as he muttered something under his breath that you thankfully couldn't hear. The entire ridiculous tableau—Victor, the usually cool and collected Sonar, defeated by a piece of knitwear—was too good to ignore.
A genuine, unbidden smile twitched at the corner of your mouth. You leaned back against the couch arm and simply watched him struggle for a long, luxurious moment. He gave a final, frustrated huff and paused, hands still gripping the sweater’s hem in surrender.
Pushing yourself off the couch, you walked the few steps toward him. There was no need for words. You reached out, your movements careful, and gently cradled the side of his face with one hand, your fingers brushing the soft, velvety skin of his ear. With your other hand, you deftly unhooked the tangled sweater edge from the first ear, then smoothed the fabric past the second. Once his ears were free, you guided the fabric with a gentle push, sliding it past his snout, and finally down over his broad, solid chest.
As the sweater settled, Victor let out a quiet, thankful sound—a deep, resonant hum that you felt more than heard, vibrating through the air around you.
Suddenly, a dramatically exaggerated noise cut through the quiet: a noise that sounded vaguely like someone choking on air, followed by a theatrical groan. It was Melova. She was leaning against the kitchen counter, one hand pressed over her eyes. You could faintly hear the fake gagging, the high-pitched sound almost like a distant, distorted hum despite your hearing aids being turned all the way up.
You shook your head, the action slow and deliberate. You gave Victor’s now-covered chest a firm pat—a silent acknowledgment of the assistance—before turning your attention to Melova.
Your hands moved into the conversational space between you and your friend.
“You need help too?” you signed, your fingers forming the question with a touch of exaggerated innocence, a slight smirk finally reaching your lips.
It was true you were dating Victor—had been his boyfriend for what felt like forever—but one thing was for certain: you enjoyed teasing Melova just as much, if not more, than you enjoyed the rare moments of public affection with your boyfriend. After all, she had been your friend long before Victor. They were, in fact, the only two who had actually taken the considerable time and effort to learn American Sign Language when you decided it was the best course of action for communication, knowing you’d eventually go completely deaf. That shared language was the foundation of your relationships, and it made these small, silent victories of teasing all the sweeter.
Melova immediately dropped her hand and launched into a series of rapid, intricate signs of her own, a defensive, playful reply that made your grin widen.
The moment Victor guided you through the entrance of the SDN office building, you could feel it. Even before the noise could register through your right ear and your high-powered hearing aid, the sheer thrum of the party hit you like a physical wave. The bass notes of the music weren't just sound; they were a low, resonant vibration traveling through the polished floor and up into the soles of your boots. The collective chatter of dozens of voices created a thick, oppressive wall of noise, far worse than the solitary torment of Mariah Carey.
You looked around the brightly lit, slightly too-warm space, and a profound, bone-deep sense of defeat washed over you. The room was aggressively decorated: strands of tinsel drooped from every monitor, red and green LED lights blinked relentlessly, and various members of the SDN staff were already circulating, looking far too cheerful in their own varying degrees of ugly holiday attire.
Before Victor could even fully release your shoulder, you were already pivoting on your heel, preparing for a tactical retreat. Your mind was racing, formulating a plausible excuse—an urgent call, a sudden headache, maybe a highly contagious, non-holiday-related flu. You took one step back toward the door you had just entered.
But Victor was faster.
His long, strong hands settled firmly back onto your shoulders, preventing any escape. They provided a grounding weight, a silent assurance that you weren't actually going to bolt, even if your entire being screamed for it. He turned you gently but decisively back toward the party. You watched his lips move.
“Just get the presents down, then we can find the quietest corner,” he mouthed clearly, his eyes holding a look of patient, sympathetic warning. He knew exactly how close you were to a full-blown sensory shutdown.
Reluctantly, you allowed him to guide you deeper into the room, navigating the initial cluster of greeting colleagues. He led the way toward a small, circular table draped with a velvet cloth, where a haphazard collection of wrapped Secret Santa gifts had already accumulated. They ranged from beautifully ribboned boxes to oddly shaped, clearly last-minute bags.
Victor set down his gift first—a neatly wrapped, rectangular box that looked suspiciously practical. Then, with an audible thud that thankfully only you could hear, you placed the small paper bag containing the bag of premium bacon-flavored dog treats for Beef next to it. It was easily the most sensible gift on the table.
As you stood there, the full assault of the party's aroma hit you. The air was thick and syrupy, an overwhelming cloud of festive scents: the sharp, stinging sweetness of peppermint, the heavy, creamy warmth of eggnog being ladled somewhere nearby, and the cloying, fake spice of cinnamon from decorative potpourri or perhaps cheap candles. It was too much, too sweet, too close. You felt your chest tighten.
You saw Victor start to move away from the gift table, likely heading toward the promised quiet corner. In a swift, almost panicked motion, your right hand shot out, your fingers clamping firmly around the sleeve of his ugly blue-and-white sweater. It was a purely involuntary action—a lifeline in the confusing, loud sea of people.
He paused instantly, looking back at you with a slight tilt of his head, acknowledging your silent tether. You saw him mouth, "Drinks," and begin to weave a path through the increasingly dense crowd.
Your eyes scanned the elaborate table set up near the back wall, laden with punch bowls and pitchers. You held onto Victor’s sleeve like a barnacle, allowing him to carve a path through the milling bodies.
A single thought settled comfortably in your mind as you stared at the brightly colored beverages: You desperately hoped someone had spiked the punch. If you were going to make it through this nightmare of a night—a night that was already making you contemplate the ethics of taking your hearing aid out and completely giving up on everything and everyone—a little temporary, chemically-induced fuzziness was the only thing that could possibly save you.
Somehow, an indeterminate amount of time had passed. You weren't sure if it had been twenty minutes or an hour and a half, but the party had progressed into a state of louder, denser chaos. You had managed to secure a cup of punch—unspiked, tragically—and spent the majority of the time clinging to the edge of the drink station, using Victor’s tall figure as a physical shield against the throng.
At some point, Victor had inevitably been waylaid. Robert, with his booming voice and aggressively cheerful demeanor, had cornered him, quickly joined by Blazer, whose energy levels seemed perpetually set to maximum volume. You watched them from the periphery, seeing Victor’s patient, but strained, attempts to follow their rapid-fire conversations. Knowing he would be occupied for a while, and feeling the need to escape the epicenter of the noise, you finally let go of his arm. You gave him a quick, meaningful glare that conveyed, “I am leaving and if I don’t return, assume I have gone home,” before slipping away.
Your mission was to find a pocket of sanctuary. You eventually spotted your targets: Melova and Alice. They had wisely retired to the farthest, least-trafficked corner of the room, near a dusty stack of archived files. They were resting at a small, circular table that looked suspiciously like someone’s actual desk, both looking slightly winded but victorious. The remnants of the karaoke contest—a truly horrifying cacophony—had mercifully ceased, and the current background music was slightly, negligibly softer.
You approached the table, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the bass still vibrating through your shoes, but the conversational noise was significantly muted in this corner.
You placed your half-empty cup of fruit punch down beside Alice’s cup—a vivid, bright orange concoction that looked vaguely chemical—then directed your hands to Melova.
“Seat taken?” you signed.
Melova and Alice exchanged a quick, knowing look, the slight smiles on their faces confirming they had anticipated your retreat. They simultaneously gestured toward the empty chair. Alice even gave it a little welcoming pat. You gratefully sank into the seat, leaning back with a sigh of relief so profound it felt like you were deflating.
Melova immediately scooted her chair closer, lowering her voice and leaning in conspiratorially. She began to sign, her movements relaxed and fluid.
“Enjoying yourself?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
In response, you let out a long, overly loud, exaggerated groan that cut through the low-level noise of your corner. You let your head fall forward onto the cool, dusty surface of the table with a theatrical thud, drawing an amused snort from Alice.
When you lifted your head, your hands moved into a slow, deliberate sign, your expression utterly deadpan.
“Never been better.”
Even though you were using sign language—a visual medium—both girls could tell from the slump of your shoulders, the exhaustion in your eyes, and the sheer slowness of your hand movements that the statement was pure, unadulterated sarcasm.
Alice laughed quietly, pulling a napkin closer and beginning to doodle on it with a pen she fished from her pocket.
Melova, however, signed back with genuine interest, her expression softening. “Did you ditch Victor? I saw him get absorbed by the Robert vortex.”
You gave Melova a short, confirming nod. “Ditched,” you signed, your movement clipped and efficient. You took a slow, deep breath, finally letting the tension loosen its grip on your shoulders. The quiet corner truly was a blessed oasis.
“At this point,” you continued, leaning slightly closer so your hands stayed easily in their line of sight, “I might end up being the one doing coke in the bathroom.” You punctuated the thought with a dry, slightly bitter snort, the gesture entirely for their benefit. You glanced over your shoulder toward the center of the room, locating Victor. Sure enough, he was standing passively between Blazer’s frantic gesticulations and Robert’s wide, booming laughter, his white eyes unfocused—he had most definitely zoned out, retreating completely into his own head to endure the noise.
Melova laughed, a quiet, conspiratorial chuckle that you saw in the slight shaking of her shoulders. Alice lifted her eyes from her napkin doodle and signed back, “Better you than me. I need to keep a clear head in case I have to drive us home.”
The three of you settled into a comfortable, rapid-fire conversation, the visual rhythm of your hands dancing together a fluid contrast to the jarring sonic beat of the party. The ease of being with them was immediate and restorative. The dismay of being forced to attend this holiday nightmare began to recede, supplanted by the pure, familiar pleasure of shared company and gossip.
Melova was holding court, regaling you with a dramatically signed account of Alice nearly setting off the smoke alarm while baking. Alice tried to protest, her signs moving quickly to interrupt, but Melova’s narrative speed was relentless.
The discussion soon devolved into the more interesting, illicit topics that only close friends could dissect in public. You moved onto making bets about the office romances.
“One hundred dollars says Chad and Herman go home together tonight,” you signed, watching as Chad put a hand very deliberately on Herman’s shoulder by the punch bowl.
Alice scoffed, signing back with conviction, “No way. Herman is too…..Herman.”
Melova shook her head decisively. “You’re both wrong. They’re absolutely going home together, but they’ll pretend it was an accidental coincidence for three weeks. The real bet is this: Coop and Punch-Up. Who is the top in that relationship?”
The sudden, blunt question caught you off guard, and you choked on a small sip of punch, turning the moment into a silent, internal cough. You offered a detailed, highly convincing argument, using specific workplace observations as evidence to support your claim that Punch-Up was secretly the dominant one, citing he was definitely packing as your primary evidence. Alice argued just as vehemently for Coop, leveraging her entire personality meant she was the top. The conversation was absorbing, intimate, and full of the silly, detailed nonsense that made their friendship your true anchor in the chaos of your life.
You were so thoroughly engrossed in the conversation that you hadn't even realized how long the three of you had been talking—or that the music had somehow gotten even louder—until a large, familiar hand clamped down onto your shoulder.
You flinched slightly, startled, and turned your head instinctively. Victor was right behind your chair, looming over you. His white eyes looked tired, and his festive blue sweater looked somehow rumpled and less ridiculous than it had before.
Before you could even raise your hands to sign, his head dipped down low, the familiar, slightly rough wetness of his snout brushing briefly against your partially deaf left ear, before he settled his mouth close to your functional right one.
“I want to go home,” he whispered, the two words a low, deep rumble that you felt against your skin more than heard, yet the sound was perfectly clear and entirely devoid of any residual holiday cheer. It was the best sentence you had heard all night.
Victor’s whispered plea—“I want to go home”—was the most beautiful, melodic phrase you had heard all night. You weren't going to argue. The thought of the quiet, scentless, bass-free comfort of your and Victor’s apartment sounded like a glimpse of heaven.
You instantly turned your focus from Melova and Alice to Victor, your hand signing a sharp, definitive “YES” before he even had a chance to speak further.
Melova, having observed the subtle shift in Victor’s posture and your immediate, positive response, gave a small, knowing smirk. She leaned in toward you both and signed quickly.
“Go, before Robert tries to pull Victor into a ten-minute discussion about his drug use,” she advised. She then wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, adding, “I’ll let Beef know you got him those gourmet treats. And don’t worry, I’ll tell a little white lie about why you and Victor had to leave early. Maybe a sudden, violent reaction to the punch?”
Victor, his hand still clamped securely on your shoulder, nudged you slightly to draw your attention back to him. He grinned, sticking his tongue out briefly at Melova in a childish, teasing gesture.
“Is it a crime,” he mouthed, his tone overly dramatic, “to want my boyfriend in the privacy of our own bed?”
He didn't need to sign it; the suggestiveness was plain in his expression, his tone, and the subtle, lingering pressure of his fingers against your shoulder. It was a classic Victor maneuver: blending genuine relief with playful, sometimes embarrassing, sexuality.
You let out an exasperated sigh, rolling your eyes so dramatically your head nearly flopped back. In a swift, practiced motion, your hand shot up and delivered a firm, open-palmed smack to the side of Victor’s head. It was a well-aimed, non-harmful gesture of familial annoyance, a clear chastisement for his most definitely sexual suggestion.
Victor let out a genuinely surprised gasp, pulling his head back and rubbing the spot you’d hit. “Rude!” he mouthed, pouting theatrically, though his eyes were alight with amusement.
Alice giggled, making a sweeping sign that meant something close to “See you later, you two lunatics,” while Melova simply gave you a thumbs-up.
Victor gave a quick, half-hearted wave goodbye to the girls before tightening his grip on your shoulder and maneuvering you toward the exit, his movements now energized by the prospect of departure. You didn't argue or protest the firm guidance. In fact, you leaned into his side slightly, already anticipating the cool night air outside.
The walk back across the party floor was a sensory gauntlet. The noise seemed to double as you passed the DJ booth. You kept your gaze fixed on the back of Victor’s neck, letting his physical presence act as a singular focus point. You could feel the eyes of your colleagues on you—or perhaps that was just paranoia—and you clutched the sleeve of your hideous sweater, determined to endure the final few yards.
As Victor shoved the heavy glass door of the SDN office open, the cool, crisp night air rushed in, a blessed relief that immediately scrubbed the heavy scent of peppermint and eggnog from your lungs. The change in atmosphere was instant and dramatic. The deafening, vibrating bass sound of the party was instantly reduced to a dull, manageable drone behind the thick glass.
You took a deep, restorative breath of the freezing air, closing your eyes for a moment. You were out. You were free.
Victor immediately loosened his grip on your shoulder, replacing it with a hand interlaced with yours. He squeezed gently.
“Home now,” he mouthed, leading you down the sidewalk toward the spot where he had parked his car, already pulling his keys from his pocket. “And then… we burn the sweaters.”
The journey home was swift and mercifully quiet. The moment Victor closed the apartment door behind you both, sealing out the damp, cold night and the lingering auditory ghost of the party, the tension began to melt from your shoulders.
You immediately reached for the hem of your despised, scratchy red sweater. Victor mirrored the action, already struggling with the tight neck of his own. You walked up to him, and without a word, your fingers efficiently found the neckline and helped him peel the offensive wool up past his ears and over his head. The sweater came off with a small pop of static electricity, and you tossed the hideous thing onto the entryway floor, already mentally preparing for its disposal.
As Victor reached for his favorite, comfortable white t-shirt—the one he always wore under his uniform—you took a moment to shed your own. The removal of the abrasive fabric felt like peeling off a temporary layer of societal obligation. You tossed yours next to his, breathing in the familiar, non-peppermint scent of your home.
It was in that quiet, comfortable moment, with the sound of the furnace kicking on being the loudest noise in the apartment, that a nagging thought surfaced. Victor was usually the one who could compartmentalize and tolerate social obligations better than you. You actually weren't sure why he had been so eager to leave.
You paused midway through reaching for a warmer long-sleeve shirt from the couch arm. Victor had paused too, holding the white t-shirt loosely in his hand, his torso bare.
Your hands moved into the space between you, your brow furrowed with mild concern.
“Are you okay?” you signed. “Everything okay? You seemed… ready to bolt.”
Victor stopped moving completely, the shirt momentarily forgotten. He let out a low, deep groan that sounded like it came from the depths of his chest, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. He looked like he was genuinely contemplating how to answer your simple question.
Finally, he set the shirt down on the armrest and leaned against the doorframe, his white eyes fixed on yours as he began to sign, his movements slightly awkward and hesitant.
“I kind of… got you a Secret Santa gift,” he admitted, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He paused, then hurried to add, “Which isn’t exactly secret anymore, since I’m telling you about it.”
You crossed your arms over your chest—a reflexive habit—and cocked one eyebrow, silently prompting him to explain the sudden, out-of-season admission. You continued to get dressed slowly, pulling on the comforting fabric of your own shirt, as he signed the rest of his confession.
“I was watching you in that corner,” he signed, his voice low even though he was only signing now, “And I hated watching you be miserable and tense. So I decided we should just have our own thing. I thought the surprise would be better if we weren’t surrounded by terrible noise.”
“And,” he added, his hands speeding up with renewed enthusiasm, “it’s impossible to surprise you when you can somehow hear me fumbling with wrapping paper.”
He gave you an eager, boyish smile, then gestured toward the bedroom door. “Wait in here for ten minutes, okay? No peeking. Just consider this... a reset.”
You gave him an exasperated but loving look, signing, “Fine. Ten minutes. Don't be weird.”
You closed the bedroom door just as he grabbed the abandoned t-shirt and hustled back toward the living room. For the next ten minutes, you sat on the edge of the bed, entertained by the faint but discernible sounds coming through the wall: a few muffled, heavy thuds, the distinct sound of something being dragged across the wood floor, followed by several frustrated, muffled curses that were unmistakably Victor’s.
When the ten minutes were up, the knob slowly turned. Victor peeked his head in, his expression one of proud expectation.
“Come on,” he mouthed, his eyes bright. He stepped aside, gesturing with a wide sweep of his arm for you to follow him.
The moment you stepped back into the living room, the overwhelming impression was one of soft, warm light and cozy chaos. The main overhead light was off, replaced by the warm, golden glow of hundreds of tiny fairy lights strung across the bookshelves, around the window frame, and draped gently over the backs of the chairs. The coffee table was covered in an impressive array of snacks—your favorite crackers, cheeses, and several bowls of chips. But the centerpiece was the couch, which had been transformed into a massive, cushioned nest of blankets and pillows, piled so high it looked like a safe, impenetrable fortress.
And resting right in the middle of this sanctuary, wrapped haphazardly in shiny, crumpled silver paper, was a small, misshapen, deflated-looking bat plushie.
Victor walked toward the couch, beaming, and signed: “I know you don’t like the holidays. At all. But I figured this would be better than any holiday party.”
He picked up the terribly wrapped gift and held it out.
“It’s me,” he signed, tapping the plushie. He unwrapped it quickly, revealing a soft, dark gray bat with disproportionately large, white eyes. “For your desk at the SDN office. You know, for when I’m out on dispatch and you can’t see me. This one will always be waiting.”
You stepped toward Victor, a genuine, soft smile replacing your earlier exasperation. You reached out and took the plushie from his hands, immediately ripping the silver paper away. The small, dark gray bat with its giant, perpetually startled white eyes was, indeed, warped—one ear was slightly deflated, and the stitching around the face looked charmingly uneven. You couldn't help but chuckle, a low, warm sound that felt foreign and pleasant after the night’s tension.
“It’s perfect,” you signed, your hands full of bat and paper, “thank you.”
Setting the gift down on the edge of the coffee table, you immediately stepped forward, wrapping your arms tightly around Victor’s waist and pulling him into a close embrace. He smelled wonderfully familiar—like cold air and something uniquely Victor. You leaned up, tilting your head back, and pressed a kiss against his face—well, as best you could, considering your boyfriend was literally half bat. You aimed for his cheek just under his eye, and the fine texture of his fur was comforting. He instinctively hugged you back, his arms tightening around your shoulders.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his white eyes shining in the fairy light glow. He signed simply, “Better than the party, right?”
You nodded vigorously. “Infinitely better.”
Within minutes, the remnants of the party, including the hideous sweaters, were forgotten. You and Victor settled onto the couch, turning the haphazard pile of blankets into a truly luxurious, impenetrable nest. You burrowed deep, positioning yourself with your back flush against Victor’s warm, solid chest. His long arm looped around your front, pulling the blanket tight around you both, and his chin settled comfortably and heavily on the crown of your head.
As Victor methodically began flipping through streaming channels on the television, carefully avoiding any thumbnail that featured tinsel, snow, or cheer, you reached for your phone. You subtly angled the screen, using the soft glow of the fairy lights and the proximity of the blanket fort to frame the perfect picture: your fuzzy, warped bat plushie lying on the blanket beside your hand, with the background showing the glowing, cozy safety of your living room.
You quickly typed out a text and sent the picture to Melova: "Unfortunately, not incredible sex." You put your phone on silent and shoved it under the cushions.
Victor eventually settled on a real-estate show—one where the female realtors looked unnaturally tanned, aggressively manicured, and suspiciously like pure plastic Barbie dolls. It was exactly the kind of mindless, non-holiday, non-threatening background noise that settled your nerves.
You snuggled deeper, the heavy, comforting weight of Victor, the blankets, and the soft, silent glow of the lights washing away the last vestiges of stress from the SDN party. You felt his chest expand as he took a deep breath, and then felt his lips brush lightly against your hair.
“Happy holidays,” he murmured, the two words soft and low, perfectly pitched and timed so they resonated against your good ear.
You shifted slightly, twisting your head just enough to be heard clearly above the low drone of the television. It was a rare thing for you to speak, considering whenever you tried, it was either frustratingly too quiet or jarringly too loud, but tonight, the words felt necessary.
“Same to you, Victor,” you replied, your voice soft and sincere.
Thinking about getting dragged to a crypto thing with Sonar or coming with him to the Vanderstink thing. Sonar fits right in, he's having a great time talking all about crypto and stocks, you are not though. You're uncomfortable, you don't really understand what anyone's talking about so anytime some one asks your opinion (which doesn't happen a lot), you just have to shrug. This leads to the crypto bros being extremely condescending to you for the rest of the event.
Everything gets so much worse though when politics come up. Sure, Sonar is into crypto and the stock market but he definitely is not into the politics that the rest of the crypto bros are. It hits Sonar how uncomfortable you are once the guys he was talking to just start spewing garbage. The rest of the event was a blur, you were pretty sure Sonar got into a pretty heated argument after one of the guys threw a transphobic/homophobic comment your way and ended up transforming.
The walk back to SDN was quiet. You just had one of the worst days of your life. Sonar look disheveled from transforming and guilt was eating at him.
"I'm, uh, really sorry about all that."
He murmured, scratching at his neck. You sighed, taking Sonar's hand in yours.
"It's fine. I mean, I like seeing you happy about all that stuff and it was pretty hot when you defended me."
Sonar grinned, pulling up your hand and pressing a kiss to it.
Victor is intelligent, as goofy and full of himself as he is, he did graduate from Harvard. So, it's a little jarring when he says something and you stare blankly at him. The way your lips pout in confusion when he talks about crypto or the stock market makes him laugh (and makes him hard). This often will turn into him giving you a Harvard level lecture about different topics but you still don't get it most of the time.
As for your build, Victor is nose diving into your pecs. He has to literally restrain himself when you are working out or just wearing a more revealing shirt. At home though, he has no chill. Your pecs are his stress balls when he gets you alone. While you two cuddle, his hands always seem to find there way up your shirt and to your pecs. He squeezes, his finger occasionally tweaking your nipples till they're pink and puffy.
♧ Smut, bottom!sub!Victor, top!dom!reader, dumbifcation, subspace, drooling, praise, uses of sir
Word count: 0.5k
A/N: he deserves to be fucked until he can't think
"Ah- ah- ah-"
Victor's moans were short and cut off by the harsh thrust of your hips. His head fell into the pillows, arms too weak to keep him up anymore but you held onto his hips to keep him up, not slowing down.
"You okay, baby?"
You hummed, leaning down against Victor back to whisper in his big, bat ears. His fluffy, dark grey fur tickled your face as it brushed against it.
"Can't take it?"
You teased condescendingly. He shuddered, a whimper slipping past his lips.
"I-I... fuck... I can take it.."
He mumbled, squeezing tightly around you as you thrusted right against his prostate. He went ridged before moaning, his back arching. You took this as a sign to speed up, thrusting hard against his sweet spot.
"S-So-So good..."
He whimpered, eyes glassy already. He was gone at this point, any brattiness or sass was gone as he got his brains fucked out. He just wanted to be a good boy for you now.
"Doing so good."
You praised. A groan fell from your lips, he felt so good around you it was hard to control yourself.
"Aren't you a good boy? Hm?"
Victor nodded, drooling a little.
"Mhm-Mhm... go-good boy..."
He whimpered, feeling his orgasm approaching. You could feel it too with the way he squeezed around you.
"Ffffuck... p-please, sir..."
He babbled desperately.
"Lemme- fuck- lemme cum, ple-please, sir.."
You couldn't help but grin. Victor was messy right now, drooling and crying as he laid boneless letting you fucking any thought he might had out of his mind. It was hot. You wanted to torture him a little more but were feeling kind. You gripped his fur, pulling his head back so he was arching full before slamming into him. He cried out, shooting his load before he could even proceed the sticky, white cum coating his sheets.
"Fuck! Th-thank you- ah... mhfp.."
He babbled nonsense, moaning and whimpering as you fucked him through his orgasm until you came. Without a second thought, you filled Victor. Snapping your hip, you let your hot, cum fill Victor's hole entirely.
You let go, letting Victor drop his head into the pillows with an exhausted huff. You slowly pulled out, watching carefully as Victor winced in overstimulation.
"You did so good for me."
You murmured, pressing kisses across Victor's shoulder blades. He grinned dumbly, breathing heavily as he tried to think of quip but his head was too empty.
He could barely keep his eyes open, even as you gently cleaned him up. He heard the sound of your voice softly praising him but couldn't comprehend the actual words. He simple nodded, letting himself drift off while you cooed, treating him like he was made of glass.
been awhile since ive sent a request BUUT reader giving sonar head so astonishingly good he starts crying a little. walk with me here
I get it, he's pathetic like that
Teary eyed
♤ Sonar x reader
♧ smut, blowjob, crying, check-in
Word count: 0.3k
A/N: I started what we do in the shadows and I love it rn
"Ah, yeah, right t-there..."
Victor whimpered, gripping your hair. His hips bucked as you bobbed your head up and down on his dick. You'd been relentless, practically trying to suck Victor soul out of his cock, and he loved it.
"G-God... fuck..."
He groaned. You could feel his thighs trembling. Paying extra attention to a vein that ran across the under side of his dick, you continued. You buried your nose in his grey, furry happy-trail as you took his entire cock down your throat. It felt like heaven, no, it felt better than heaven to Victor.
He was so lost in pleasure, legs shaking and hands trembling. He knew he was close from barely five minutes of head. He couldn't stop the whimpers that fell from his lips when you looked up, tears welling up in his eyes. You pulled away after making eye contact, a worried look on your face.
"Woah, did I do something wrong? Are you okay?"
You asked, raising from your knees but Victor stopped you, quickly shaking his head no.
"No, no, no... I, uh, it just felt really good... like... really, really good."
He mumbled, clearly embarrassment. You couldn't help but chuckle softly. Your hand reached up and gently stroked his thigh, a lustful smile on your face.
"Well, in that case, can I continue?"
Victor nodded immediately. His head fell back with a moan as you took his cock into your mouth again, picking up right where you left off.
A/N: I LOVE OVERSTIMULATION + DUMBIFCATION... if you couldn't tell
Flambae🔥
"'M sorry- f-fuck! I'm sorry!"
Flambae moaned, his hips trying to buck away from your hands but only sunk deeper around your fingers. You squeezed his thigh, hushing him.
"Shh... I know, but you still need to take your punishment, right?"
Flambae whimpered but nodded, his entire body trembling as you fingered him. You grazed his prostate with every pump of your finger. Your other hand kept busy too, teasing Flambae's rock hard dick. Despite already cumming at least three times, he was still so hard the tip of his dick was a deep red color.
He could only whimper as his head fell back in the pillows. Another orgasm racked his body, cumming almost untouched. His cock twitched and his hips bucked but nothing came out. You could see tears stream down Flambae's face that were evaporating into steam from how hot he was. You knew he needed a break and halted all movement, letting him recover.
"Good boy.."
You hummed after a moment, kissing away some of Flambae's tears.
"You did so good, Chad."
You carefully pulled you fingers from Flambae's twitching hole. He nodded weakly as his eyes fluttered shut. He learned his lesson.
Sonar🦇
"S-Slow down- mhfp!"
Sonar whined as he tried to struggle against the rope that tied his hands to the bed. You petted Sonar's head with a condescending coo, riding him with zero remorse.
"Aw, but I thought you were my present? Since you forgot our anniversary?"
Sonar bit his lip. Yeah, he kinda deserved this.
"I.. fuck... I won't forget next- ah- time.."
His words mingled with overstimulated moans and whimpers. You smiled happily, still bouncing on his weeping cock.
"Good!"
He was hoping that would settle you desire but it didn't. You continued at a pace Sonar could barely keep up with. Both of you could feel your orgasms coming, Sonar whimpered and you groaned as you sped up. It crashed over the both of you like a wave.
As your high came down, you got of Sonar. He was barely still awake but a satisfied grin linger on his face even as you untied him.
"Worth it."
He mumbled. You rolled your eyes but still chuckled.
"Oh, and, we have reservations at that steakhouse in like an hour."
He added. That asshole.
Robert🤖
"Ah- ah- ah-.."
Robert's laid on him back as you fucked him, eyes glazed over. You'd been at it for hours and Robert had already came several time but you didn't stop. He always worked so much and needed a break, and what better break then being fucked dumb?
"You still with me?"
You asked with a chuckle. You gentle cupped Robert's face, thumbing at his puffy bottom lip. A soft whine spilled from his lips as he tried to focus his eyes on you. You cooed, pressing a kiss to Robert's forehead.
"Shh, shh, it's okay, angel. No need to think, I was checking on you."
You hummed softly. Robert babbled nonsense in return, being interrupted by a soft yelp falling from his mouth. Your cock bumped his prostate, making him arch his back.
"M-more..."
Finally, intelligible words came from Robert. You grinned, slamming into that same spot with more force. He moaned, cock twitching on his stomach as you pounded him. His moans and whimpers filled the room, his was so out of it he was drooling. He came with a cry, his cock spurting what it could as he trembled.
You carefully pulled out, murmuring sweet nothings to Robert as he slowly calmed down. His trembling stopped as he melting into the bed, immediately falling asleep while you cleaning him up.
Victor was trying. After seeing how much it hurt you when he'd get crazy high or drunk, he decided to make a change. Not just for you, but for Malevola, for himself. It was hard but Malevola helped him stay on track, going to NA meetings and with your support, things were looking good. Until they weren't.
He just needed a little something. The bar wasn't a great environment for a recovering addict but the z-team was out celebrating and Victor was not a man to turn down some partying. Plus, if he didn't go, it would raise suspicion and he might have to tell the team about his problems, which he'd rather die than do. He tried to stick by you, only drinking a little but soon the itch for something stronger became unbearable.
"You doing alright?"
You asked, noticing Victor anxiously bouncing leg. He flashed a grin, nodding as he stopped bouncing his leg.
"Yeah, yeah, everything cool. Uh, I think I might have eaten something bad earlier so I'll be right back."
He said, making up a good excuse to leave your side. You gave Victor a concerned look but nodded, your eyes following him as he sped-walked to the bathroom. Something wasn't right and you knew it but you desperately wanted to give Victor the benefit of the doubt so you didn't do or say anything yet.
Victor quickly hid in a stall. It was dirty and gross, the walls covered in graffiti and the toilet stained from being puked in so many times. He couldn't careless though right now. Frantically, he searched for the small baggy of cocaine in his suit pocket. He had told you and Malevola he tossed it which wasn't entirely a lie. He had gotten rid of most of his stash but kept a small baggy. In case of emergencies, he reasoned with himself, just a little pick me up.
He fumbled with the bag, his hands shaking slightly as he opened it and poured a little out onto the toilet seat. A card from his wallet came out as well as he formed two lines of coke. The motion was like muscles memory, practiced and smooth. He stared at the lines for a moment, hesitating. You would be so pissed if you found out, Malevola too, but god did he need this right now. The faint sound of music made his head pound as he stared down at the white lines.
You were starting to get worried. It hadn't been that long but knowing Victor's history, it made panic flare up in you. You sighed as you looked for Malevola, who was nursing a fruity looking drink and talking to Prism.
"Uh, Mal, have you seen Sonar?"
You hesitated on his name, almost letting Victor slip but you caught yourself. She glanced at you, setting her drink down.
"Wasn't he with you?"
Prism glanced between you two, her eyebrows furrowed.
"What, you two babysittin' him? He's probably just having fun, like you two should be doing."
Her intentions were good, wanting the both of you two relax and have fun like everyone else was but it didn't ease either of your worries. You pulled Malevola away from Prism, who noticed you two wanted some privacy and went on her phone instead of eavesdropping.
"He went to the bathroom but I'm worried he's..."
You didn't want to say it, feeling like a terrible boyfriend for even think Victor might be using again but you couldn't shake the feeling. Malevola nodded, understanding.
"Do you want me come with you to check?"
She asked, her expression soft. You shook your head no, knowing it should just be you.
"I've got it."
You murmured. She nodded again, watching as you walked away.
You took a deep breath before entering the men's room. You cringed at how gross it was but focused on the task at hand. You didn't speak, not making your presence known. Leaning down, you look beneath the stall for Victor's shoes. The same shoes you had gotten him as a gift for being 6 months sober. The memory made your heart ache. You eyes scanned past every stall. First one, empty. Second one, empty. Third one, empty. Fourth one, occupied. You stopped in front of it. Those were Victor's shoes. Before you could make a move the sound of a deep inhale made you flinch. Fuck.
Now you were angry. Instead of telling you he wanted to leave or that he was getting the itch to use, he ran away to go do lines in the bathroom. It made you pissed as you pushed the unlocked open.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
Victor's head swung around, staring at you with wide white eyes and a white nose.
"Babe, I can explain-"
"Explain what? You're fucking using again, Victor."
He was speechless, clearly not expecting you to catch him. Before he could come up with any sort of excuse, you snatched the bag of cocaine from the toilet seat. That made him spring up, trying to get it back.
"Baby, please, just give it back, please."
He sounded pathetic and a little crazed as you pushed him away.
"No, Victor, you have a fucking problem and it's not just the drugs. Me and Mal have done nothing but try and help you and you don't even have the balls to come to us when your struggling?"
Victor tried to snatch the small baggy from your hand but you threw it in the sink. Not the proper way to dispose of it but it was better then up Victor nose. That pissed Victor off. He shoved you, pinning you against the wall, breathing heavily and an angry look in his eyes. He looked disheveled, his dark grey fur wild and messy like he was on the brink of transforming.
"Fuck you! I don't need your help or Mal's. I don't fucking need either of you!"
He shouted, it made you flinch and do something you never had before. You swung on him. Punching him right across the face and causing him to let go of you and fall to the ground.
"Don't you ever get in my face again."
You spat, so hurt by everything that had just went down. You noticed the door to the bathroom open, Flambae and Robert entering after hearing all the yelling.
"Holy shit, what happened?"
Flambae asked in genuine shock. You and Victor had always been so close, so for them to see this scene, it was shocking.
"Nothing."
You grumbled, looking back at Victor with hurt eyes.
"We're done, don't fucking call me ever again."
That was the last thing you said to Victor before leaving the bathroom, pushing past Flambae and Robert despite their questions and confused looks. Malevola was waiting near by, a hopeful look on her face that disappeared when she saw your expression.
